#butteromens

[sani-86]

I’m gonna put this up for @n0nb1narydemon‘s #ButterOmens. I’d love to see what the writers out there can come up with.

[holycatsandrabbits]

#ButterOmens submission!

ButterOmens explained

For future works: no max word count, all types of fanwork welcome! 

Snow Angel

Crowley knew the angel was gone. He knew it outside on the street. He knew it inside the burning bookshop. He would know it forever. But it wasn’t just the sense of loss that made him sob there, on the floor, in the flames. It was the thought of what Aziraphale had faced at the end. Had he been scared? Had it hurt? Had he wished for Crowley to save him, the way Crowley always had before? Imagining Aziraphale being alone at that moment was worse than Crowley being alone now himself.

It was hot in the burning shop, and the smoke made it hard to breathe. It was hot—and then slowly, in a oddly soft, sort of breezy way, it wasn’t. Crowley looked up and a falling snowflake lighted on his eyelash. Crowley had lost his sunglasses a while ago, and he wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d had them off in a snowfall and had caught a snowflake just there. Another snowflake landed on his nose, and he watched them fall, filtering through the smoke, down over the flames of the shop. They should have melted. Everything was burning, books, tables, chairs, wine, everything except the snowflakes. They fell gently, and where they came to rest, they doused the flames.

They weren’t made of holy water—they were as harmless against Crowley’s skin as regular snow—but they were obviously angelic in origin. Crowley could feel that, he could see it in the way the clearing smoke revealed a soft white glow in the air, an ethereal aura. It grew brighter, until Crowley knew what was coming. He wasn’t surprised to see Aziraphale walking through the burning shop, glowing brightly, and so very, blessedly cold in the middle of the fire. The last of the flames winked out as he passed, his bare feet taking measured steps across the floor, white robe trailing behind him, swishing in the gathering snow. His wings had a glittering look to them, like they might be made of ice crystals.

Crowley pulled up his legs and rested his head on his knees, looking at the angel sideways. Even with the new perspective, Aziraphale remained.

“Did I crack finally?” Crowley asked. “My nightmares can’t even hold together anymore? Guess I don’t care, if you’re in this dream now.”

Aziraphale looked worried and compassionate and sad. “Let’s not stay here, my dear,” he said softly, holding out his hand. “Care for a walk in the park?”

Crowley shrugged, but he stood up and took Aziraphale’s hand. The angel’s skin felt soft and cold against Crowley’s heated fingers. Their next steps were on the path at St. James Park, and the snow fell down around them even faster now.

“Oh, you look better already,” Aziraphale said with a pleased smile. “Here, darling, let me see to you.” He waved a hand and Crowley found himself in clean clothes with no holes burned in them, light fabric that hardly protected him from the welcome cold of the snow. He still had no sunglasses, and snowflakes landed on his eyelashes again. Aziraphale twined their fingers together more tightly and leaned his head on Crowley’s shoulder. His left wing curled around Crowley, a physical representation of the angelic aura that was completely surrounding him.

They walked for a few minutes, and Crowley felt himself gradually calm. His breathing slowed and his steps grew more sure, black boots on the snowy path beside Aziraphale’s bare feet. Crowley’s heart kept racing, of course, but what else could it possibly do when Aziraphale was holding his hand?

All was well until Aziraphale gave him an adorably hopeful look and said, “Darling, do you think you’re ready to wake up now?”

Crowley missed a step and stumbled, nearly tramping on Aziraphale’s foot. He tightened his grip on the angel’s hand. “I’m not leaving,” Crowley said forcefully. “If you’re here, I’m not leaving. I’m going to sleep for the next century.”

Aziraphale looked amused. “Oh, I’d rather you didn’t, my dear. I’d miss you terribly.”

Crowley wavered a little, and Aziraphale reached out his other hand to steady him. “Aziraphale?” Crowley breathed. “Are you actually here? In my dream?”

“For the moment, yes. But I’m afraid that I need to open the shop shortly, so—”

Blackness washed over Crowley’s eyes. “Don’t leave.”

Aziraphale frowned in concern, but he also looked determined, and as strong as Crowley had ever seen him. “Let’s try something,” Aziraphale said. “Can you feel me holding your hand?”

Crowley looked down at where their fingers were clasped together. “Yeah.”

“All right. Now do something for me, dear. Let go.” To say that Crowley didn’t want to do that was a terrible understatement, but it was difficult for him to deny Aziraphale when he—well, it was difficult for him to deny Aziraphale anything ever, really. It was clear which one of them was the better tempter. Reluctantly, Crowley let the angel pull away.

“Now,” Aziraphale said softly, “can you still feel me there?”

“I—” Crowley looked down at his empty hand. Somehow, he didn’t feel the wind against his skin, and the falling snow diverted around his fingers as if something was in its way. There was the faintest feeling of Aziraphale’s hand still caught up with his.

“I’m holding your hand in the waking world,” Aziraphale told him. Crowley met his eyes in confusion and Aziraphale smiled at him. “I know you only trust one person, Crowley, but it’s me. I won’t lead you astray. Wake up into my arms, darling. Please.”

Despite his terror, Crowley closed his eyes and felt himself jump, throwing away the dream, the vision of Aziraphale as a sparkling creature of blessed cold and ice, leaping into the unknown and not sure if he’d be caught.

When he opened his eyes, Aziraphale was still there. Crowley’s entire body was folded up on the angel’s lap, with Aziraphale’s arms and wings wrapped around him.

“Welcome back,” Aziraphale said, with a very relieved smile. 

Crowley took a couple of shuddering breaths, and Aziraphale soothed him through them, rubbing a hand against his back. 

“Guess I was the one to leave this time,” Crowley whispered, weary and almost ashamed.

Aziraphale kissed him softly, on the lips and then on the forehead. “Doesn’t matter, darling. Wherever you are, I’ll come to you.”

*******************************

*Crosses her fingers and hopes someone will draw Snow-angel!Aziraphale in the burning bookshop*

Thanks to @n0nb1narydemon and @acuteangleaziraphale for coming up with ButterOmens!

Find this work on Ao3

[theequeerstrian]

Hello and welcome to #ButterOmens!

This idea happened as a result of some idea ping-ponging between myself and @acuteangleaziraphale, who coined the name!

The idea of Butter Omens is to have a butterfly effect of fanfic, fanart, etc. created among fans.

It should go about like this.

Anyone can initiate a Butter Omens post. It should start similarly to a Draw This In Your Style, but with no limitations on media (seriously, if you want to continue the thread with cosplay or something way out there, PLEASE do!), but here's where it's most different from a DTIYS.

We really hope to create a CHAIN of creations. So, say I start a post with a ficlet. I'll tag it appropriately (#ButterOmens AND #ButterOmensN0nb1narydemon), and send it odd into the world. Anyone out there inspired by my fic is invited to recreate it in their chosen format, and either REPLY to the original post, or make a new post, tagging your new post with #ButterOmens and #ButterOmensN0nb1narydemon (ie #ButterOmens+OP's URL). It can end there, OR you can also tag your response with #ButterOmensOnward to welcome others to further interpret your creation.

The general suggested word count cap for written submissions/additions [this is not a hard rule] is about 5000 words, but any Butter Omens post originator is able to put their own suggested word count maximum. I will only say it would probably be bad form to set a maximum word count that's lower than the word count that was hit by the original post.

Art, Written, cosplay, etc. additions can be something inspired by the original that goes in its own direction, or recreations in your own style.

Basically, we are creating a bunch of lovely long telephone games of fan creations!

I may end up adding more to this as needed, as I'm sure unexpected things will pop up. I'll add rules below as needed, but I do have one to start.

Please do not make your addition NSFW unless the original poster mentions being comfortable with that. There are MANY people in this fandom uncomfortable with that and I would hate for this to be an alienating experience for anyone, regardless of their reasons.

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Vulnerable

I haven’t done any #ButterOmens contributions in a while, and none my own start points, so here’s a fic that didn’t quite work out. It was meant to be the first part of a 5+1, but I only got the 1 out of it. (If you must know, things got really derailed on the Ark.)

Butter Omens Explained

Fic length: 1150 words

Continuations: Any medium of art or fic! No word limits, but it would be nice if this turned into a round-robin 5+1... (tag me if you continue!)

Content: This one is a pretty straightforward G, and while it doesn’t need to stay there in continuations, I’d prefer no NSFW.

--

“Is it true?” the angel asked suddenly, white wing spread to shield Crawley from the rain. “Are demons really…vulnerable to water?”

“I – what?” Crawley’s thoughts had not been moving in that direction at all. He’d been thinking that it seemed to be shaping up to be a funny old world, what with forbidden trees and angels who gave away their swords, and he’d quite like a chance to see more of it, even if this rain thing was turning out to be a bit chilly and unpleasant. He’d wanted to ask the angel if he’d ever heard of something called a fjord, and if they were supposed to be in the north or perhaps the far west?

And here was the angel, asking about…vulnerabilities.

“Water.” He gestured to the rain, as if Crawley might not know what it was. “Only there’s a rumor in Heaven that, because demons are made of fire, they have a weakness to water. I thought that might be why you…well.” He lifted his wing slightly, but not enough to let the falling water through.

Crawley was nearly as speechless as when the angel confessed to giving away his sword, though for a very different reason. “Are you serious?” he finally managed.

“Oh, yes,” said the angel.

“Alright, look. Angel.” He held up his arms, feeling some sort of gesture was in order, but it was his first time having arms and he couldn’t imagine what he was supposed to do next. Wiggle some fingers? “I can’t believe I have to spell this out for you. First,” he held out one hand. “I’m not going to walk around telling my…my vulnerabilities to an angel I just met. I don’t even know your name, for Satan’s sake.”

“Aziraphale.”

“Uh…”

“The Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

“Huh.” Crawley gestured towards their feet. “I hadn’t actually noticed, you know, any gates down there.”

“It’s a, er, honorary title.”

“Ah.” Crawley shook his head, trying to get back to his earlier train of thought. “Right. Well, second,” he held up his other hand. “I’m very obviously not made of fire.”

“It could be under your skin. Clever place to hide fire. No one would ever look there.”

For only the second time in his existence, Crawley very nearly blinked. “That’s…why would you…I don’t know how to respond to that.” The angel – Aziraphale – smiled, looking very pleased with himself. “No, no I don’t have fire under my skin. And anyway, third…” he looked at his hands, realized he’d run out already, and let them fall. “Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate what you’re doing here. I’m sure it’s very kind and all but…my feet are still pretty soaked. As are yours.”

Aziraphale glanced down, grey-white tendrils of hair that used to be curls dripping into his eyes. Sure enough, water was pooling all along the wall around them, already deep enough to splash a little when they moved. Crawley lifted one foot and wiggled his toes, noticeably undissolved by the rain.

“So if I did have some sort of weakness to water, I wouldn’t still be standing around here.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale tilted his head, clearly thinking. He still hadn’t moved his wing.

The wind shifted, blowing a smattering of cold drops across Crawley’s face, and he quickly folded up his arms, hoping that contracting would bring a bit of warmth. He glanced again at the angel beside him, with the open, trusting face. “When, exactly, were you created, anyway?”

“The Sixth Day. I was made to guard this wall, you know.” A bit of the earlier misery reappeared. “Not that I’ve done a very good job. But I’m sure I’ll do better on my next assignment. You?”

“Fourth Day. No wonder. You’re very young.”

“That’s only two days difference!”

“A lot happened in those two days.” Crawley shivered again, this time only partly from the cold. “Did…I mean, were a lot of angels made on the Sixth Day?”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale’s tone was light, eyes scanning the horizon. “Had to get our numbers back up, you know. Reallocate duties, all that.”

Crawley’s breath ripped through him. He had to turn his face away so that Aziraphale wouldn’t see his pain, his weakness.

It wasn’t that he’d hoped to return to his role in Heaven. He was done with that lot, forever. He just wanted his rebellion to mean something. But his questions had fallen on deaf ears. His attempts to change things from the inside had gone unnoticed. Now even his Fall could be forgotten, his stars assigned to some new angel.

“Crawley? Is the rain taking effect? Are you feeling…compromised?”

He took another deep, shaking breath, forcing his expression back to whatever it had been before. “Don’t be an idiot. I’m just a little cold.”

“Ah, so cold is –”

“I didn’t mean that.” He shivered, shuffling his feet in the puddle. “It was just nicer when I could feel the sun is all.” He didn’t need it, the way he did in his serpent form, but he still missed it.

The angel’s wing moved.

It lowered, just slightly, settling closer to Crawley, so the soft white feathers brushed his hair and shoulders. It was a little wetter like this, but much warmer. “Better?” Aziraphale asked.

“Um. Yes. Better.”

The angel nodded and turned back to look eastward, into the storm.

“So…all that talk about vulnerabilities…”

“I noticed you were shivering, but I wasn’t about to let you get wet if it would harm you.” Grey-blue eyes shot a glare in his direction “What did you think I meant?”

“I thought you were, er, interrogating me. Badly.” The eyes rolled as Aziraphale turned away. “Well why wouldn’t you? We are enemies.”

“I suppose.” The angel shivered slightly. “But I don’t see any reason to be, well, rude about it.”

They stood and watched the rain a while longer, seeing the desert turn to muddy rivulets, the sky fill with the flash of lighting, and the thunder booming in response.

Aziraphale shivered again. And again. His hands stayed clasped tightly in front of him, and his wing over Crawley never wavered, but the shivers were slowly getting worse.

A black wing flicked out and settled behind him.

Aziraphale’s shoulders relaxed as he leaned, ever so slightly, back into Crawley’s feathers. “Oh, thank you.” A smile grew across his face. “That is ever so kind –”

“Shut up.” He almost tugged the wing away. “I’m a demon. I’m not kind. I just – wanted to stretch before I got stiff. And…” He glanced up at the white feathers framing his own face. “And I don’t like to owe anyone anything. So we’re even.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” The smile disappeared into a very serious frown. “Though, you know. Your feathers are quite warm. Do you keep fires in them or –”

“Angel!” snapped the exasperated demon, and Aziraphale laughed.

--

Thanks for reading! I hope someone is interested in picking this up, or at least feels somewhat inspired. Thanks to @n0nb1narydemon and @acuteangleaziraphale who came up with Butter Omens!

Will likely post to AO3 later...

[ineffablefool]

[Edit to ask that y’all please not reblog my art to a ki//nk blog, thanks]

A little over a week ago I asked for anonymous art prompts again.  Today I have an art!  About thirty hours on this one.  Much faster when I don’t have an entire room of the bookshop as background.  This time the challenge was to go completely without photo references for the faces, and I think it turned out pretty good.

I’m going to throw this into the ButterOmens thing if people are still doing that?  It confuses me, so hopefully I am doing this right.

I just wound up using one prompt, because the mental image grabbed me by the spleen and wouldn’t let go.

Kinda odd, but did you ever see the movie Ghost? It has this cheesy part where ghost Patrick Swayze helps not-ghost Demi Moore make pottery on a wheel. He kinda guides her hands while spirit-spooning her. Well how about Crowley teaching Aziraphale how to repot a plant that needs a bigger space to grow with the same adorably loving spooning? So much beautiful, fat angel to cuddle while repotting. No ghost Crowley, though, cause that would be awful.😭

I’ve never seen the movie, but I was aware of the scene from soaking in American pop culture for approximately thirty-nine years.  Crowley is definitely 100% alive here.  (Even though I found the scene on YouTube, and Patrick Swayze’s ghost appears to be able to move furniture and mess up pottery and kiss Demi Moores, so I’m not sure why it matters that he was a ghost?  Whatever.  No ghosts here.)

The plant is the one that lived on my desk at work until we all had to start working from home.

Thank you very much, person who suggested that prompt!

[sleepymccoy]

Okay! I’m joining in the butteromens fun!

This is a carry on of @n0nb1narydemon ‘s kick off post, which you can find here . Also, there’s two more buttery contributions to the thread that i want to link up, cos they’re both wonderful. There’s @freyjawriter24 whose story you can read here, and @aethelflaedladyofmercia whose story you can read here

I tried to move away from the damsel in distress sorta Crowley and put him in more of a participation ribbon kinda role, cos i figure while he’s hella into the whole Aziraphale can fight thing, he’s also pretty useful!

Word count is 3500 cos i cant control myself and i havent written just silly banter in so long and i enjoyed it so much! So the bulk is under a readmore cut <3

-

“I'll get the bill, shall I?” Aziraphale offered.

“No, no,” Crowley muttered, pulling his legs in from their rather wild sprawl under the table so he could use them for walking again. Aziraphale folded his napkin politely and left it on his plate, already moving to leave the cozy booth they'd shared. 

“I picked the place, I can pay,” Crowley insisted as Aziraphale began to shuffle out. 

“But you always pay when I pick the place."

Crowley took the other exit route from the curved bench. They ended up sitting across from each other, watching warily for a tell or a flinch. 

“I pay,” Crowley said carefully. Aziraphale’s feet tilted forwards like he was preparing to run for the register. “You just usually pick the place.”

Aziraphale’s feet flattened on the ground and Crowley began to relax. He would be allowed to pay again. Wonderful. Then-

“Let me get this one, dearheart,” Aziraphale said with a pout. 

Crowley’s confidence slid from him like jelly from a warmed cup, hitting the floor with a wet slap. Pale eyebrows tilted in, blue eyes shimmered, and pink lips showed their colour in full. Crowley withered, quickly beaten. 

Aziraphale's pout deepened and Crowley gave up, swiftly falling in love all over again.

It hit him often, this love. He was constantly tumbling down a hillside, not trying to catch himself, just slipping and stumbling further with every glance and smile from this angel.

“Alright, if it matters to you,” Crowley said airily as if his insides weren't squirming in adoration. Aziraphale grinned and bounced up, scurrying off to pay. 

Crowley shut his eyes and laughed to himself reluctantly. He would get Aziraphale back for this, he would take him somewhere marvelous and expensive, somewhere on a top floor or deep in a garden or on a boat, where the appetiser cost at minimum £200. And he would pay the bill in full, flourishing the receipt obviously. Let him read the four figures and find a way to thank him. And then Crowley would be winning again.

Someone cleared their throat by him, so Crowley opened his eyes and peered up, his pupils not hurrying to readjust to having to see. 

The figure swam in silhouette for a moment before solidifying. 

“You look familiar-" Crowley's stomach lurched. "Gabriel.” 

“Demon,” Gabriel greeted. Crowley scuttled, moving from Gabriel as quickly as he could, which turned out to simply not be quick enough. He flew back but saw the sword Gabriel swung reach for him. He followed the arc with his eyes and knew it would hit his chest.

The sword point stopped, pressed to his left pec, stinging furiously as it pierced his skin. Crowley froze and the sword went no further. A feint.

“Wha-” Crowley sighed, staring as a bead of blood welled up and tracked up the sword, defying gravity to cling to the sharp of the blade. 

“You fear this weapon,” Gabriel pointed out, his voice a whisper. Crowley flashed his eyes to watch him, studying him with the focus of one terrified. Gabriel grinned, wide and sick with cruel meaning. “It can hurt you.”

The sword flicked, swinging impossibly fast and slicing the air to rest against the side of Crowley’s neck. Crowley kept watching, keeping himself dead still. Gabriel leaned forward inexorably slowly, gently slicing a paper-thin stinging line under Crowley’s ear. 

“This is an unpleasant surprise,” Aziraphale said. 

Fear drained from Crowley at the sound of that voice. 

“Aziraphale, hello,” Gabriel said coolly, stopping the slow thrust of his sword. “Be a good angel and sit down, yes? You know how to be attentive.”

Aziraphale stepped out from behind Gabriel and politely sat where he had before. He didn’t look at Crowley, didn’t glance away from Gabriel for a moment. 

“I think, perhaps, we should discuss this,” Aziraphale suggested gently, his tone calm like he was dealing with an erratic animal. “Why are you here?”

“We forged a new sword,” Gabriel said. The sword in question wavered, nicking Crowley’s neck again as Gabriel turned and faced Aziraphale. “You can’t be immune to it," he spat, "it's made to slaughter you both.”

Crowley slid lower, laying flat on the cushioned chair, unwillingly aware of how low and demonic he sat below the two angels. Aziraphale met Gabriel's gaze with a silent challenge of his own. Quiet, furious expressions were exchanged as Crowley's fingers splayed under the table, grasping hopefully for something he didn't find.

"I see," Aziraphale finally said, just as Gabriel hinted at turning back to face Crowley again. The heel of Crowley's hand touched glass and he grabbed it triumphantly. 

"Angel!" He called out in warning, laying flat as he did to keep himself out of the way. He chucked the bottle, the arc tidy and foreseen, into Aziraphale's right hand.

Aziraphale swung the bottle at the sword, knocking it up and away from Crowley’s prone form. Gabriel turned, leaving Crowley completely unattended as the sounds of metal on glass filled the restaurant. 

Crowley flung himself over the low wall behind the chair, searching for safety.

“Not working, Crowley,” Aziraphale muttered, his words crystal clear over the repeated shattered glass that sang through the air. Crowley paused and saw that Aziraphale had not managed to light the bottle with his fire. Not sword-like enough, apparently. 

“Oh, piss,” Crowley said. 

Gabriel knocked the last of the bottle from Aziraphale’s hands and turned on Crowley again, catching him as he sat on the top of the thick, low wall between the seats, straddling each side in a near escape.

“Double piss,” Crowley whispered, taking care to not move as the sword tip pressed against the soft skin under his chin. He sat slightly higher than Gabriel stood, but not by much. Regardless, not being so low anymore gave Crowley a dash of pleasure.

“Be still,” Gabriel commanded. The sword nicked him. Crowley went still.

“You see this, Aziraphale? I want you watching,” Gabriel spat, the sword pressed higher, cutting Crowley as it went. 

“I’m watching, yes,” Aziraphale said gently, not a waver in his voice. “What’s the purpose of this, Gabriel? Why not just leave us be?”

Crowley couldn’t see Aziraphale from here. He could glimpse Gabriel when he glanced down, but the sword bit when he did so he kept his eyes skyward. 

“You took something Heaven owns,” Gabriel accused.

“I took nothing.”

The pressure of the sword wavered, then lessened. Crowley risked a glimpse and saw that Gabriel had turned to face Aziraphale, his expression furious.

“What did I take?” Aziraphale asked. “You can have it if it makes you leave us be.”

Crowley elongated his spine, carefully and inhumanly stretching so that he could slip out from the touch of the sword without alerting Gabriel to his movement. It was delicate, but he succeeded and lay down flat on his back, keeping his legs completely still as they still sat in Gabriel’s periphery. 

“Your servitude, Principality, you owe us yourself.”

Crowley added a few more vertebrae reluctantly, it was sore work and human muscles weren’t designed for this kind of effort. But his body rose to the occasion and let him sway as a snake, an extra two feet of length given to his torso that allowed him to slip over the side of the alcove wall and check for useful items. 

And there he saw it. An umbrella. 

“Oh, that’s just ridiculous,” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Really? That’s what you’re demanding?”

Crowley reached forwards and found himself a few inches short. He stretched and a few scales popped painfully into being on his skin, making the distance. Aziraphale continued to rant and hold Gabriel's attention. 

“You have so many angels, you can’t just let me go? And I own one thing in this world and you’re trying to take that from me and you think I won’t fight against it? More the fool you, Gabriel.”. 

Crowley quickly turned back into a human, umbrella in hand. His spine shortened as he sat back where he had been left.

Aziraphale stood to the side and a bit behind Gabriel, having taken a step at some point to keep Gabriel’s vision away from Crowley’s acrobatic efforts. He looked angry, his mouth spluttering as he spoke, but his hands were calm, held in the air around his stomach as if ready to catch what Crowley threw.

“Ownership is love, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said. "You cannot love a demon!”

Aziraphale had not looked at Crowley, he showed no sign of seeing the umbrella Crowley now held, but Crowley was confident nonetheless. 

“Hup!” Crowley said lightly as he flung the weapon over Gabriel’s head. 

Gabriel spun to face him, unbalanced by the call to attention. He might have seen that Crowley threw something, but his eyes didn’t track it. Instead he gripped his sword with both hands and swung in a strong downwards arc. 

Crowley flattened, rolling aside as the blade came towards him. Just before he slid onto the couch behind him, flames filled his vision, scorching his face with their heat. The sword stopped, held easily by a burning umbrella. 

Crowley skittered to the side and fell into their neighbours bay, leaving the battle behind him. 

The fight ensued. Loudly, with grunts and clangs and the ongoing crackle of flame. 

There was a bottle of white wine on the table, as well as a terrified pair of humans. Crowley gave them a smile that was probably not calming, he had been a lot of snake very recently, and picked up the bottle. It tasted cheap. He spun and knelt on the chair, surveying the fight from over the top of the partial wall.

It seemed fairly evenly matched, which impressed Crowley mightily as Gabriel wielded a sword that was designed to wound Aziraphale, whereas Aziraphale wielded an umbrella that was designed to avoid rain and was now steadily turning to ash as it burned. 

Crowley leaned forwards, humanly this time (although his hips were bending more than the average middle aged human would find comfortable), and tipped the half a bottle of chardonnay on Gabriel’s head. 

The roar of fury that Gabriel eminated cracked windows, but Aziraphale didn’t flinch. He used the moment of distraction and cleanly disarmed Gabriel. Sadly, this simply meant the sword clattered to the ground rather than Gabriel’s hand. 

Crowley leant on the flat, dusty top of the wall and watched as Aziraphale swung a leg out and caught Gabriel by the ankle, sending him tumbling to the ground. Gabriel, to his credit, moved quickly, bending his leg to right himself, getting a purchase on the floor with his hands quicker than anyone had a right to. But Aziraphale stepped smoothly, as if he had always meant that to be the next moment (he likely had) and knelt on Gabriel’s chest, the length of the umbrella held to Gabriel’s throat.

“I will hold you to a vow, Archangel,” Aziraphale whispered. 

The flames licked Gabriel’s chin. His fine collar singed then caught fire, destroying the thin, expensive fabric with ease. Through it all, he glared silently.

“You will take no part in a hunt for me again,” Aziraphale instructed. “You will leave me and mine in peace, alone and ignored on this Earth. Vow it.”

Gabriel’s mouth clamped shut. His eyes watered as his skin started to grow red from the heat of the flames pressing into him. 

“I will kill you here, Gabriel. You tried to take what’s mine and I will kill you for it. Unless you make this vow.”

“Why not just kill me?” Gabriel asked. His flesh was puckering at his throat, curling and blistering slowly as the fire refused to let up. The smell of cooking meat began to filter through the air. Crowley usually had no problem with such a smell, but this made his stomach turn. 

“I have free will, pawn,” Aziraphale said with an easy contempt. He held the umbrella in place. “Vow it.”

A moment passed, heated beyond the righteous flame, as the two angels stared each other down, identifying how this would end. In death or vow. 

Gabriel shut his eyes and began to speak. For a moment Crowley couldn’t understand, then the echoes of choirs rang under the words and a tremor took his bones as the vow filtered through his body. He recognised Enochian and gave up on trying to follow the conversation. That effort would prove pointless in all regards except in giving him a headache. 

Aziraphale responded to Gabriel in the same language. Crowley caught a moment of Demonic as Aziraphale said his name. Gabriel repeated the Demonic intonation somewhat maudlinly.

Then, with no grand ending, Aziraphale stood. Gabriel took a breath and lifted himself to his feet with more dignity that Crowley thought he deserved. His shirt fell open, the collar and chest burnt to uselessness. His wounds were sickening, but not lethal. The sight of exposed sinew, blackened chin bone, pained and working throat muscles on display as his sloughed skin stretched and adjusted would have bothered Crowley were it on another entity. As it was he felt a malicious glee at the pain it must cause.

Gabriel snapped his fingers and disappeared.  

The umbrella dropped immediately, the fire extinguishing the instant it left Aziraphale’s hands. 

“Crowley, how are you?” Aziraphale asked, immediately rushing around the alcove to reach him.

Crowley touched his throat, the sting of wound still fresh and smarting. He felt wet and looked, not alarmed at all to see a thin scattering of blood on his fingers. 

“I think I’m dying, angel,” he said blandly. 

Aziraphale’s hands wrapped around his head, pulling him into place for a quick kiss to his forehead. Crowley smiled into it, not needing the comfort one bit but enjoying it all the more for that fact. Aziraphale manhandled him gently, angling his head back to study his slight wounds. “Oh, you’re fine, you silly snake,” he muttered.

Crowley ran his hand across his throat then held it up for Aziraphale’s inspection. “It’s real blood, look!” He said triumphantly. 

“Here,” Aziraphale sighed, pressing his thumb to Crowley’s jugular and pouring a rush of warm sensation into his wound.

Aziraphale pulled away with a flash of apology in his expression. “Oh, it may scar, my dear,” he said. 

Crowley grinned and rolled his head, testing the strength of his skin. The heal lasted. 

"That's okay.”

“I am sorry about all that,” Aziraphale said, glancing to the sword that still lay on the ground. 

Crowley hooked his finger between Aziraphale’s shirt buttons and pulled him in for a kiss. Their lips pressed, then stayed pressed for a beat longer than a casual peck. Crowley used the moment to run his hands down Aziraphale’s torso, confirming to himself that he was unharmed and well. Aziraphale shimmered with vitality, his pulse high and his skin warm. Crowley broke the kiss and sat back, momentarily breathless at the force of joyous life before him.

“I knew I was safe," Crowley whispered. "I mean, you own me, right?”

Aziraphale’s mouth opened, then he frowned, let go of Crowley and gasped before finally saying; “No-”

“I’d need your permission to die,” Crowley interrupted, “wouldn't I, boss?”

“Oh, Crowley, that’s not what I-”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale with deeply exaggerated deference. “May I rejoin your high and mighty table, sir?”

“I don’t see you as mine,” Aziraphale pleaded, “not in that way, just-”

“Oh, Lord Aziraphale-”

“Now, that’s blasphemous, cut it out,” Aziraphale said quickly despite himself. Regret splashed across his face, interrupted by his sigh.

“I just meant that, well, Heaven sees ownership and love as somewhat interchangeable, so I was…” Aziraphale locked around sadly, then took Crowley’s hands in earnest. His eyes were serious and so blue. “I’m sorry, it was an inappropriate thing to say about you. I would hate to hold you in any shadow of the way they held me.”

“I know,” Crowley whispered. He smiled, his amusement coupling with his adoration and spilling over without anything to keep it down. He moved, a desire to kiss his angel filling every fiber of him, and found himself met by insight and reciprocation as Aziraphale pulled him in. 

They stood in the still restaurant, everything still tense and slowed after Gabriel’s disaster, and kissed. 

“Does it hurt?” Aziraphale asked, his lips still brushing Crowley’s as he spoke, his fingers delicately trailing the small lines of scar that Crowley’s neck bore anew. 

“Not a bit.”

“Shall we go home, sweetheart?”

Crowley kissed him once more, quietly confident he was about to be scolded into the next century but fully intending to push his luck regardless. Aziraphale pressed his lips to him, returning the kiss fondly. 

“Yessir,” Crowley agreed.

Aziraphale’s calm face fell into an unimpressed glare. “Don’t you start that.”

“Whatever you say, sir, I am your humble servant,” Crowley said grandiously. Aziraphale glared at him.

"I love you, Crowley, I don’t own you."

"And I love you," Crowley agreed, before quickly stirring the pot. "But I do belong to you!"

"No-"

"Angel," Crowley interrupted again. Aziraphale paused, hearing the slight change in his tone, the hint at sincerity. "I’m mine to give. Free will, babydoll, I give myself to you."

Crowley ran his hands down the sides of Aziraphale's face in adoration, taking a moment to fix his bow tie and flatten the creases from the front of his shirt. 

Aziraphale, in a very darling fashion, sighed as though he was being put out by this attention. "I don’t know," Aziraphale mumbled.

"I trust you with this gift," Crowley pressed. "Entirely."

There was a beat as Aziraphale considered his shoes. Then a second sigh and the angel smiled. "You ridiculous, beautiful demon," Aziraphale muttered and Crowley knew it was done.

They stepped apart. Crowley tidied a few pieces of errant cutlery and completely ignored the shattered table. Aziraphale gingerly picked up the sword and frowned at it. Crowley watched his expression for a moment, then came to the solid decision that he was going to leave that entirely to Aziraphale to sort out.

They made their way to the Bentley unhampered by restaurant staff.

Aziraphale went straight to the back of the car, popping the boot with an action any other Bentley would not have recognised but Crowley's car obeyed. He slipped the sword in with a frown.

Crowley waited by the passenger door, leaning against it so it remained closed. 

"Dear?" Aziraphale asked warily as he reached Crowley, indicating vaguely his question as to what Crowley was doing.

Crowley smiled. "Would you like me to kiss your feet first?"

Confusion flashed across Aziraphale's face, followed quickly by outrage. "Don’t- no! Of course not!"

Crowley opened the door and waved the petulant angel in. Aziraphale went, following his habit more than obedience. "I could clean them when we get home," Crowley continued, leaning against the door frame smiling down at the annoyed love of his life. "Or a massage, you’d like a massage."

Aziraphale perked up and glanced at him, his expression easing as he was distracted. "Oh, would- ?" He caught himself and frowned. "No!"

He buckled his seat belt pointedly while Crowley laughed. 

"Oh, I’m so going to give you a massage!" Crowley exclaimed in triumph before closing Aziraphale's door and darting to his own. He cheerfully ignored Aziraphale's tracking glare as he rounded the Bentley. 

"Crowley-" Aziraphale began, his voice filled with condescension. 

"Do you have any rosemary oil at the shop?" Crowley interrupted.

"No, but really you needn’t-"

"I know a place, don’t worry."

The car took off, tearing down the street without pause. Aziraphale gripped the dashboard and threw Crowley a dangerous look, but didn't tell him off for it. 

"I do have some frankincense oil," Aziraphale muttered as Crowley took a roundabout with malicious slowness, pissing off a businessman perfectly.

Crowley began to laugh again, first a chuckle then a full bellied roar that would have sent the car spinning if it hadn't been so self sufficient. "Oh, yeah, that’s the ticket!" Crowley grinned. Frankincense, then maybe Aziraphale would let him rub myrrh into his forehead! 

"Really, dear. I saved your life," Aziraphale scolded.

"Yeah, you did," Crowley admitted.

"Do you think you could thank me by not making endless fun of me?"

Crowley threw him a risky grin. "Nah, I’ve decided a life of servitude is more my speed."

Aziraphale sniffed and crossed his arms. "You’ll forget in two weeks."

"Well you know I’ll make it to fifteen days, now! You just want a good fortnight of pampering, don’t you?"

"Crowley, darling- "

Crowley took Aziraphale's hand, accidentally interrupting whatever he'd meant to go on to say. He brought it to his lips and kissed the angel's ring fondly. 

"Thank you," he whispered. He followed it with a gentle kiss to Azirpahale's knuckles and moved the steering wheel carefully to take a corner with as little turbulence as possible.

"It was for myself as much as you," Aziraphale said. His thumb pressed to Crowley's lips for a moment, so Crowley kissed it. 

He dropped Aziraphale's hand and pressed his foot to the floor, speeding the Bentley up. Quite enough sincerity for one drive, that kind of thing doesn't come naturally to a demon. "Selfish bastard," Crowley quipped because Aziraphale let him and Aziraphale understood. 

It was quiet for a moment before Crowley took a brave breath and admitted a few things in one sentence.

"Also, ah, next time you want to say I’m yours maybe feel me up a little too?"

"Ah, I see!" Aziraphale said, accepting the change of tone easily.

“That whole thing- the fighting and competence and so on- that was pretty damn hot, angel,” he muttered, staring in determination out the window. 

Aziraphale’s hand landed on his thigh and tightened, gripping him with confidence. “Let’s hurry along home, then, my best thing,” he suggested.

Crowley ground down impossibly harder on the pedal, making the car fly down the street.

[kaz3313]

[Butter Omens! I'm allowing any kind of additions! Art or Fic! Fic can be anything under 10,000, and there is no minimum! <3]

A Good/Bad Idea

It was unnerving, being in the presence of Lord Beelzebub, but many demons preferred their office to others. Beelzebub could hold a conversation, and while they were terribly frightening didn't usually resort to sudden immediate violence (they did sometimes order torture though, and would watch with a half intrested gaze). They did get irritated and sometimes they did spit in your general direction or they're flies would "attack you" (blind you and cause you to walk into pool of sulfur or a hellhound den).

It really was no surprise that Hastur, after the destruction of Ligur, started to mope in their office. Beelzebub gave a few glances but otherwise continued their work, which after the failed war there was quite a pile.

"Flash bastard, getting out of punishment like that. Thinking he's all that just cause he got an immunity! Wish I'd have offed him years ago, before he gone fully native," Hastur grumbled.

Beelzebub nodded, acknowledging that this particular bit of his rant they agreed whole heartedly with.

"Why can't we just go and stab 'em? Give a little torture until he escapes?" Hastur puzzled.

Beelzebub bit their lip, almost responding but found Hastur was about to answer his own question.

"Guessin' cause the whole holy water business, don't want any more of us true demons getting offed. Poor Ligur, he knew how to rip limbs real good. Truly a classic at the arts of temptin' too," His voice slowly turned hollow, and Beelzebub knew exactly where this was going to bring them too.

A conclusion that happened every time he arrived in office, a mournful demon. This time, Beelzebub intervened. They didn't want to deal with paperwork, calling angels about a truce, and Hastur's trauma.

"Ligur was a horrid lozz. But, we must move forward so we can prepare for a war. No matter how far away it iz, Crowley and his angel friend won't be able to postpone it forever," Beelzebub said.

"Crowley's angel friend... he lived cause he was immune to hell fire."

"Yezz? Where iz this going Hastur?" Probably another rant they'd half pay attention too.

"Just cause he's immune to hell fire don't mean he's immune to torture. What's he gonna do, blow flames at us? We won't be affected one bit. We can bring him down here, stick him in a pen, and try whatever we wanted on Crowley, on him," Beelzebub put down thier pen and actually thought about his words.

It wasn't a bad idea; it was a wretched one. One that would crush the Traitor Crowley, enough so he'd wish he wasn't immune to holy water.

Beelzebub, in the first time since the Not Apocalypse, gave a wicked grin.

"I'm going to call up the stupid archngelzz, but I'm postive they won't get involved in our scheme. Hazztur, can't believe I'm saying thiz, but that was the damndest idea I've heard."

They cleared some papers off their desk to uncover the old dusty phone. It had so little use, but with a press of a button they'd be connected to just the Archangel who'd agree to this.

Hell, he might even want to join in. The odds were finally turning to their favor, and they were determined to make this plan succeed.

[lyricwritesprose]

ButterOmens Submission: Divinity

ButterOmens explained

All kinds of fanworks welcome, no word limit, NSFW welcome.  To tell you the truth, I am posting this particular work in #ButterOmens in part because I doubt my own ability (as a SFW writer) to do the concept justice, and I want to see what people might do to remix or extend it.  Which sort of leads naturally to the disclaimer: with most of the stuff I write for Aziraphale/Crowley, you can read it as somewhat asexual.  This particular work is . . . less so.  If that bothers you, you may do well to skip.

Divinity

Word Count: 1217 Rating: Mature

The Indian takeaway place down in the village wasn't actually that good.

It could have been.  Should have been.  The family that ran it were dedicated enough.  But it was also a struggling business, and Crowley got the feeling that corners had been cut.

Aziraphale liked the place anyway.  Aziraphale tasted something in the food that Crowley couldn't detect.

The thing was, Crowley reflected as he picked up their chicken tikki masala, Aziraphale sensed love.  He wasn't perfectly accurate—he had taken long enough to sense Crowley's love, although neither of them were entirely sure how much that was Heaven making him doubt his own perceptions.  During World War II, he had sensed Kleinschmidt's ferocious and perhaps fanatical love for her country, but his senses neglected to tell him which country.  (Crowley would have turned off the woman's conscious mind and interrogated her before offering to help, but Aziraphale simply didn't think that way.  Crowley wasn't sure how Aziraphale had lasted six thousand years around humans without turning into a cynical and suspicious bastard, but he adored him for it.)  Aziraphale sensed love.

And when food was made with love—not even necessarily love for a person, love of the craft of cooking was enough—Aziraphale could taste it.

Judging by the sounds Aziraphale made when he encountered particularly loved food, Crowley was missing out.

Crowley secured the takeout bag in the Bentley’s boot and got in the car.  Really, it was close enough to walk down to the takeout place, but Aziraphale’s food was not allowed to get cold, and besides, he had a certain reputation as That Mad Bastard With That Car to uphold.

Crowley wondered what it would be like to taste love, and regretted that his senses didn’t lend themselves to that.  In a way, his talent was more flexible, more useful: he sensed want.  (Calling it lust tended to give people the wrong idea, but there did have to be a power to the desire, something that grabbed on and dug its claws in.)  Walk into a royal court, and know who wanted someone else dead; walk into a corporate retreat, and know who wanted someone else ruined.  That ability made Crowley powerful, made him dangerous.  But it wasn’t love.  Many times, it was the thing furthest from.

He had talked about it with Aziraphale recently, a slightly tipsy conversation that ranged all the way from the Roman Empire to the Aztecs and their chocolate before finally settling on the topic of love in food.  “There should be a way,” Aziraphale had said at the time, “to approximate the experience with the senses you have.  If someone wants something while cooking—”

“It usually isn’t powerful enough to qualify,” Crowley told him.  “And if it is, it usually isn’t pleasant.  I remember biting into a spanakopita that was nothing but the cook wanting not to be having a bad pain day.”

“But you could taste it.”

“Wished I couldn’t,” Crowley said.  “Where are you going with this, angel?”

“Nowhere,” Aziraphale had said.  “Nowhere at all.”

Now, driving home in the deepening dusk, Crowley told himself that it didn’t matter.  Aziraphale could experience something that was forever shut to Crowley, but it was all right.  It was fine.  They didn’t have to share everything.

He pulled up in the cottage driveway.  Got the food and went into the cottage, hissing menacingly at the climbing roses as he went past.  All the plants around here were getting deeply spoiled.  Aziraphale had Theories about growing plants without emotionally brutalizing them, but Crowley wasn’t entirely on board yet—he knew he probably would be, eventually, because it seemed to be something that Aziraphale wanted, but sometimes he found himself wound tight with demonic tension and the easiest and safest place to let it out was the plants.  Crowley chose not to examine why he might be feeling tense tonight.  He opened the door, called out, “I’m here,” and made his way back to the kitchen.

Aziraphale emerged from the kitchen, spoon in hand.  Aziraphale was wearing a red checkered apron, because Aziraphale had no fashion sense, but he did have a distinct feeling that red checkered aprons were What People Wore when they were cooking.

Aziraphale had been cooking?  Aziraphale didn’t usually cook.  He had been learning, but he usually left it to Crowley.  “What’s the occasion?” Crowley asked.

“No occasion!”  It came out, perhaps, a little more high-pitched than usual.  “No occasion.  I found a recipe I wanted to try, a sort of sweet, only I’m afraid I may have messed it up rather.  They’re supposed to be a lot more fluffy.”

Crowley followed Aziraphale to the kitchen, putting down the takeaway food on the kitchen table and studying the things on the baking sheet.  Pure white, round things.

“It’s supposed to be divinity,” Aziraphale said, clasping his hands (complete with spoon) behind his back.  “With nuts.”

Crowley couldn’t help but smile.  “You’re cooking sweets called divinity?”

“Well, they’re very good.  At least, they are when they’re made properly.  I’ve had them before.”

“Oh, I’m not doubting you.  I just think it’s a little ironic.  A demon eating something called divinity.”

Aziraphale gave him the Hopeful Eyes.  “You will try them, then?  Even though they didn’t come out entirely right?”

“‘Course I will.”  He really didn’t have to do that with his eyes, even.  Crowley would never admit to a sweet tooth, but he appreciated the turn that Aziraphale’s cooking ambitions had taken nonetheless: pastries and tarts and tortes, and now sweets.  He swept one of the white things off the baking sheet and took a cautious nibble.

And was hit by a hurricane-force wave of want.

Specifically, want for Crowley.  For his hands.  His mouth—especially his mouth.  Body parts and pressing closeness and more, and more, a spillover of snapshots with himself at the center of them, kissing and nibbling and wearing significantly less than he was at the moment.

This time, it was entirely appropriate to call it a talent for reading lust.

Crowley didn’t know that he was going to make such a shocked, longing, needy sound until he heard himself making it.  With the distant part of his brain that wasn’t overwhelmed by the want, he thought of Aziraphale making small noises at a particularly delicious bite of food, and thought, oh.  So this is what it’s like.

He looked at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale was blushing.  Two high spots of color on his cheek.  But his eyes also had a glint to them, a familiar glint.

Crowley surged towards him and pushed him backwards against the kitchen counter.  “Sneaky bastard,” he whispered in Aziraphale’s ear.

Aziraphale’s arms went around him, a sign that he took it for the endearment it was.  “I assume this means you could taste it.”

“Taste it—”  Aziraphale really did wear a ridiculous amount of clothes.  “Isn’t strong enough.  I don’t think the humans make words strong enough.”

“Dearest—”

“Mm.  Less talking.  More tasting.”

“Dearest,” Aziraphale said again.

“You made it very clear that you want something from me.”  Crowley nibbled his way down Aziraphale’s neck.  “And you know I always give you what you want.”

Which was when Aziraphale said one of the few things that could have made Crowley let him go at that instant.  “Crowley.  There’s another batch on the stove.”