An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020), Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Zack Fair/Cloud Strife
Characters: Zack Fair, Cloud Strife
Additional Tags: Porn with Feelings, Love Confessions, Fluff, Smut, Fluff and Smut, First Kiss, First Time, sorta - Freeform, Hand Jobs, It's an Only One Bed fic
Series: Part 4 of Final Fantasy VII
Summary:
Zack and Cloud find shelter for the night in the middle of a snowstorm. Cloud has some things on his mind.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Aerith Gainsborough/Tifa Lockhart
Characters: Aerith Gainsborough, Tifa Lockhart, Barret Wallace, Cloud Strife
Additional Tags: Fluff, First Kiss, This is so soft and gay my dudes
Series: Part 3 of Final Fantasy VII
Summary:
The party stops at Costa del Sol for some much needed rest, and Tifa wrestles with her feelings for a certain flower girl.
I wrote some soft Aerti! It’s so nice to finally have a cute girl ship. I hope it’s okay!
They had had their falling out, and Crowley had slept off the rest of the century. Or at least, he'd tried to. Perhaps it was time he visited one of those discreet gentlemen's clubs that Aziraphale had always been trying to invite him to.
(An alternate take on what happened between 1862 and 1941.)
I wrote another Ineffable Husbands fic! You can find it here - https://archiveofourown.org/works/21135614/chapters/50297972. It is rated E, though, so be warned. Enjoy!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth/Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Additional Tags: This is so soft and not at all soft at the same time my dudes, Fluff, Smut, Fluff and Smut, Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Genderfluid Character
Summary: Aziraphale adores Crowley in whatever form he chooses to present.
I wrote some soft and not at all soft Ineffable Spouses!
Hank stopped dead as he closed the door, the book in his hand clattering to the floor. Sumo was stretched out on the floor, lying in a patch of sunlight that streamed through the window. But it wasn’t the dog that had made Hank stop. It was the man on his knees next to the dog petting him. Hank had never seen this man before in his life, and no one was allowed in his quarters without his permission.
But even that wasn’t it.The fact of the matter was that Hank could see right through him.
--
A while ago, I wrote a Hankcon Ghost AU set around the early 20th century, and I’ve been uploading it chapter by chapter over the past week. It’s complete now, and it would mean so much if anyone who likes the pairing and that kind of AU would read it. (Please bear the tags in mind!)
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Word Count: 1787
Warnings: Nightmares, vague mentions of PTSD, other than that, this is super soft, my dudes.
Hell wasn’t at all how Crowley had imagined it to be. It was dark and dirty, with a lingering smell of ash and something even more unpleasant underneath. He’d expected pits of fire, what he’d found instead was a dingy basement with no windows and a lot of cramped, miserable people.
So he did what he had to do. He worked hard, made connections, anything to gain trust and prove that he’d be of more use on Earth. Anything to get out of there as quickly as possible. He knew he’d never be able to redeem himself in Her eyes, never be able to go home. This was his home now. But if he could just get on the right side of the Hellish powers that be, then maybe things wouldn’t be so bad.
He felt cold without his wings.
He still didn’t understand how it had happened. He hadn’t done anything wrong, at least, not really. He just couldn’t keep taking orders without question anymore, not when some of those orders were something more akin to Hell’s standards than Heaven’s.
“I don’t understand why She spent all that time creating them just to test them to destruction,” he had said one day to Gabriel.
He knew that he should never have opened his mouth about this, least of all to Gabriel, but he couldn’t hold his tongue on the subject any longer. The archangel was fond of bragging on about how things were moving along on Earth so quickly, as if he had much, if anything, to do with it, and everything he said just got further and further under Crowley’s skin. He was a smug, self-righteous bastard, and it took every ounce of Crowley’s strength not to say as much right to his face.
“What do you mean?” Gabriel had replied.
Crowley gestured vaguely. “Well, the tree. She gave them curiosity, of course they’re gonna go for it.”
“They wouldn’t,” Gabriel said, and he sounded so self-assured that Crowley felt his fist instinctively clench.
“Oh, yeah? Just watch. Sooner or later, that curiosity’s gonna get the better of them. And then what? What point does that prove? That they weren’t loyal enough? They didn’t believe hard enough? But they were made that way.”
Gabriel tilted his head, looking down the length of his nose at Crowley. Something he was very fond of doing.
“I’d be careful if I were you. The walls have ears, you know.”
Crowley was letting his temper get the better of him, but he couldn’t help himself.
“I’m right, and you know I’m right,” he insisted. “They’re barely more than children. Why do this to them?”
“If it’s what She wills, then so be it,” Gabriel responded, in a tone that clearly said ‘this conversation is over’.
He had to go. It didn’t take long before he began to gather a following. Others were being to question. An uprising would be next, and the hierarchy couldn’t have that. Cut out the sickness and the body has a chance to heal itself. No, Crowley had to go.
Even after all this time, visions of what had happened still came to him without beckoning. Clawed at him in unconsciousness, until he woke up in a cold sweat, alone and terrified.
Hands on him, pushing and pulling, on his wings, fire tearing them apart. He knew he was screaming – he had to be, it was agony - but no sound came from his mouth. And then the whole of Heaven was pulled out from underneath him.
He was falling. No wings to protect him anymore, Heaven far above, and Hell far below.
He’d been cast out. Branded an outsider. A traitor.
No longer wanted or loved by God.
By anyone.
Destined to fester in Hell for Eternity, or until he was torn limb from limb by the bloodthirsty demons that awaited him.
Before he woke up, he’d always see a face. The same one that had been haunting his nightmares since the very Beginning.
Crowley.
A voice. Soft and calm. An oasis from the burning pain.
Crowley!
Crowley woke up with a start. A very distressed-looking Aziraphale was standing in front of him.
“How on Earth did you get here in one piece?” he asked, voice fraught with worry.
Then Crowley realised where he was. He was standing on the doorstep of Aziraphale’s bookshop. It was dark, and the usually bustling street was empty. He’d been sleepwalking.
Aziraphale wrapped an arm around his shoulders, ushering him inside gently.
“Let’s get you inside, dear,” he said, his grip on Crowley just tight enough to guide him.
Crowley went without a fight, still trying to figure out how in Someone’s name he’d even ended up there.
Aziraphale brought him up to his flat, which sat above the shop. It was neat and old-fashioned, much like its tenant. Not that ethereal beings needed to eat or sleep, but Aziraphale had become a creature of comfort during his time on Earth. He liked to have somewhere private to eat and rest, and he had become fond of collecting things over the years. Not just books, but paintings and ornaments, among a great deal of other things. Tat, Crowley affectionately called it, and Aziraphale would just roll his eyes with a smile. He could never understand how Aziraphale never got lost amongst it all.
“There we go,” Aziraphale murmured, helping Crowley onto the sofa.
He carefully draped a blanket over Crowley’s shoulders, and it was only then that Crowley even realised that he was shaking. Aziraphale sat next to him, his face still full of concern. He stayed quiet, waiting for Crowley to find his voice.
“Been having nightmares,” he said eventually, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“Nightmares? About what?”
“The Fall,” Crowley said shortly.
Aziraphale shifted awkwardly in his seat.
“Ah,” was all he said.
“It never changes, it’s always…Always just before it…”
Crowley swallowed thickly, trying to gather the courage to continue.
“Before it happened. They’re all glaring at me like they don’t even know me anymore. And there’s Gabriel.”
The fact that Gabriel was all but spat didn’t go unnoticed.
“He’s looking at me like he’s been wanting this for years. Probably had, the bastard. I never did fit into his perfect regime. And then…”
Crowley trailed off, voice faltering. Aziraphale gave his arm a gentle squeeze.
“And then?” he prompted softly.
“And then I see you,” Crowley said, turning to look at Aziraphale. “And the way you look at me, it’s…I’ve never seen you look so disgusted. I’m losing my balance, and you’re the one to give me the final push.”
Crowley squeezed his eyes shut.
“It’s always you.”
Aziraphale placed his hands on Crowley’s face, gently, so as not to frighten him any further.
“Crowley,” he murmured, “Crowley, look at me. Please.”
Crowley forced himself to open his eyes.
“I would never-” He faltered, stopped, then tried to start again. “You know that I would never- You mean far too much to me.”
“And what if that’s what it all comes down to, hm?” Crowley asked. “When they find out about us. About everything we’ve done. You’re gonna have to choose. They’re gonna make you choose.”
Crowley let out a shaky laugh, but there wasn’t a trace of humour in it.
“It’s me or them. Are you really gonna choose to fall?”
“Crowley-”
“The whole of Heaven, gone. Your whole life here, gone. For a demon? You wouldn’t. You can’t.”
“I would.”
Aziraphale’s voice was so small, and so full of fear. He looked at Crowley, tears forming in his eyes.
“I would,” he said again, insistently.
“Aziraphale-”
“No, you listen to me. My entire existence, all I’ve been told is what to do. What to say. Who to heal. Who to let die. And then you came along. You didn’t tell me what to do. You listened. You let me decide things for myself. You cared about what I had to say. I was created as a vessel for Her Will, but you…You let me become my own being.”
Aziraphale blinked, trying to hold back his tears, but it was no good. They were already rolling down his cheeks.
“If, in the end, it comes down to all of Heaven and Earth, and you, I’ll choose you. I’ll always choose you.”
Crowley opened his mouth to try and argue again, and Aziraphale shook his head.
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Please don’t. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t think I can bear it.”
Crowley carefully placed his hands over Aziraphale’s, taking them in his own and holding them tightly. As if someone was about to try and take him away at that very moment.
“They’ll cast you out too,” he said quietly.
“Then so be it,” Aziraphale replied resolutely, squeezing Crowley’s hands in turn. “Better to know who I am than to stand idly by in the name of so-called virtue. I can’t be that person anymore. I won’t.”
Every word coming from Aziraphale’s mouth sounded insane, but Crowley knew by the look on his face that he meant every one of them. It was overwhelming. Never, in all of his years of existence, had anyone ever cared so much for him. Not even when he was still an angel. And knowing that Aziraphale would sacrifice everything, just for him…
It so rarely happened, but Crowley found himself at a loss for words. He settled for leaning in to rest his forehead against Aziraphale’s. Judging by the angel’s little sigh, it said more than words ever could.
They stayed like that for a while, the pain and worry in each of them forced aside, if only to allow them a moment of peace. Together.
It was Aziraphale who finally broke the silence.
“Let’s get you to bed, dear,” he said. “I know how accustomed to sleep you are, and I’d hate to break you of your routine. Come on.”
He stood up, holding out a hand to help Crowley to his feet. Crowley didn’t argue, just let himself be led to bed.
“Will you…stay with me?” he asked, and he hated how much he sounded like a lost child.
How much he felt like one.
Aziraphale smiled.
“Of course I will,” he replied softly.
Crowley had barely laid his head on the pillow when Aziraphale was gently pulling him into his arms. He didn’t put up a fight, just let himself be wrapped up in that warmth, let Aziraphale murmur small words of comfort into his ear. As he felt himself begin to drift off, he imagined soft, white wings enveloping them both.
He was safe here, with Aziraphale.
He always had been.
(I sincerely hope the ‘Read More’ is working in the tags now, I’d hate for people to have scroll past all of this. If you did read it, thank you so much, and if you liked it, I’d really appreciate if you could leave a kudos here. Thank you again!)
Aziraphale isn’t one for receiving a lot of praise. At least, not in a way that’s genuine. He’s commended by Gabriel when he’s done what’s asked of him, but it’s all very formal. There’s no real heart behind it.
And so he revels in compliments. An almost-customer commenting on how beautiful his bookshop is. Someone in the line behind him asking where he came by such a lovely vintage coat.
But really, it’s praise from Crowley that he adores. Crowley doesn’t mince words, and if something needs said, he’ll say it. He isn’t one for empty words either, at least not where Aziraphale is concerned. Of course, some things take a little longer to be said, but when he does eventually pluck up the courage, Aziraphale all but melts. And some things don’t need to be said at all - on more than one occasion, Aziraphale has caught Crowley just watching him while he goes about his business, and the look on his face says far more than words ever could.
After all, Crowley knows all too well what it’s like to be shunned, ignored, stepped on, despite all of the commendations he’s earned. He’ll risk the accusation of acting nice, if it means seeing Aziraphale smile.
As an angel, Aziraphale can feel love. All kinds of love, from the love of a parent for their child, to the love a person has for a good book.
And of course, different kinds of love give him different kinds of feelings. Someone enjoying a particularly good cup of cocoa may put a little smile on his face, whereas a couple sharing their first kiss is likely to put a spring in his step for at least a week.
What he doesn’t realise, until much too late, is that this means all kinds of love. And it takes him a while to realise just what in Heaven’s name this overwhelming, all-over feeling of elation is that he’s been getting every few days since that lovely newly-wed couple moved in next door.
Of course, in true Aziraphale fashion, when he does finally figure it out, he decides to just blurt it out to Crowley without warning.
“You know, I think I’ve finally figured out what’s been going on with me lately,” he says airily, during their usual routine of afternoon tea.
“Oh, yeah?” Crowley replies, thinking nothing of it.
“I do believe the neighbours have been having a lot of sex.”
Crowley only just manages to stop himself from choking on his coffee.
Aziraphale has something of a sweet tooth, so when he decides to try baking, he’s, unsurprisingly, very good at it. And as it turn out, he finds that it makes for a wonderful distraction. Particularly when it comes to the dreaded periodic performance reviews Upstairs.
“And what about the demon, Crowley?” Gabriel asks, a false smile painted on his face.
“Ah, yes, just what I was getting to,” Aziraphale says, “But first-”
He places a Tupperware container of cookies on the table.
“Cookie?”
This quickly becomes his plan of action every time Crowley is mentioned. Angel food cake, soufflé, chocolate gateau, Eton mess, you name it, Aziraphale’s used it to distract from the topic of Crowley. Gabriel rather looks forward to Aziraphale’s performance reviews now.
Until he and Crowley have another falling out. Aziraphale shows up to his next review glum and empty-handed. Gabriel, who’s developed a slight sugar addiction in the past few months, hunts down Crowley himself.
“I don’t care what it is that you did, or what he did, or whatever. You are going to apologise, and you are going to make things right,” Gabriel hisses, fists curled into the lapels of Crowley’s jacket.
“I have no idea what you’re-”
“Oh, shut up. We all know about you two. Now just fix whatever it is, or so help me, I will make Hell look like a paradise.”
Aziraphale’s overjoyed to find Crowley at his front door less than an hour later with a heartfelt apology, Gabriel even more so when Aziraphale brings crème brûlée to their next meeting.
Crowley still has nightmares about his fall. Sleep was a pleasure once, now it’s become a vice.
Hands grab at him in the dark, tearing at his wings, pulling them apart. He knows he’s screaming, but no sound comes from his mouth. And then suddenly the whole of Heaven is pulled out from underneath him.
He’s falling. No wings to protect him anymore, Heaven far above, and Hell far too close.
“Crowley?”
He’s been cast out.
“Crowley!”
When he finally jolts awake, it’s to find himself on the doorstep of Aziraphale’s bookshop. He’s been sleep-walking. Aziraphale brings him inside, and Crowley, in pure exhaustion, doesn’t put up a fight when he’s led to bed and wrapped up in warm arms, small words of comfort whispered in his ear until he drifts off again.
He’s safe here, with Aziraphale. He always has been.
“Care to dance?” Crowley asked, theatrically holding out a hand.
Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he quickly shook his head, narrowly avoiding knocking his drink all over himself.
“Oh, no, no, I don’t dance,” he said nervously.
“Come on, angel, it’s not hard. I’ll teach you.”
Aziraphale’s face suddenly lit up.
“Oh! I do know one dance-” he began excitedly, and Crowley held up a hand to stop him.
“I told you in 1956 and I’m telling you now, you are not teaching me how to gavotte,” he said with insistence.
“It’s a perfectly respectable gentlemen’s dance,” the angel replied with a huff.
“Yeah, two hundred years ago, maybe. Now, come here.”
(The rest of this little fic can be found here, since I still don’t know if the Read More function works in the tags, and I don’t want to force people to scroll past a whole fic.)
Whenever anyone sneezes within earshot of Aziraphale, his instinctive reaction is to say “bless you”.
Crowley refuses to sneeze around him.
“I’ll break out in a bloody rash if you bless me,” he hisses, holding his nose and glaring at the nearest light source to try and make the sneeze go away.
Aziraphale always laughs, thinking he’s joking, of course. But he does wonder if Crowley pretending to scratch like mad for two hours straight afterwards is just a tad too much dedication to a joke.
When Crowley finally gathers up the courage to admit how he feels about Aziraphale, he expects the angel’s usual theatrics. Shock, disgust, most likely a mix of both. He’ll have to watch him pace the floor while he flaps his hands nervously and tells Crowley how wrong it is, and how he’ll never feel the same.
Maybe they’ll fall out again. Maybe it’ll be forever this time.
What he isn’t expecting at all, is what actually happens.
“Oh, thank goodness, I thought you’d never say it, and I couldn’t bear the thought of it. Could you imagine having to sit with that hanging over your head for the rest of eternity? No, wouldn’t do at all, would it? Of course, the feeling’s mutual, has been for years. Tea, dear?”
After six thousand odd years, Crowley thinks his heart’s finally packing in, because this cannot be happening.
“Coffee- I’m sorry, what?”
Aziraphale gives him a look, the one that says ‘Oh, do keep up, will you?’
“Well, I could hardly say it, now, could I? I can’t afford another letter from upstairs, and I could only imagine what kind of trouble admitting my feelings to a demon would get me into. But now you’ve said it. So it’s alright.”
Crowley’s beginning to wonder if he’d ever left that opium den in 1872, because this has to be a hallucination.
Wildest fantasy.
Dream come true.
“So, you’ve felt- And I’m- And we’re-” Crowley clears his throat. “Right.”
Aziraphale just nods and smiles, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Crowley’s always been the one full of surprises – it’s in the job description of demon, after all – but Aziraphale had always had a knack for pulling the rug out from under his feet.
He’d never complained about it, though. And he isn’t about to start now.
“No. No, I don’t suppose it is,” Crowley said soberly.
“But it’s going to be the end of you and me.”
Aziraphale looked down at his hands in his lap.
“I don’t want to die,” he said, so softly that Crowley could barely hear him.
“It’s not dying, angel. Just, you know, inconveniently discorporating,” the demon offered lightly.
Aziraphale met his gaze again with great effort. “Not this time.”
Crowley sat down with a sigh. There was no point in arguing anymore.
“Listen, Crowley,” Aziraphale started, “I- well, there’s something that I need to tell you. Something that I’ve been needing to tell you for quite some time now.”
(Read the rest here on my AO3!)
The friendship that Aziraphale and Crowley have is even more profound when you think about the fact that neither of them can ever have proper relationships with mortals, be it romantic, platonic or familial.
As long as they don’t greatly upset anyone in their respective departments, they can essentially live forever, and wouldn’t that seem strange to a human, to have a friend of forty years who hasn’t aged a day from the very moment they met?
No, neither of them can let themselves grow close to anyone on earth, and as much as it pains both of them to admit it, even after six thousand years, it’s another reason why they need each other so much.
After all, the world can be a very lonely place without a friend.
The first time Crowley visits Aziraphale’s home - after the dust of the whole end of the world business settles, of course - he has a vague idea in mind of what to expect. Doilies. One of these signs that reads ‘Bless this mess’. An exact replica of a furniture catalogue spread from 1942. Something along those lines.
The last thing he expects is what can only be described as a well-organised hoarder’s nest. He can tell it’s organised not only by how Aziraphale navigates it all with such ease, but by how everything is categorised by item.
Stacks of newspaper, neatly tied with string, line one wall of what was once a living room, with a pair of paper scissors and a scrapbook sitting open on a little table next to them. Vases and ornaments of all shapes and sizes litter one corner, while books, hardback and paper, occupy another. An entire wall is adorned with paintings. Crowley has never heard of any of the artists.
“Have a seat wherever you like,” Aziraphale calls cheerily from the kitchen.
“Where?” Crowley asks before he can stop himself.
The sofa’s been lost to scrolls of paper of varying ages, and the one armchair is drowning in embroidery hoops.
Aziraphale peeps out from the doorway, somewhat chagrined.
“I know what it looks like,” he starts.
“Oh, good, I thought I was the only one,” Crowley replies. “What is all this?”
“History, dear boy.”
Aziraphale disappears for a moment before reappearing with two mugs - one tea, one coffee. He hands the mug of coffee to Crowley.
Crowley just looks at him. “You do know what the Internet is, right?”
Aziraphale makes a face. “Yes, and how long do we expect that to last, really?” he replies with a sniff.
He perches on the edge of the armchair. Crowley stays standing, still at a loss for words.
“Look, I-” Aziraphale takes a breath before he continues. “I can’t stand the idea of all of these- all of these perfectly good things that someone has put so much time into being forgotten and thrown away. It doesn’t seem right.”
And then it hits Crowley. All the years they’ve been on this Earth, and how quietly Aziraphale’s had to go about living. His work comes first, it wouldn’t do to get close to any human, only to lose them a few decades later. There are no parades for his miracles, no matter the size. He doesn’t want anyone to be forgotten, like he would be.
Crowley takes a sip of his coffee, trying to gather his words.
“You look like you could use a hand,” he says after a while.
Aziraphale smiles at him shyly. “I suppose I could.”
Aziraphale is always touching. Plucking a stray thread from his coat. Running his fingers over the spines of a new set of first editions. Intertwining his fingers in his lap.
It irritates Crowley beyond belief. Six thousand years they’ve known each other, and they’re no closer to it now than they were the day they met.
“You go too fast for me,” Aziraphale had said.
Slow down, was what he meant. I need more time.
So Crowley had stopped pushing, stopped hinting, stopped anything that might drive Aziraphale away.
But it doesn’t stop him from wanting.
He wants Aziraphale to touch him, in the same friendly way he pats the postman’s arm during their usual mid-morning conversation, in the same reverent way he does with his books. The way the thumb of one hand rubs against the back of the other in an almost comforting manner.
What he doesn’t think about, in all of his moping, is why exactly Aziraphale is always touching. And that is quite simply because the angel is as starved of physical affection as Crowley.
He had told Crowley that he wasn’t ready. He hadn’t quite expected Crowley to listen. Demons never did.
To even have the thoughts he had been having, well, Heaven would have a field day. But to say it, to have it out in the open, to the very man who was supposed to be his mortal enemy. He can’t.
And so they continue to skirt around each other, the two of them growing more wanting and weary of it.
It comes to a head by accident one afternoon, when Aziraphale passes a cup of coffee to Crowley. Their fingers graze. Crowley can’t bring himself to pull away, and neither can Aziraphale. Taking his chance, Crowley sets the cup aside and reaches out his hand. Aziraphale seems to hesitate, if only for a moment, before nervously placing his hand in Crowley’s.
“Thank you for waiting,” he says in a small voice.
