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30+, I am branching out!! I now write Good Omens fan fic! I still write Star Wars Fanfic, and I have a side blog for my attempt at RP, check it out @poe-dangit, I'm terrible at tagging but I try my best. Send me a message if you think something needs a tag. You can find my fic on AO3: I'm Lisalicious over there, Feel free to ask me anything...I'm a fluffy bunny.

[frogitivity2]

Please take good care of them!

[delisalicious]

I made a frog!

[dcdavechicken]

Aziraphale doing a temptation for Crowley, per the Arrangement

It was not good. Of course it was not ‘good’. The very nature of demonic work was to be quite, quite the opposite. 

Aziraphale still could not believe he had agreed to this. He had, in fact, considered saying he would do the Temptation (which had earned itself a capitalisation in his mind), but then not do it, making Crowley responsible for net good in the world.

Except then the wriggling, niggling doubt told him that it would a) be a lie (bad), b) be a temptation of a demon (bad, but to a bad person, but did the ethical algebra make that doubly bad, or cancel itself out?), and c) Crowley would then no longer speak to him.

Crowley not speaking to him was even more ethically complicated. On the one hand, he should not be talking to him. On the other, if he didn’t, then he wouldn’t have any kind of clue what was going on from Hell’s perspective. And he couldn’t then encourage Crowley to do good deeds, or less bad ones. 

The whole ‘also he’s rather entertaining when you forget about the day job’ wasn’t allowed in the equation. Nor was he allowed to include ‘Crowley is tempting me to bad things as I try to encourage him to good things, but good is superior so it will win, even if I, as an angel, am sort of damning myself and what will She think and am I in fact saving some of Crowley’s whatever-isn’t-a-soul by keeping the sin from off him and–’

Basically, he was stuffed. And Crowley (damn and blast him) knew.

He’d known since he found out that Aziraphale had given away that flaming sword. 

He’d agreed to this. And no amount of philosophising would ever come to any satisfying conclusion. Sometimes he wished he’d eaten the damn fruit, then he really would know right from wrong. But humans were supposed to, and yet they hadn’t truly come to any satisfying conclusion, either. And how - as Crowley had said - were they supposed to avoid doing bad things if they hadn’t known what bad was, and God in all Her frustrating awesomeness was just not very forthcoming on this topic and it was all that word he was not allowed to say as much as he did because it was surrendering and how could you be a good moral agent if you just let others decide and–

This was ridiculous.

Ridiculous.

He’d been sitting in this ale house for so long that his buttocks had gone vaguely numb, and the other patrons were distinctly avoiding looking at him.

Crowley had said that, even on specific assignments, there was leeway. Or there was, if you could justify it. You could do an equivalent amount of effort or impact, if you could sell it to the top (bottom?) brass. 

The goal here was to turn the travelling minister. He roamed the rural communities and held communion and ministry to the ones who couldn’t (or didn’t) attend a parish. Crowley hadn’t given him any further instructions, just that he was meant to turn him away from the cloth (and, by extension, the Church, and Heaven). 

But that comment. That one about ‘justifying’ it. Crowley had made a point of saying it, as if it was important. 

Heaven didn’t always understand the intricacies of life on Earth, so perhaps Hell was the same. Perhaps he could ‘fulfil’ Crowley’s obligation, but do so in a way that, maybe, wasn’t quite as bad as Hell thought it would be.

The priest was tired. He’d finished his broth, and he was about to turn in for the night. Aziraphale didn’t want to waste another night in this dive.

A gesture of fingers, of wrist, of cuff tumbling around his hand. 

The young barmaid stepped back from a tumbling patron, and jarred an elbow. sending the last few droplets of broth over a lap. 

It was a temptation. It was not forcing him. He was - after all - supposed to make his own mind up. But he also knew this young woman was very inquisitive and good-hearted. And the priest was feeling worn down from the ride and the weather and the pinch of his boots around his toes (tugged that tiny bit tighter, for good measure).

There was no guarantee he would fall in love with her. No guarantee he would find the love of his life, and leave his flock. 

But if he did, perhaps this fall from ‘grace’ might not be as sinful as Hell thought it was. Aziraphale smiled, as he heard the two of them start to laugh.

This would suffice for Hell. And it wouldn’t hurt his conscience too much, either.

It might take some creative book-keeping, but it was not zero-sum, by his reckoning. And now he could go back home.

@singasongrightnow

[dcdavechicken]

I've been meaning to ask for this, but I can't remember if I have or not, so here it is or here it is again if I have- The ABO verse - First date/Kiss

From Different

Crowley was nervous. Nervous in a way he didn’t fully understand.

He’d been anxious around Alphas in the past, but anxious in the way that a voice somewhere in his head said keep your legs crossed and watch your back and don’t let them take you to another location and don’t let them buy you anything to eat or drink.

Not every Alpha was like that, of course. But one was enough. One who thought he could do what he wanted with an omega, and it be justified, or at least excused. And knowing he’d never have the ‘protection’ that others thought a mate brought, meant he had spent his life concerned that he needed to keep his guard up forever.

Until he met Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, who exuded Alpha hormones, and behaved like the calmest, most fluffy omega in existence. It was a complete paradox. His body was clearly built for one thing, and his spirit for another entirely.

Aziraphale, who brought out in Crowley an urge to protect. He was clearly capable of brushing people off, but had no drive to. He was gentle, softly-spoken, smart, and amenable. He was an ‘omega’ in all but body, and he could likely walk through the world that way without worrying about anyone thinking him anything but ‘odd’. They would maybe tell him he was wasting his potential, missing out, but would they try to force him?

(Would they actually try to force Crowley, or was that just what they said, to cow the less obstructive into submission?)

Whatever the world wanted, Crowley did not care. Aziraphale was kind. And sweet. And nice. He made Crowley laugh. He had this earnest interest in things, and he would focus and fixate and then explain in dizzying levels of detail about his newest favourite thing. He would blush when Crowley said things to him. He would listen to Crowley, when he had one of his passionate political soapbox moments. He would debate, without arguing. He would listen. And he would smile.

Crowley liked the smile. It was true and warm, and it made him smile back at him. He would enjoy that smile, and he would do more things to bring it out. 

Occasionally, he would worry the smile might - 

But - 

No.

The worrying was internal. There was no evidence whatsoever that this angel was anything but perfect. He was never pushed. Never coerced. Never made to feel lesser.

They’d go for a meal, and they’d talk like old friends. Or, like Crowley assumed old friends would talk, because he’d felt so isolated for so long that he didn’t even know if he had any.

They would go back to one another’s places, after work, and just spend time together. Taking it in turns to cook, or order in, and pick movies. Crowley would drive him home, or drive himself, and it was… it was nice.

It was almost like dating, but with the gross (to him) bit taken out. Maybe it was what they were doing, because it felt more than what he thought friendship would be. Or, maybe it was that everyone else picked to add that extra bit on, the bit they didn’t really want. 

Crowley was content with this, he was. Even if occasionally he wondered if they should do - or be - more. Not in a ‘I want you to touch me’ way, but in a ‘it wouldn’t be so bad if we just did this forever and even if everyone else thinks our genitals do the thing, they don’t need to, and then they leave us alone, but also I get to spend more time with this one who is actually pleasant and not annoying…’ sort of way.

He was content, up until the first time he was a little off cycle, and no matter that he religiously took his hormone control tablets, the edge of his physical heat hit him, and the suppressant part only took some of the edge off.

He’d texted Aziraphale. Told him he was feeling bad. Told him it was a rain check. And curled up around a hot water bottle, hating his body, and wishing for the end times.

…but there’d been a knock at the door, and when he hobbled over, ready to growl, he looked into concerned, blue eyes.

Shit.

He was reeking of the imminent and soon-to-be-crushed bodily preparation to mate. His ass was a clenching, pre-slick-sensitive mess, and he wanted nothing more than to eat, curl up, and make it go away.

And here was his - uh - sort-of-his Alpha, holding a tub of icecream.

“…the bus ride was not very fast, I’m afraid this might need your freezer very soon,” Aziraphale explained, pushing the icecream at him. “I also brought some painkillers, and what the pharmacist said was the best emergency blocker brand, and some tissues, and I thought I could give them to you and then pop back on the bus.”

“…what?”

“I had no other plans, and - oh dear - I hope you don’t think I’m being forward. It… it was just the way you described this part sounded unpleasant. And I wanted to cheer you up, and to show you that it’s nothing to be ashamed of, but if you don’t feel like company I just wanted to do something nice for you, so you don’t - well. So you don’t just feel miserable.”

It was the hormones that made him want to cry. And also punch the wall. And also cry into the icecream and then punch it into the wall. His body was a wreck, but it didn’t seem to link up to the thing he was supposed to also feel, and–

“Does - does it make you… doesn’t it affect you, being around me, like this?” he asked, awkwardly.

“Perhaps. I wanted to help, even before I was near you, and now I just want to even more. But I think that’s mostly because I want to see you happy,” Aziraphale replied, very softly.

“No… sudden urge to make a real omega out of me?”

“My dear, no one could. Not even if they tried.”

That was so… fucking touching. Crowley grabbed the other’s shirt, and pulled him in for a fierce kiss. It was filled with affection, emotion, longing… but the longing was for something different. Something… them.

“You’re a literal angel,” Crowley sniffed, when he rocked back onto his heels. “But you bought too much, and if I eat all that, I will be sick.”

“…you could always… save some?”

“I could always share,” he corrected him.

He could honestly say, never in his life had he thought he’d be both prepared to - and eager to - allow anyone near him when he felt so vulnerable and uncomfortable. It was unseemly, and unlike him, and totally not how he wanted to be seen. 

But this one… this one could stay. He could stay forever, Crowley thought, as he invited him in. 

He was safe with Aziraphale, and more than that… he liked him.

Something sort of hurt inside as he watched him fuss about the couch, pulling things in for them both. Cushions and coffee tables, then bowls and spoons. But he wasn’t making a nest for an omega, he was making… making something homely for them both. 

This one, Crowley thought. He would claim this one. Who cared if it was the wrong ‘way’ around, he’d found someone he could be happy with. Was happy with. 

It wasn’t his churning insides that wanted him, it was something entirely different. And it was going to be just fine.

@ulspi and @singasongrightnow

[dcdavechicken]

Great, now the electricity is out.

“Great. Now the electricity is out.”

“And?”

“What the bloody hell am I supposed to do for entertainment now, angel?”

The minute - nay - the millisecond it passed his lips, Crowley realised he had made A Terrible Mistake. Awful. Worse than the time he thought visiting Ireland would be a laugh. Just…

The angel’s eyes glittered in that way he associated most with ‘Is this your card?’ or ‘Isn’t this wholesome fun?’ or ‘Now, the pen is mightier than the - why are you stabbing me, Crowley?’

“No,” he said, horrified.

“Yes!”

“I’ll turn it back on,” Crowley said, already trying to get to his feet, but waylaid by an angel who didn’t run but sure as hell moved faster than the theory of relativity would normally allow.

“Crowley! It’s the perfect time!”

“You hate it. You do. You say, every time, that it was a bad idea.”

“That’s only because you spoil it.”

“Me? I spoil it? If I win, you say I’m cheating. If you win, I’m a poor sport.”

“You do cheat!”

“I’m a demon!”

“There are rules, Crowley.”

“And one of the house rules should be cheat harder than someone if you want to win.”

Next: the pout.

It was, Crowley had to admit, a very good one, this time. Just the right wobble-to-creased brow ratio. The sparkle of unshed tears was on peak form.

“It’s fun.”

It was not fun. But Crowley threw himself onto the couch to spread in seven directions at once, all of them cardinally sinful.

“Not Monopoly again.”

The cloud of sorrow dissipated into the giddy pre-game of glee, and happy little hands clapped together. “Backgammon? Ludo?”

“Twister?” Crowley offered.

“The hippo game?”

“Not the hippo game.”

“Chess?”

“You cheated last time and declared a revolution.”

More wobble.

“Scrabble. Current edition of the OED only,” he compromised. “And no complaining about the proper name rule.”

“…Thank you, darling,” the angel beamed.

He would win this one. Crowley would play until it was close enough to be a challenge, but there were certain things he would not allow Aziraphale to lose at. Everything else was fair game (or unfair game, as the case may be), but you had to let him win the word ones. 

Or, ninety-seven percent of them.

If you wanted to sleep in the same room, anyway. 

He also suspected the power would miraculously return shortly after the game. The angel had never been as subtle as he liked to think. It was one of his better bad qualities. 

@singasongrightnow

[dcdavechicken]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Some Prince of Omens for the lovely @whiteleyfoster

Most assuredly not sfw.

[dcdavechicken]

Prompt: how does Crowley choose new plants?

Crowley does not want Aziraphale to come to the gardening centre with him. Does not. It is very much a personal, private thing, and…

“But I let you come with me to the antique books roadshow.”

“You made me.”

“You said you didn’t want to be left alone all week!”

“So instead of staying back with me, or letting me stay in the hotel with room service, you dragged me around all those musty old tomes!”

But what Aziraphale wanted, Aziraphale usually got.

Which is why he’s got his glasses pushed as close to his face as he can, to prevent any stray glance behind them to his eyes. He’s left the angel admiring the fruit trees and rose bushes, skulking like the alpha predator he is through bamboos and tall grasses to find his preferred prey.

(In the distance, cooed and aahed appreciations that make his ears prick, but he must ignore them.)

The varieties you found in these places were commercial. Bastard hybrids. The scrappy mongrels of the plant world, or the over-pruned family tree branches that lead to over-specialised and genetically non-diverse sharp ends of wedges.

Crowley knew enough to know when things had been splinched, grafted, crossed. He knew from leaf-patterns, variegation, genus and species on tiny plastic spikes, written in capital letters by hand. 

(Once in a while, a heirloom might sneak in, misidentified, snapped up greedily, taken back to be cultivated by someone who could truly appreciate the find…)

But mostly, it was the former, not the latter. 

He runs his eyes over the plants, which have yet to understand the importance of presentation. Battered around in uniform planters and squabbling for light. 

It doesn’t matter which they are. If they’re a cultivar with a planned growth, or a happy accident of bee or broom. What matters more… it’s the innate drive. The one ready to push above the next one. To reach beyond. The leaves don’t need to be perfect at the start, just the drive to thrive and excel. Right now, it’s resources. Later - if he picks them - he will channel that energy where he wants it. 

One catches his eye. It’s deeper in colour, like a flush of chlorophyll. It wants. He can feel it. It wants.

“Oh, have you decided?” his angel asks, his little shopping basket full of nonsense and ephemera. 

“Yes.”

It has to want to live. Whatever it is, it has to want to excel. And then he can help it find its true potential. 

@singasongrightnow

[dcdavechicken]

Prompt #4 - I don’t think that’s how that works.

“Angel, love of my life, fire of my loins, pain of my ass… I don’t think that’s quite how it works.”

Crowley was pleased, of course, to receive gifts. Gifts with a hell of a lot of thought behind them. Gifts that showed the angel had spent the entire year focusing on things he was interested in, or else he’d spent his entire life doing it, and not mentioning it.

But.

“It is,” the angel huffed.

“And you gleaned this…”

“From those moving pictures you like. They were often based on books, as you know.”

“I was aware. I did exist before Hollywood.” It was just more convenient to have the voices out loud and let his eyes and ears consume the story. Didn’t mean he was a total heathen.

“Your Commander fellow had a branch dedicated to them.”

“Y-yes…”

“And so I went on the line and I found them.”

“You… found ‘Q Branch’?”

“And they sold me these items.”

Crowley looked at them. One was a button marked ‘ejector seat’ which would match the panelling in his Bentley almost perfectly. Another was a pen which purported to have a microphone and recording capability. (That one was probably legitimate, but he was a demon and had superior hearing if he wanted to, so…) And the third was a laminated ID card with a terrible picture of him,  Double-O designation, and ‘Licence to Thrill’ printed underneath.

“You are now officially an ‘agent’ and if you put the button in your car, it will work to eject anyone you need. They had machine guns and underwater ones, but I didn’t think I wanted you to have those,” Aziraphale explained. “And I would appreciate if you did not eject me, unless necessary.”

Knowing the angel, if he did stick it on and press it in his presence, he’d automatically go flying from the car. Just from sheer stubbornness. 

It was still a lovely gift.

“It’s not so secret if you apply online, though, is it?”

Aziraphale lifted his hand, to obscure his lips from anyone trying to listen in. “I used your alternative credentials. So it will take any nefarious entities longer to track you down.”

He… oh that was even more precious. Crowley grinned, and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Well. I can’t let this go to waste. Fancy a ride, Z?”

“Z?”

“I’m not calling you ‘A’,” he huffed. 

“Hmm. Very well, Agent Crowley. But do mind we do not drive too close to any precarious cliffs. You are quite reckless on the M25.”

“I promise nothing.” He did, however, plan to go to Vauxhall and see if they pulled him over for being suspicious, so he could flash his new ‘licence’ and then speed off. Yup. Best anniversary gifts ever.

[delisalicious]

This is brilliant!

[dcdavechicken]

Snow Angels and Snow Demons, please!

The thing about snow, you see, is - well. It’s cold. Damn cold. Brass monkeys and brass gorillas cold. And whilst it’s great for causing travel delays (trains, planes, cars, even foot-traffic), it’s… you know. Cold.

Crowley may not be an actual snake, but he’s as much that as he is human, in all fairness. And it is hard to look cool (no pun int– oh, who is he kidding) when you’re wrapped up warm. Even the super-rich at the apres-ski have to look like they’re the offspring of a biped and a sleeping bag. 

But the kicker - as there is always a kicker - is that the angel loves it. Course he bloody does. He miracles up fake snow in his shop windows, bought into the Dickensian miracle-winters, even though he was there for the fog and the stink. His romantic rosy glasses make him giddy. Hot cocoa and mittens and scarves and his biggest complaint is that he doesn’t see children sledging down banks. (No, Crowley thinks. They do it when it isn’t snowing, and they do it on wheels, because Humans have progressed, unlike the angel.)

It’s hard to ignore the boundless enthusiasm, over the mulled wine and apple-red cheeks. To be properly grumpy when - in a moment of impish and innocent delight combined - a small bundle of balled-up snow hits his arm. He retaliates, of course, by putting significantly more down the back of the angel’s collar, to scolding and giggles. 

Leather gloves and the sound of crunching underfoot. The patterns of footsteps, human, avian, feline, canine… the day’s history laid out before them. The need to make a perfect print, with every line showing crisp and clean. 

Fine. It’s okay. 

He sees the angel paused, hands wringing as he quarrels with himself. The bobbing left and right as he assigns pros and cons to the blank canvas he’s found. Crowley watches, and listens, catching enough of the mumbled words to identify the quandary.

It’s going to sting. And he’s going to be damp. And he’s going to complain. (And the angel will make him warm drinks and rub his hands and turn up the heating and smile that smile that’s only for Crowley.)

Blast it all.

He walks up to him, turns so he’s facing him, and holds his eyes as he trust-falls (or, let’s face it, plain old falls) backwards into the drift. Arms and legs akimbo, making the pattern he knows Aziraphale wanted.

“You know,” Crowley grumbles, “…we actually have real wings.”

“It wouldn’t be a snow angel, then. Er. Snow… demon.”

“Ridiculous,” he grumbles, but his face hurts for all different reasons when he has a companion in the snow. 

“They haven’t forgotten us,” the angel whispers. “Not really.”

“No.”

“They don’t know quite what we did… but they haven’t forgotten we exist.”

No. Crowley thinks that’s nice. It’s probably better the humans have idealised (and demonised) ideas about them. The truth is much, much more complicated than any snow-painting could convey.

“Can I get up now?” he asks.

A kiss to his nose and a hand offered out says yes, he can. Crowley is also a bastard, so he pulls the angel down and makes the patterns into a mess of fluff and flailing arms. But he gets another (begrudging) kiss, so it’s worth it. 

At least Aziraphale has always hated ice-skating. Crowley might have drawn the line at that.

@singasongrightnow

[dcdavechicken]

“i made you some soup, and i’m going to sit here until you eat it. i can wait.”

Warlock Dowling was at that stage that most children reached before long. He had learned the word ‘no’, and that it was possible for him to use it, as much as everyone around him. They might say no when he tried to touch the sparkly burny thing, or put the pretty flower in his mouth, but he could also say it back.

Bedtime.

No.

Bathtime.

No.

Time to learn about the ranks of Hell.

No.

He only understood some of the things he was told to do, but he delighted in refusing. Nanny especially was fun. Even if she was ordering him about, when he refused, she looked so happy and annoyed at once and the two emotions were big and he liked that.

Bruffa Fancis was different to Nanny. He would do the long talking thing when Warlock said no. And then he would talk some more, his red face going increasingly ruddy with his anger until Warlock either giggled or gave in. Depending on how he felt.

Today, though, Nanny was adamant.

“I made you some soup, and I’m going to sit here until you eat it.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I can wait.”

Warlock wanted to say no. He did. He wanted that pleased-irked mess of emotion to play out, the ones that made him confused but excited. But he could tell Nanny was not in that sort of mood, and - if he was honest - neither was he.

His nose felt bad. His head felt bad. His eyes felt bad. And he was sad and wanted to cry, but he didn’t want to sleep. He didn’t want to wake, but he did not want to nap. The soup was warm and his belly was heavy and he hadn’t wanted his fish fingers before. 

Warlock looked up at Nanny. Nanny looked worried. He wiped his snotty nose on his sleeve, and thought maybe Bruffa Fancis would tell him the right thing today.

“…’kay, dandy,” he replied, voice thick with his cold. 

“Good boy.” 

Nanny didn’t often give out compliments. Warlock smiled and picked up the spoon. 

@singasongrightnow

[dcdavechicken]

“you promised me a cookie!”

“You promised me a cookie.”

“I said you could have one if you finished your taxes.”

“I wasn’t born. So I don’t have a national security number. And I don’t need healthcare. And–”

Aziraphale clutched the small box of cookies closer to his chest, refusing to let prising hands wriggle into the inner wrapper. “You create litter which must be disposed of. And you use the roads. Which - may I also remind you - there is vehicle duty?”

“I don’t produce emissions. I’m carbon neutral.”

“Street lighting is–”

“I can see in the dark.”

The principle of the thing was the important part. “You watch the BBC. And - and - you–” Oh.

“What?”

“Noth–”

“What?”

Aziraphale didn’t feel like cookies any more. He folded over the foil inner and clicked the cardboard tongue into the slot. “I was simply thinking of other uses of taxation. Such as emergency services.”

“I told you, I don’t get sick, I don’t get caught doing crimes, and I–”

The penny proverbially dropped. Fire. Fire engines. Firepersons. Fire. 

“Fat bloody good they did,” the demon said, shoving the forms away from him. “I’m not doing it. If you want to file them for me, whatever, but I’m not doing it.”

The angel looked down at the paperwork. “Perhaps if they had had more money… though, Adam did rectify the issue, and it isn’t as if I was… very well. I’ll do yours for you.”

Crowley tilted his head. “Isn’t there customs and excise on… alcohol?”

“Yes?”

“So, if I bought a large cellar…?”

“You would have a lot of wine,” he agreed, but smiled, too, because yes. There would be duty. Especially if imported from, say, the new world.

“Right. You do the boring paperwork. I’ll find us a hermetically sealed cellar. And cookies don’t go with wine. Don’t even try to tell me they don’t.”

“Cheese and crackers?” Aziraphale offered, by way of compromise.

“Fine.”

“I’ll make sure I get your favourites,” he added, even more cheerily.

Crowley’s answer was a grunt, but he meant it. 

@singasongrightnow

[boxoftheskyking]

Fic writing questions!

[santhomedusae-deactivated202006]

So reblog this if I can pop into your box and ask you questions about writing (You can probably make a version for art, too). And you can ask them to me if you really want to.

Specify fandom if you want for any of the questions.

1. Which is your favorite of the fics you’ve written for X fandom?

2. Favorite piece overall?

3. Which was the hardest to write, in terms of plot?

4. Which has the most “you” in it, however you’d define that?

5. What is an image/set of images that you’re particularly proud of?

6. Idea that you always wanted to write but could never make work?

7. Least favorite plot point/chapter/moment?

8. Favorite plot point/chapter/moment?

9. Favorite character to write?

10. Favorite line or lines of dialogue that you’ve written

11. If I’m showing off just one of your pieces to someone, which one should it be?

12. What WIPs do you have going now? Are you excited about them?

13. Are there any things that might have happened in any of your stories, but you changed them at the last minute? (So-and-so dies, they don’t actually kiss, main character has long extended ballet-based dream sequence, etc.)

14. Would you want to write canon for any of your fandoms (like be hired by showrunner to do an episode)? Which one?

15. Does font matter to you when you’re writing a draft?

16. 3 favorite comments ever received on fanfic.

17. Any mean comments? How’d you deal with it? Who laid the smackdown?

18. If you could go back and revise one of your older stories, which would it be?

19. Do you make up scenes at work/on the bus/at the gym? Who are the characters that pop up the most? Do you write them down?

20. Go nuts, and talk about writing. Or write me a little ficlet-whatsit using a character/image/line I shall now specify:

Go on, my chickens, and ask each other questions

[delisalicious]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Angst and Feels, snakebite, Not from Crowley, Injury Recovery, see notes - Freeform Summary:

Crowley finds something Aziraphale has kept hidden for over a century.

[delisalicious]

Prompt: secret

"Angel, what is that?"

Aziraphale froze. He had been careful up to that point, keeping the mark on his wrist hidden from Crowley because he wasn't ready to explain. He wasn't even sure he could explain. 

It was something he'd done nearly one hundred twenty five years ago, back when they weren't in contact. While it wasn't something he actually regretted, it was something he'd kept hidden under his many layers of clothes. Even when they were intimate he'd made sure his inner wrist stayed out of sight.

"Oh, my dear, it's... It's not anything for you to worry about."

"But... It's..." He took Zira's hand and lifted it to take a better look. His touch was gentle and his eyes glistened just a bit. "When did you?"

Zira looked away for a moment, and readied himself for a rather uncomfortable exchange because he figured it wouldn't do to keep the secret any longer.

"It was... 1896."

Crowley's eyes widened because he knew to some slight extent what that meant. "Around the time you were..."

"In America, yes. I... You know that my ability to heal had been suspended and at the time I was on a mission to bless a rancher in the Western Frontier." He'd told him that much at least, and that he had been injured because of it. He had never gone into detail about what happened, but he knew it was time to come clean. 

"I... I believe they were trying to humble me or, well, I'm not entirely certain what their precise motives were, but... I... I had been posing a traveling evangelist. It was beautiful out there, miles and miles of rolling hills, very warm.

"There had been another evangelist traveling in the area; he was a very interesting young man and he had a lot of very good ideas when it came to faith and believing in Her. We ended up staying at the same ranch briefly, and one afternoon he and I were having a discussion regarding what Her plans for the world were while we were walking through one of our host's grazing pastures.

"I... I didn't see it, the scrub grass was very thick and it was hidden so well, you see, and it... I..."

He fell silent, completely ashamed of what he had allowed to happen to him. But then there was a warm hand taking his and lifting it so the offending spot could be brushed by lips. He almost couldn’t take the look of concern and compassion in his beloved's eyes.

"What didn't you see, angel?"

"A rattlesnake. I... I nearly stepped on it. I didn't even have time to register what the noise could be before-"

"It bit you? Angel, why didn't you... You... You thought it was me, didn't you?"

That was even more painful that the thought of being bitten by the snake, or, in fact, just plain being bitten by the snake.

"No, Crowley, you are not a rattlesnake. Your appearance is a mixture of King Cobra and Red-Bellied Black Snake, and you most decidedly do not have a rattle appendage at the end of your tail. And even before those recognitions, I knew that it was not you."

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

"I... I was embarrassed that I even allowed myself to be bitten. I had been your friend for six thousand years, and I was so careless that I didn't... I wasn't able to avoid it. It shouldn't have even happened."

And there was that compassion again, and Zira wanted to pull his hand back from Crowley's grip. He wanted to huff and get out of bed and storm into the bathroom, or something. Why was Crowley being so damned understanding?

"Angel... It... It wasn't your fault."

"But-"

"No, it doesn't matter which angels from the head office told you otherwise. Things happen. To everyone and everything. And if they had taken away your ability to heal then maybe some of your other senses were muted, too." 

He didn't have a rebuttal to that, and if he was honest, he was not one bit surprised at the possibility that it wasn't just miracle healing that had been taken from him at the time. It was even possible that the snake had been put in his path on purpose.

"So... That's how you were injured, but it doesn't explain this." He referred to the thing on his wrist; the thing that resulted from part of what he felt was the worst time of his existence. 

"The whole ordeal is part of the reasoning behind it, my love." He waited for Crowley to question or interject again, but when the demon remained silent Aziraphale ventured on. "As I implied, I was bitten, and since I didn't have the ability to heal myself or cast out the venom I was forced to endure it. If I had been out there on my own it is quite possible I wouldn't have survived, but the other evangelist was with me. He... He did the normal triage medical practices of the time, and he retrieved a horse to carry me back to the main ranch house. The pain was excruciating, and I lost consciousness before we made it back.

"I shifted between unconsciousness and delirium for what they told me was about three days, it felt like the whole of eternity so far, and during that time I was aware of three things: pain, an extremely muddled fog, and you."

"Me?" Crowley asked in open confusion. "But I was..."

"Here, asleep in your flat, yes, I know."

"But you thought I was there?"

"I was rather certain of it, yes. I know part of it was the delirium, and they kept me quite heavily sedated with laudanum so I could sleep through the pain. I... You talked to me, brushed the hair back from my forehead, told me that you were going to take care of me and keep me safe. It felt like you never left my side... Until I finally awoke, and I asked for you."

"Oh, angel!" He sounded as anguished as Zira remembered feeling himself. 

He had, for a few wonderful moments, believed that Crowley had come for him, that the Holy Water incident had been put behind them, and that he would never have to be alone again. But he wasn't truly there, and it absolutely crushed him.

"I was still quite ill, and the local doctor advised strongly against it, but I went to the nearby town, and I booked a seat on the train back east. I just couldn’t stay, not without you there. Being an angel, I fared better than most anyone else would traveling in that condition, but I was not well and lost in a state of deep melancholy, and I... I missed you so terribly… "

"So you... Got a tattoo?"

He nodded defeatedly. "In New York City while I waited for a ship back to England. As I said before, I was not well, and I was definitely not in my right mind, and I... I wanted... I wanted to... I needed to do something."

"But, angel! You got a tattoo... Of my sigil."

"I... I missed you!" he choked out as he began to sob. "I missed you!.. So much! And... And I... I... Thought I wwwwould n-n-never ssssseee you again!"

Then there were arms pulling him close, tucking his head under his chin, gentle kisses to his hair while he sobbed out the pain and fear he had felt for so long. And Crowley just murmured quiet words of comfort and love and he held him through it.

It took Zira a while to calm down enough so he would be able to speak again. He thought Crowley might not think it necessary, but the angel needed to explain for himself, as much as for the demon.

"I wanted something that would... Would keep you close to me so I wouldn't feel so alone."

“But, angel… If… if They had seen it…”

“I know, but I… Well, I kept it hidden, and this is the first time you found it. And I had every chance to miracle it away, but I… It was my only connection to you for a time, so I wanted it to stay.”

The demon swallowed thickly and tried to work through his own emotions. "Did it help?"

"Sometimes seeing it would help me feel a little bit braver, but I still missed you so terribly."

"I missed you, too… I just... why didn't you tell me about it?"

"I feared you might find my actions pathetic. I... Treated you poorly, and refused to admit there was ever more than an Arrangement between us, so getting a tattoo of your true name on my wrist?"

"It's beautiful, angel! And I... I would have been so touched. I... You know, I always..." He broke off momentarily with a sob-laugh. "I have always loved you, and it would have just... Let me know in another way that you loved me, too."

"Yes, I... I always have. I'm sorry that it took so long for me to... To stop hiding it or denying it."

"It's alright. Just promise me one thing, will you?"

Zira smiled softly and pushed himself back enough to look up at Crowley.

"Anything, dear boy."

"Promise me that you won't keep anymore secrets."

"I promise, and if I come across ones from the past, I will tell you about them."

***

Crowley had already been gone for a number of hours, and Zira closed and tidied the shop for the night. It was really a matter of just waiting for the demon's return that had the angel bustling around and putting books back on the shelves, otherwise he would have left everything as it already was.

The angel was not sure where the demon might have gone, or why. He had only said he would be back to walk him home, and Zira wiggled at the very thought.

He was elbow deep in his quite extensive collection of Fly Fishing books and manuals (a collection he knew he must propagate when he came across an advertisement from an author looking for a specific book anywhere. Now he had the most extensive collection on the subject in the whole of London) when he heard the bell on his door jingle.

“Angel?” Crowley yelled from the front of the shop.

“I’m back here, dearest!” he called in response. He snapped and the organizing job he had been doing by hand was miracled done so he could join his husband. “I am just putting the fly fishing books back in order.”

“Why do you even have ‘fly fishing books’ angel?” his demon drawled when he appeared between the shelves.

"There was a need for the subject material in the city, and a severe lack of availability, so I took it upon myself to fix that."

Crowley squinted at him. "How did you find out about this 'need'?"

"It, ah, came up somewhere, and was relevant for my… occupation..."

"Uh huh, and when there was an open request for one, single book, you decided you needed to have all the books you could find? A request that was clearly a publicity and advertising stunt, not a real market-based demand?"

His cheeks colored, and he floundered over how he could explain that it was completely necessary. But then the distraction of Crowley's afternoon disappearance took precedence.

"What did you do while you were out, dear boy?" he asked as he walked up to kiss his demon's cheek, and he smiled when said cheeks colored as a result.

"I, uh... I got a surprise for you."

"Oh?"

Crowley took his hand and lifted it so he could kiss the tattoo like he did whenever he got the chance since he found it weeks earlier, and Zira flustered like he always did whenever Crowley kissed it.

"Uh, yeah." Zira expected him to dig in one of his pockets when he let go of his hand, instead the demon turned his own hand over and offered it to him. "It's... Here."

The angel blinked down at the offered hand, very confused, until he noticed a small touch of black that peeked out from under his sleeve. His gaze snapped up to Crowley's as he took hold of his hand and pushed the sleeve up and out of the way.

"Crowley... This... This is the seal from my ring."

"It's... You don't have a sigil, but you have this, so I thought..."

"Yes, the, ah, Archangels decided that they were the only ones important enough to have sigils, so, I... I chose this. It... You got it tattooed on your wrist?"

"So I could keep you close when we're not together, and have one to match yours, and... They can touch while we hold hands walking home."

"Oh, Crowley!" There were tears in his eyes as he pulled him down to kiss him fiercely, and he hopefully let his demon feel the love and gratitude that was overwhelming him at the moment.

"I take it that means you like your surprise, angel?" the demon asked when he pulled back.

"Yeah," he sobbed. "I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I'm wonderfully glad that I do have you."

“You were just… You, Aziraphale. Now are you ready to walk home?”

He glanced at the shelf where the books were now in order, and then back at his waiting demon and nodded up at him. “Yes, my dearest.” And he took his hand making sure their tattoos were pressed together as they walked to the front of the store.

[dcdavechicken]

Rigil Kentaurus, Toliman (Ch7)

Chapter Seven

Aziraphale/Crowley Stardust AU In which, a werewolf, a warlock, a witch, an angel and a star walk into a — joke?

[delisalicious]

READ!  READ!  READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ! READ!

[dcdavechicken]

I love the H/C prompts... Which are a bit interesting with an angel and a demon, but I will send them anyways - Blankets/Shirt Collar Shifting Just Enough To Have Bandages Peeking Out

Crowley was putting a brave face on it, but Aziraphale could feel the waves of pain. And if he couldn’t, his empathetic imagination felt them, clear enough.

It had been, what was it Crowley liked to say? A complete-and-utter-cock-up. Not so much pear shaped, as pear-crumble rubbed into eyes. And the worst part of all was that it was well and truly the angel’s fault.

He’d gone in all faith, no pun intended. He’d thought nothing of the meeting, not when it was to discuss religious texts. The cathedral had a little gift and coffee shop, and that was very nice indeed. It was a lovely old building, beloved of the local bat population, and had wonderful bells. 

Aziraphale hadn’t told Crowley where he was going, simply that he was. And when it turned out to be less than savoury individuals… hired, doubtless, by his ‘old’ side… he’d realised what an utter fool he had been. 

He’d called out, desperately, and was unsurprised when a flutter of black wings was followed by low and urgent cursing. Holy ground and all. But he knew - oh he knew - that Crowley would come for him. Aziraphale had clutched his book satchel to his chest, using it as a shield to deter the assailants, unwilling to resort to violence, even now.

It was - it just - 

It was easier to defend others than himself. Had it been Crowley, he knew he’d not hesitate.

But Crowley came in swinging, grabbing offering plates, dining plates, plastic chairs - anything - and hurtling them at the attackers. Aziraphale had hesitated a little longer, until one of them grabbed a crucifix and assaulted his demon.

The mixed blasphemy of using the icon, combined with the sibilant call of pain, and he’d lost whatever restraint held him back. The Humans in the building were treated to white wings and bright light, and several very rude people were left tied up like offerings at the foot of the altar.

And he and Crowley went quickly home.

His feet were burned badly, and no amount of salve or prayer would heal them faster. Anything he might try could potentially cause more harm, so he’d kept his miracles to himself and bound them in what passed for Human burn treatment. 

Crowley had resisted, but Aziraphale couldn’t leave him hurting, not on his behalf.

The other wounds were less widespread. Deep gouges, but a single, clean line. Anaesthetic creams and padding, and white, white bandages. They looked stark on his frame, and did nothing for the aesthetic choice of black.

Crowley reclined on the sofa, legs draped over the arm, pretending it wasn’t to keep his feet off the floor. He gestured with the glass of whiskey, and each arch of his throat to drink, swan-like, pulled the loose shirt up higher. A flash of shroud-white, reminding the angel that they were not, in fact, invulnerable.

It wasn’t fair.

Crowley had risked everything to save him - and the world - over and over.

Surely now, She should have forgiven him?

Ah said a voice, somewhere deep inside. Somewhere he wasn’t sure if it was his own, or not.

You can only be forgiven when you accept the offer.

Crowley had not. Would not.

Crowley’s Heaven was this, he realised, as those eyes ached when they looked up at his worried expression.

“M’sorry you didn’t get the books, angel.”

“I have everything I need right here,” he murmured, instead.

“Leave it off.”

“No,” he said, and smiled a smile that hurt as badly as Sacred Ground. “Would you like a top up, my dear?”

“…wouldn’t say no.”

Crowley didn’t think he deserved forgiveness, but he’d asked the world for something else, instead. And Aziraphale couldn’t help but be glad it was him. 

@singasongrightnow

[delisalicious]

This is lovely and heartbreaking and you should read it!!

[dcdavechicken]

Feverish Delirium And Mumbling (please! I forgot to say please on the last one)

Something has been done, which most certainly should not have been.

Or, if Aziraphale were a good angel, he would think it should. He would be pleased to see Evil ™ thwarted. And not be concerned for a demon’s wellbeing.

He isn’t sure what it was. He knows Holy Water will utterly extinguish a demon (he’s… unfortunately heard the tales from some rather more bellicose angels). Hallowed ground is also Bad (Good?) for hellspawn. But those, he assumes, are rather more dangerous than whatever has occurred here.

Crowley had missed their rendezvous. Crowley rarely missed an engagement, especially not one he had arranged. Aziraphale had, at first, been put out and hurt. He’d considered storming off and ignoring any future correspondence. He’d thought about arranging a follow-up and then him being the one to ‘stand up’ the demon. And he’d thought all sorts of uncharitable words and chastised himself for being in this situation at all.

But… it was unlike Crowley. Entirely unlike Crowley. He was mischievous, yes. A prankster. Occasionally worse. But - for all that was said - he had never… been… utterly bad. And he had rarely been more than a slight annoyance to Aziraphale himself.

And he was usually the most stimulating and engaging and forthcoming party in any… party.

So Aziraphale had sought out the inn he expected Crowley to be taking lodgings in. Whilst ale houses were an acceptable source of intoxicating beverages for the angel, the demon also enjoyed other activities. The types that included beds.

Which Aziraphale had never once enquired about, lest he receive more details than he was prepared for.

But he’d felt something wrong the moment he entered the lodging, snapped brusquely at the innkeep, and taken the steps three at a time.

Whereupon he’d found the room that Crowley had taken, opened the door, and found him… collapsed around a porcelain item which there was no way he ever would normally have needed. Insensate and struck with rigors, which hadn’t passed when he’d hefted the flimsy thing onto the horrid bed.

Where he still lies. His eyes working as if to read great treatise beneath his clammy, closed eyelids. His vibrant hair stuck down and near-black with sweat. His skin wan and wet, as he stirs in what would likely be a fierce fit, if he only had the wherewithal.

Poison, perhaps. Or a curse. Can demons be cursed? Blessed? His body shouldn’t suffer beyond what it allows, unless it is injured beyond repair. And if it is, what then? Would Hell furnish another? Would his dem– would the demon even be allowed to return? What if it was Hell whom he’d displeased? Was this a punishment, or even a trap?

He has no idea, and only Human medicine to rely upon.

Lain flat. Head supported. Damp cloth, the better to dab at his brow. He cannot administer any medicine, he cannot miracle away what he neither understands, nor understands why. All he can do is fret, dabbing at that brow, and whispering quiet reassurance.

I’m here, dear boy. I’m here. I won’t leave you. You are safe.

Things he shouldn’t say. Things he can’t say. Things that will damn him utterly, should anyone truly be watching.

He says them, anyway, and clasps one hand in worried vigil.

“…a-angsssshel…”

“Yes?” He perks, eyes wide, reading the demon’s face. “Crowley? My dear? Can you hear me?”

“Fffffthough you’d… ftttttthough they’d ssssseen you…”

“Who? Is it who did this to you?”

“Caaaant…. hurt m’angsssshel. S’ssssafe. Gotta…. Sssssafe.”

He’s not coherent enough to be questioned, and Aziraphale smiles at the half-conscious confession. “Did someone do this?”

“M’angsssshel?”

“Yes?”

“You ‘kay?”

“I’m quite well, other than worried about you.”

“S’sssssokay, then. Ssssstopped them. Can’t… can’t lossssse….”

Whatever he’d done. However he’d done it. He’d rescued Aziraphale, and the angel had spent the best part of the afternoon cursing his name for not showing up. That stings. Stings so badly. He bends to kiss his forehead, to better hide the swell of pain.

“You stopped them. And you… you were so brave. So kind. So now you must let me take care of you.”

“M’kaaaay. BurrIloveyou… gotta… keep… ssssafe.”

Delirium loosening his tongue, putting voice to what Aziraphale has long known, feared, hoped… one or all of those things.

He wants to cry. Their love - their love is so dangerous. Even to feel it is to court death. He’s put his demon in such a terrible bind, and he… he can’t. He can’t be responsible for losing him.

So he’ll lie. He’ll push him further away. This nonsense of his, indulging his demon, it has to stop.

They’ll just have to… have to find a way to be less… them. And it will kill him, but he’ll make Crowley believe it’s only one way. He must. To protect him.

But not today. Not tonight. Not when he doubts Crowley will remember he was even here at all, if he left now.

“I love you, too,” he whispers, and it feels so good and terrible in one to say it. He won’t, again. He won’t, to keep him safe. “I love you, too. But you must rest. Rest and heal. I will watch over you.”

A little snicker, and a momentary flash of amber eyes. “M’own guardian…”

“Quite.” Oh, it’s like a knife to the gut. “But rest. You need to recover. And I will make you rest if I have to.”

A reluctant chirr, and then Crowley’s limited energy seems to peter out all at once. “…kay.”

Aziraphale feels the back of his head with his hand, and nods. Blankets. He needs blankets.

Whatever he needs, he’ll get.

Except this one thing.

Losing Crowley isn’t worth… unlosing him. Finding him. For both their sakes, they can’t.

Crowley is smiling in his sleep. A shy, spacey little expression, but there, all the same.

Maybe one day. Maybe.

Maybe then Crowley won’t need his protection.

It can’t come quickly enough.

[dcdavechicken]

Rigil Kentaurus, Toliman - Chapter Five

Aziraphale/Crowley Stardust AU

[delisalicious]

I’ll say it again! I love this!! Read it!