Binary is for computers, not people.

Mondwolf on Ao3 Sauntering vaguely downwards. Travelling companion of the Doctor. Permanent visitor at 221B Baker Street. Roaming through Hyrule. Fleeing from a swarm of bears.

[whocaresaboutdecent]

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Mondwolf

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Good Omens

The Quarry

Hazbin Hotel

This started out as a blog for Sherlock BBC, but over the time I've used it for several different fandoms.

I tag the posts according to fandom, so you can find the content for each of my fandoms here:

#Good Omens

#Sherlock BBC

#Doctor Who

#The Quarry

[whocaresaboutdecent]

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

Huskerdust | Rated: Mature | 2,755 Words

Summary

There’s nothing to complain about, really. Angel loves the evenings they spend together at the bar. Husk makes good on his promise to teach him more card tricks, waits for him with a drink and an open ear when he returns late from work. He indulges Angel with hugs and hand-holding and cuddling as often and as long as he likes. They’re close and intimate in ways Angel has forgotten about or never even known before.

But not in bed, and Angel would lie if he said it didn’t matter to him.

Physical closeness has never been something Angel worries too much about. He hadn’t realized Husk—despite how unaffected he always seems—struggles with it. Good thing they’re both willing to try and figure out how to make it work.

[whocaresaboutdecent]

Call or Fold

Rated Teen | 3,398 Words | Read on Ao3 | Prequel

Summary:

On the night before Extermination Day, Husk finds himself behind the bar, and as usual, Angel is hard to ignore. Especially since Husk owes him an answer to a question he asked a month ago. Between card tricks, casual flirting, and the possibility that everything might end tomorrow, Husk finally admits that, against all odds, he might actually care.

It almost feels just like any other evening. No one would suspect they’re having some inappropriately joyful doomsday party, with all the laughter, smiling, and cheerful talk. Well, of course it’s supposed to be a motivational We're all gonna survive this-party, so there's that. Everyone but Husk is doing an excellent job at keeping up appearances.

He grumbles under his breath while he polishes glasses, and wipes the counter up to the point where Cherri calls him out for cleaning something that already gleams like some rich ass's luxury car. Husk flips her off, and still—his blasted hands keep at the needless task almost compulsively.

Serves him right. This nagging guilt is his own damn fault, so he can’t even complain to anyone but himself.

His attention keeps drifting back to where Angel and Cherri lean against a table, drinks in hand, laughing. Angel picks that exact moment to glance over, and damn, that bright grin when he notices Husk watching doesn’t help. Husk raises an empty glass and points at it.

‘nother one? he mouths. Angel nods and gives him a single-handed thumbs-up while his other sets of hands keep flying through the air, probably illustrating some crazy-ass story Husk doesn’t want to hear the juicy details of. Most likely. Definitely.

Oh, who fucking cares.

Irritated with himself, Husk turns away and starts preparing the sickening sweet drink that, for some unfathomable reason, is Angel’s favorite. Kinda pathetic, this ploy to get Angel and Cherri back to the bar, but Husk can’t bring himself to give a shit. Not today.

The hell is he supposed to do anyway—let them go thirsty?

While he pours syrup and booze into the glass, he tries to ignore the sound of Angel's laughter that seems to stand out against the chatter and clinking glasses all around. It's distracting in how it gives the guilt in his chest a painful twitch.

He owes Angel an answer.

Would be a helluva lot easier if Angel's words didn’t replay in his mind like a broken record. 

You would be fucking lucky to get a chance to fuck me.

Well, no shit. Someone tell him something new. The words hadn’t even bothered him at the time. Why would they? Angel had been all attitude and no restraint, leaning in too close and pushing at boundaries Husk had forgotten existed because no one had bothered to come near them in a long time. And hooking up with a fake, pushy asshole certainly hadn’t been his idea of being lucky. Deal him a good hand any day. Then you're talking. 

But now, the words have made a fucking home in his mind, complete with interior decoration and everything. These days, being close to Angel does feel like luck. However that happened. He certainly didn’t plan on it. Plans weren’t for him since the day Alastor put that chain around his neck. Or he let Alastor put it there.

Whatever.

Husk adds a pink straw to Angel’s drink. He doesn’t even know what he'd be getting into, really. When Angel offered to figure things out together, they certainly weren’t talking about kissing hands anymore. But about what, then? Touching? Fucking? Putting their cards on the table and admitting they're … not indifferent to each other?

Damn high stakes. Call or fold. Husk has never been a coward in the past, always up for the next game, the next challenge, even to self-destructive extremes. And now he doesn’t even have the balls to give Angel an answer because he knows how it feels to gamble away everything.

And Angel isn't something he's willing to lose.

“Pour me another one, Kitty,” Cherri says, slamming her empty glass on the counter. Husk blinks and looks up, raising an eyebrow.

“Try askin’ like a normal person,” he mutters, sliding Angel’s drink across the counter as he appears next to her.

“It’s Cherri Bomb for a reason,” she says, tapping on her glass impatiently. “Not gonna waste my last hours on normal.”

“Then ya might have to spend your last hours thirsty,” Husk replies, shrugging.

“Speaking of last hours,” Angel butts in, reaching over the counter and grabbing a bottle of cherry vodka. With a triumphant side-eye at Husk, Cherri takes it from him. 

“If you could choose, Whiskers,” Angel purrs, propping an elbow on the counter and resting his chin in his hand, “what would you be doing tonight on your last day of existence?” Angel leans in a little closer, and Husk struggles not to draw back. “Serving drinks to a pretty guy like me, hoping to get lucky one last time?”

Damn, why does Husk want to laugh instead of rolling his eyes, as anyone with a clear mind should?

“What happened to not dying tomorrow?” Husk asks, ignoring Angel’s question. “Ya giving up?”

Angel shrugs. “Don’t ya think the actual risk that we might kick the bucket adds some much needed spice to the question?”

“Already had as much spice as anyone could want,” Husk grumbles. “Had to think of somethin’ when I was still alive.”

Angel forgets to look seductive. He straightens up and glances at Cherri before his gaze is drawn back to Husk. “Wait, what? Really?”

“Yeah,” Husk says. “Owed the wrong kinda people a lot of money. The threats were beginning to sound more and more believable, ya know?”

“So ya thought ya were done for?”

“Yeah. Turns out it wasn’t my last day, but it sure as hell felt like it at the time.”

“You’ve come quite a long way, then,” Cherri remarks. “From owing money to owing your soul.”

Husk pulls a face. “Yeah. I ain't gonna learn shit, am I?”

Angel shrugs. “Isn’t that all of us?” He points at himself. “Still a hopeless drug addict.” He moves on to Cherri. “Still a freakin’ pyromaniac.” 

“Hell yeah,” Cherri confirms proudly, taking a sip from the vodka bottle

“The thing is, you've already had problems in life,” Angel continues, unusually matter-of-fact. “You land in what’s supposed to be the shittiest place ever to exist. And then ya expect to get better?” Angel scoffs. “Please. Not much of a therapeutic network in Hell, either.” 

Husk and Cherri exchange a glance, eyebrows raised, before they look back at Angel with the same incredulous expression.

Angel lifts his hands in mock defense. “Don’t look at me like that. I had a therapy session with Charlie earlier this week. It’s what she told me.”

Cherri snorts a laugh. “Ya sure you’re the one getting therapy in these sessions?” she asks. Husk lets out a huff.

Angel flips Cherri off and takes a pointed sip from his drink. “I think the princess got a point.”

“She does,” Husk agrees. “But bein’ right ain't gonna change anything if people don’t wanna hear what ya gotta say.”

“Oh, aren’t you just in the right mood for a doomsday party,” Cherri teases. “But enough with the depressing bullshit already. I wanna hear Pussycat’s story about his almost-last day on earth.”

“Yeah,” Angel agrees. “What did ya do, Whiskers?”

“Sneaked into a magic show,” Husk says. “Most elaborate and expensive one there was in Vegas at the time. Loved that kinda thing since I was a kid.”

“Aw, look at him getting all sentimental,” Cherri mocks him. “Hoped magic could help you out of your shitty situation?”

“Maybe,” Husk admits, shrugging. “Or at least see something impressive on my last day.”

“You can do magic, right?” Angel asks.

“I can do tricks,” Husk clarifies. 

“Can you teach me? Something with cards?” He leans towards Husk, something sharper than his usual teasing glinting in his eyes.

“You wanna learn card tricks? Now?”

Angel shrugs. “Ain't got anything else planned tonight, have I? Apart from waiting for our demise. And with the way you handle your cards, you could even call it combat training.”

Husk hums. “Fair. Can't teach you those specific tricks, though. That’s Overlord shit.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Angel waves him off. “Quit boasting and get started.” 

Husk briefly considers the unspoken rule not to spill tricks to outsiders, but he figures no one in hell gives a damn. He certainly doesn’t. So he pulls a deck of cards from his pocket, still keeping them far too close at hand after all they cost him. 

“Lemme show ya first,” he suggests. “Then I'll walk ya through it.”

He hands Angel the deck.

“Go ahead. Shuffle.”

Angel takes his job very seriously, trying three different shuffling styles at once, making Cherri burst out laughing whenever he drops the cards at a particularly daring move. Husk rolls his eyes as he takes the deck back. He starts dealing from the bottom, one card at a time.

“Tell me when to stop,” Husk prompts. 

Angel narrows his eyes in mock suspicion. “You’re up to something, I can tell.”

“No shit. It’s called a trick for a reason.”

“Stop.”

“What?”

“Stop.”

“Oh.” Husk pauses a little too late. 

He feels Cherri’s gaze lingering on him. “Somethin’ distracting ya, Kitty?”

Husk clenches his teeth, but refuses to answer. Damn, he never misses his cue. He tilts the deck in his hand just enough for Angel to see the bottommost card.

“See that? Good. Remember it.” Husk puts the cards away and focuses on Angel. “I'm gonna read your mind now. No dirty thoughts.”

“Aww, Husk, don’t give me ideas.”

“As if ya needed prompting. Think of the card you saw. I'm gonna tell you which one it was.”

“You gotta keep your hands where I can see them,” Angel demands. “I know ya gonna distract me somehow.”

Husk shrugs, props his elbows on the counter, folds his hands under his chin, and looks at Angel. 

“Focus,” Husk says, and regrets it immediately, when Angel’s gaze settles on his face. Too intense. Too close.

Husk holds it anyway. Good thing the trick’s done already, so it doesn’t matter that his own focus goes down the drain.

He closes his eyes for show and lets a second pass.

“...Seven of hearts,” he says.

For a moment, there is silence. And then—

“What the fuck?” 

Husk cracks open an eye. Angel stares at him.

“How? I didn’t let you out of my sight once.” 

Husk laughs at Angel’s indignation and gathers the cards into a neat pile. “C'mon. I'll show ya.”

Husk walks him through the trick. Shows him how to hold the deck, how to hide the movement, how to make a simple sleight of hand look like mind-reading.

“You serious?” Angel frowns. “That's it?”

Husk hums. “Simple, but it worked well enough on you. Wanna learn it?”

“You bet your ass I wanna learn it.”

“Sorry, one of the few things I ain't gonna take bets on.”

Angel laughs and leans in close. “Make an exception for me?” he purrs, and shoots Husk a look intense enough to rival a bottle of whiskey in how light-headed it makes Husk feel.

“No,” Husk says decisively, his focus narrowed on shuffling the cards to escape the expression on Angel's face. “But I'm gonna show you anyway.”

A few minutes later, Angel's face is scrunched up in concentration as he follows Husk's instructions, trying again and again.

“Not like this,” Husk says. “I can see what’cha doing. You wanna hold your hand a little more…” Husk reaches for Angel’s wrist, adjusting the angle, “like this.”

Angel stills at the contact. Husk notices and almost pulls back. For a moment, they stay like that, just looking at each other.

“Ya might wanna get a room,” Cherri says. 

A smirk appears on Angel’s face, but it lacks the usual bite.

“Looking for excuses to get handsy?” he asks Husk.

“Shut up and move your pinky down a bit—yeah, that’s it.” Husk lets go of Angel’s wrist. “And now start dealing from the bottom, one by one.”

The grin on Angel's face widens into something suggestive. “I love dealing from the bottom.”

Husk groans. “Just deal the damn cards already.”

Angel looks like he’s struggling to hold back a remark, but thankfully, he shuts up and does as he’s told.

It doesn’t take long until Angel gets the hang of it. Much faster than Husk did when he first learned it. Grinning and proud like he’d just secured world peace or something, Angel heads over to Charlie and Vaggie to show them the trick.

Husk notices that Cherri eyes him from the side, pointedly taking a sip from the vodka bottle.

“What?” Husk asks with a harsh undertone that gives away far too much.

Cherri shrugs. “Nothin’. Just asking myself if you’re gonna screw this up or what?” She nods in Angel’s direction.

Probably. Like everything else in his life and afterlife. Husk grabs a bottle of whiskey and takes a sip.

“Not planning to,” he finally answers without looking at her.

Cherri snorts. “Yeah, right. That's why you keep him waiting.”

“I kept him waiting so I wouldn’t screw it up,” Husk explains, defensiveness creeping into his voice. Cherri raises her eyebrow.

“Oho, past tense. So ya talked to him?”

“I'm gonna.”

“Fucking finally. Thought ya were gonna keep dancing around each other. It’s painful to watch, really.” Cherri gets up from the barstool and leans over to clink her bottle against Husk's. “Have a nice extermination day.” And with that, she leaves the bar and saunters over to one of the tables.

Husk has the feeling he really shouldn’t fuck this up if he doesn’t want to end up in a not-so-mysterious explosion.

His gaze settles on Angel’s empty glass, and he starts preparing another drink. He barely has time to take a breath when Angel returns to the bar, grinning from ear to ear.

“Nailed it,” he proclaims proudly.

Husk hums appreciatively. “You’re talented.”

“Surprised? I'm very good with my hands.” Angel throws him a look. “Maybe someday you'll let yourself enjoy it again.” He says it with an unusual earnestness that drags the unresolved tension between them back onto the metaphorical table. Husk feels himself go tense while he finishes preparing Angel’s drink.

The silence between them lingers for a moment, but finally Angel flashes a grin that lacks a little of its usual confidence.

“Visiting a fancy magic show last time, huh? What a downgrade, being stuck here with us.”

“Mhm,” Husk says, placing one of those ridiculous little umbrellas in the glass because he knows Angel loves to fidget with them. 

He takes a deep breath and pushes the glass towards Angel. “There are worse things than serving drinks to a pretty guy like you.” He can’t help but smile a little at the expression of utter surprise on Angel's face.

“Whiskers, are you flirting with me?”

Husk shrugs. “Just stating facts.”

“Mhm,” Angel hums knowingly, leaning in. “Keep them coming. I'll listen to a whole-ass presentation on the topic.”

“Alright.” Husk clears his throat awkwardly. “Fact—ya asked me something.” Angel straightens up in his seat. “Couple weeks ago.”

“One month ago,” Angel corrects. “Ya know, when I said you don’t need to answer right away, that’s not what I meant. Ya can't leave a guy hanging like this.”

“Impatience one of your vices?” Husk says, but it lacks any real bite. He knows Angel’s right after all.

“Funny. Thought it'd be a compliment when you make me impatient.”

Husk doesn’t comment on that. “I thought about what you said.”

Angel arches an eyebrow and tries to look unimpressed, but Husk catches him clasping his lower pair of hands together, like he sometimes does when things get overwhelming. “Yeah?” he drawls, “Keep going.”

“You asked if I care to figure this…,” he motions between them, “...out. And…,” Husk swallows. All or nothing. “I do care.”

There are a lot of conflicting emotions flickering over Angel's face—confusion, surprise, disbelief. It settles on anger.

“You're not telling me this today of all days because you think you're gonna end up double dead tomorrow, are you?” Angel's mouth is a thin line. He crosses his arms and looks away from Husk. “Because that would be the shittiest timing I've ever heard of.”

Husk huffs. Right. That’s one way to put it. But the reason is the opposite. Now he only needs to spit it out.

Easier said than done.

“I’m telling you,” he begins haltingly, “so you know I’ve got somethin’ I wanna fight for.” Husk swallows. “Somethin’ more substantial than the next bottle of whiskey.”

Angel stares at him, and a soft smile flickers over his face, but it turns into a shit-eating grin faster than Husk would like it to.

“Substantial, yeah?” Angel's hand trails down his chest fluff while he keeps his eyes on Husk's face. “Wouldn’t mind if you convinced yourself how substantial I really am.”

Husk sighs. “I'm serious, Angel.”

“I am, too. Wouldn’t mind. Would welcome it, even.”

“So that’s what you want it to be, then? Fucking?”

“Dunno.” Angel shrugs. “I mean, yeah, sure, I’d like that. But it’s not…” Angel frowns. “Look, I like touching you. And you touching me. I like it when you hang out with me at the bar and listen to me bitch and moan about my job.” 

A smile sneaks onto Husk’s face when Angel rambles on. “Or about prices for crack. Only for Cherri's sake, of course, because, ya know, trying to get clean and all that shit. Wouldn’t mind learning some more of these cheap card tricks, either. Or …”

Angel shoots Husk a glance and pauses, suddenly appearing self-conscious. A little quieter, he continues, “Would be nice to do this stuff whenever I feel like it.” He takes a deep breath. “Told you, sex isn’t the only thing I’m good at.”

“I know,” Husk says.

“I can give perfect hugs. Ask Cherri.”

“You don't have to sell me on anything, ya know?”

“Feels like it sometimes.”

Husk's stomach drops. “No, Angel, that’s not…”

“I know. I didn’t mean it like that,” Angel interrupts quickly. He smiles and says softly, “That’s just the kinda loser you are.”

“Ya mean the kinda loser who’s bad at this feeling stuff? Yeah.”

Angel laughs. "Aww, Husky, we can work on that." And without any hint of teasing in his voice, he adds, "I know I'd like to.”

Husk stays silent for a moment, thinking about what Angel has said.

“So …” he starts slowly, "It'd be a ‘let’s see where this is going’ kinda thing?”

“Yeah? I guess it would.”

Husk hesitates for a final moment before he says it. “Okay.”

Angel looks genuinely surprised. “Okay?”

“Your hearing works perfectly fine,” Husk grumbles.

The surprise gives way to a bright smile. Angel sets down his drink and rounds the counter until he stands before Husk.

“This is bartender territory,” Husk protests weakly.

“Good thing bartenders turn out to be my territory,” Angel says. He's close. So close that Husk can’t even think of a good comeback because his mind is … elsewhere.

“If ya don’t tell me off, I'm gonna assume all of this is starting right now,” Angel mutters. “Including the touching part.”

Husk stays silent. He doesn't know if his voice would cooperate anyway. And there’s nothing to contradict, really.

After a few moments, Angel crosses the small distance between them, and his arms close around Husk's body. Without any awkward adjusting needed, they avoid squishing his wings as if Angel had planned it for quite some time and thought about how to manage it.

“Uhh…” Husk says. Angel’s chest fluff tickles his nose. A sweet smell trying to resemble fruit, but failing because of how artificial it is, gives him a slight headache.   The warmth and closeness need some getting used to, but he slowly relaxes into Angel's touch.

“Don’t ya dare complain,” Angel mutters, his mouth close to Husk’s ear, the warm puff of breath tingling his skin.

“Wasn’t going to.” Reluctantly, Husk lifts his hands and puts them on Angel's back, patting awkwardly. Damn, he might as well be cuddling a stick. A very fluffy, warm stick.

He certainly could get used to that.

Husk doesn’t know how long they stay like this, but when they separate, something tightens in his throat when he looks at Angel’s face.

“Angel?” he says, and sounds more emotional than he intends to. “Watch out for yourself tomorrow.”

Angel smiles his most self-assured smile. “Don’t I always, baby.” After a short hesitation, he whispers, “You too, Husk.”

[whocaresaboutdecent]

Worth a Try

Hazbin Hotel Fanfiction | Huskerdust | Rated Mature | 2,924 Words

Summary: After the whole thing with Val at Consent, Angel is fine. Really. He just doesn't get why Husk still insists on taking care of him—with some pretty questionable medical methods, no less.

Angel might just get the idea that Husk is coming on to him. Which would be a lot easier to deal with than whatever this actually is.

Read on Ao3

[whocaresaboutdecent]

A Hands-On Approach

Huskerdust Fic

When Angel takes a hands-on approach to brighten Husk’s bad mood, he doesn’t expect Husk's request for sincerity to turn into an emotional striptease he isn’t quite ready for.

3,013 Words

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

[whocaresaboutdecent]

Wrong Turn

General Audiences | Angst | 608 words | Read on Ao3

Summary: Mirror, signal, manoeuvre. Easy in theory. But when it comes to Aziraphale, Crowley is still bound to crash.

Written for the prompt "avoiding mirrors"

Mirror.

It’s 1941 and Crowley is waiting for an angel, determined to drive him home before Aziraphale manages to get caught in another bombing, or spy ring, or whatever brilliant idea he’s cooked up this time. The Bentley's side mirrors show Crowley what's happening in his periphery and there he is, finally. Aziraphale, staring at the satchel in his hand in wonder, then looking up at the car and Crowley isn’t prepared. Isn’t prepared for that smile, a smile Crowley has never seen before, but won’t ever forget again. His heart hits the gas pedal and takes off, leaving the rest of his corporation behind in a tingling, traiterous mess.

When Aziraphale opens the passenger door, the smile is still there, a little more contained, but still radiant, still overwhelming. He sinks into the seat, and Crowley shifts, leaning as far to the right as he can, afraid their closeness might betray him.

Signal.

Signal. Right.

Right.

How?

With driving, that’s easy. Set the indicator. Indicate where you want to go, and …

Indicate where you want to go.

Crowley indicates. Reluctant at first, offering quiet reassurance in the face of Aziraphale’s self-doubts, agreeing to go through with that ridiculous plan of his.

Less reluctant when they meet backstage after the bullet catch and he can’t keep himself from touching worn velvet and warm hands, making sure Aziraphale is alright, somehow, miraculously (well, not exactly) unharmed.

Back at the bookshop, Crowley turns completely unreluctant (is that a word? Aziraphale would know, but Crowley's head buzzes from at least one bottle too much and he's too relieved to care). He indicates and indicates, and waits for Aziraphale to wave him in.

And Aziraphale does, even follows Crowley in the same direction. Saves him from a completely inconvenient summons to Hell and there is that smile again, out in the open this time, entirely for Crowley to enjoy. Aziraphale’s hand on the table inches closer and closer, his body turns towards Crowley…

Manoeuvre.

There it is, the manoeuvre. Crowley lunges forward and tastes that smile, his lips moving insistently against Aziraphale’s. A choked sound escapes his throat. His hands fumble for purchase and find it in Aziraphale’s waistcoat, in his soft hair, and oh, Crowley wants …

Aziraphale pulls back. “Wrong turn,” he chokes out, not entirely convincing with his forehead pressed against Crowley’s and his shaky breath brushing against Crowley's skin.

Wrong turn? Why does Aziraphale have a map when Crowley was under the impression they were just driving cross-country?

An ominous silence, and Crowley swears Aziraphale leans in again in an almost imperceptible motion. But then he sits back abruptly and straightens his waistcoat, as if realising he's moving in the wrong direction, forcing himself to change course mid-way.

“You know we mustn’t, Crowley.” His voice cracks when it reaches Crowley’s name.

Crowley slams the brakes, but it’s too late. He’s already blown past the red light.

He pays his fine decades later.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

The thermos in his hand feels cold and heavy. When Aziraphale leaves, Crowley catches a glimpse of him in the rearview mirror, his face full of pain, full of regret.

And that’s when Crowley decides that traffic regulations aren’t for him.

Mirror—signal—manoeuvre. What a load of rubbish. You’re going to crash anyway. So much for road safety.

The Bentley makes sure they don’t collide with unsuspecting pedestrians when they turn the corner, entirely responsible for her driver's and everyone else's safety now. Because Crowley is determined to avoid looking into that mirror ever again, afraid the only thing he’ll see is Aziraphale’s pain, reflected on his own face.

[whocaresaboutdecent]

Not Quite Like in the Romcoms

Teen and Up Audiences | 3,445 Words | Read on Ao3

Summary: Being loved by Aziraphale is the most happiness-inducing thing Crowley has experienced in all his existence.

So who cares if navigating their differing needs for physical intimacy requires balancing boundaries and offering reassurance when insecurity creeps in?

They'll figure it out. One soft touch and awkwardly honest conversation at a time.

Sequel to Not Quite Like in the Romance Novels

Heads up: contains discussion of sexual topics, for full list of tags see the "Read on Ao3"-link above

Thank you alarmingly for beta reading!

Crowley is the first one to admit that, in the past, he might have nurtured a bit of an unhealthy oral fixation when it came to Aziraphale. Who was he to blame, really, with the way Aziraphale devoured food and moaned so deliciously at every bite, his tongue wetting his lips before they closed around …

Right. This needs to stop right there.

Okay, so while Crowley knows that any fantasy involving kisses isn’t going to become reality, he's still obsessed with Aziraphale’s mouth, simply because he revels in Aziraphale enjoying things. Savouring a delicious dinner at a fancy restaurant. Indulging in a mug of hot chocolate. Burying himself in one of his beloved books, absentmindedly wetting his fingertip to turn an unruly page.

But out of all the things Aziraphale enjoys, what's most thrilling is that he enjoys Crowley. Touching him, even.

In light of this revelation, Crowley is also the first one to admit that he, scandalously, criminally, has spent so much time obsessing over Aziraphale’s mouth that he has been sleeping on the potential of Aziraphale’s hands. 

Fingers that intertwine with his, a thumb absentmindedly caressing the back of his hand in a calm, meditative rhythm. The gentle stroke feels almost too casual, as if there isn’t any gravity to this gesture, when all Crowley can think is It’s real, we’re safe, we’re together in a compulsive mantra, so he’ll finally be able to believe it.

Hands that know exactly how to massage the tension out of his shoulders after a long day in the cottage garden, the knots in his muscles disentangling with an oddly satisfying jolt of pain at the perfect pressure of Aziraphale’s thumbs. They don’t let up until every last trace of discomfort has fled Crowley’s body, and when Crowley relaxes against Aziraphale, he feels so thoroughly cared for that his throat constricts and he can’t even choke out a thank you.

Fingers that sift through his feathers, sometimes to preen, sometimes simply to experience the intimacy of a touch neither of them would ever share with anyone else. The reverent strokes leave Crowley feeling terrifyingly exposed, and he often pulls away from the magnitude of it all, only to regret it seconds later when his wings ache for the tenderness of Aziraphale’s hands—until, slowly, he learns to allow the delicate contact and is rewarded with soft smiles and whispered praise.

Hands that hold him close, stroke his back in soothing patterns when he awakes in the middle of the night, screaming himself out of yet another nightmare in which he cradles those very same hands, limp and ice-cold, against his chest while kneeling next to Aziraphale’s lifeless body. The warm touch is accompanied by murmured reassurances until Crowley manages to breathe evenly again and drifts back to sleep with Aziraphale’s soothing presence right beside him. 

Fingers that scrape over his scalp in all the right places, sending shivers upon shivers of comfort down his spine as Crowley chases their touch. A caress so pleasurable, he will never, ever get tired of it, a caress that leaves him wishing these calm afternoons they spend with his head resting in Aziraphale’s lap would never end, a companionable silence unfolding between them that needs no words to be meaningful.

Hands that show him every day that he isn’t alone, is wanted, is … loved. 

However improbable that sounds.

The first time Crowley kisses Aziraphale’s hand, he only realises what he’s done from the way Aziraphale is staring at him afterwards, eyes wide, body frozen in place. Crowley swallows, believing it was too much, that he’s once again unthinkingly rushed over a boundary. But what was he supposed to do? Aziraphale had cupped his cheek and looked at him with that infuriatingly endearing sparkle in his eyes and Crowley had needed to do something to release the overwhelming tenderness building in his chest. Something like turning his head until his lips met Aziraphale’s palm.

Carefully, Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand in both of his and draws reassuring patterns on it, unsure if he should rub the traces of his lips from Aziraphale’s skin.

“Too much?” he asks in a low voice, not quite brave enough to keep looking at Aziraphale, studying the delicate veins under his skin instead.

“No, I … It’s fine,” Aziraphale says with an audible swallow. And after a short pause, he adds, “I, ah … I wouldn’t even mind terribly if you did that again.”

A smile spreads on Crowley's face. In Aziraphale's books, that’s basically a plea to repeat it, and he’s only too happy to oblige. He leans forward and presses his lips to Aziraphale’s knuckles, gently touching one after the other, trying to pour all his appreciation for everything these hands make him feel into each kiss. When he reaches the last knuckle, he finally dares to look up and the affection written all over Aziraphale’s face lets him hope the message was received.

Sometimes Crowley imagines Aziraphale’s hands—and yes, lips—in places he knows they’ll never go. Aziraphale doesn’t crave this kind of intimacy, and Crowley respects that. But Aziraphale's lack of desire doesn’t magically erase Crowley’s own.

There. He's admitted it. Loving this angel has Crowley fantasising about being close to him. Someone sue him for his sinful thoughts. 

It’s not like he’s doing it on purpose, not exactly. But his imagination has always been one of his greatest strengths and occasionally, it runs away with him. Kidnaps him, really, and there is nothing he can do about it. He’d never, never pressure Aziraphale into anything he doesn’t want. But those fantasies? They don’t hurt anyone.

Still, no matter how nonchalantly Crowley defends himself in his own mind—there is nothing wrong about longing for that, nothing to be ashamed of, you used to be a demon for someone's sake that’s basically what's expected of you—he always ends up feeling a little guilty. As if even imagining Aziraphale in this way could somehow betray the trust between them. Finally, he tells Aziraphale and Aziraphale … chuckles.

“I hope my imaginary self is nice to you.”

If I want him to be.

Crowley bites his tongue before these words escape his mouth. Too bold. Completely unasked for. Not even remotely appropriate for this conversation. Even if Aziraphale experienced desire in the same way Crowley does, that wouldn’t necessarily mean he'd be into … 

Not the point. Crowley forces a grin and it seems to involve just the right amount of crookedness that Aziraphale refrains from digging deeper.

“You're not bothered?” Crowley asks, because he needs to hear it. Needs to hear that his guilt is unjustified, something he is allowed to bury deep inside him and never look at again.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says gently. “I want you to feel good. And if my imaginary self is capable of doing that for you, I certainly won’t protest.” 

Aziraphale's fingers brush along Crowley’s nape and oh, talking about feeling good. Crowley closes his eyes and leans into the touch. A few beats of silence, then—

“You're allowed to want things, Crowley.”

The words hit Crowley with unexpected force. Something in his chest unclenches and it's in this moment that he realises just how deeply his fear runs. That Aziraphale might not understand. That Crowley would make him feel uncomfortable. That this balance they’ve found is more unstable than it feels.

“Thank you,” Crowley murmurs. He takes hold of Aziraphale’s hand and squeezes it. “For saying so.”

Aziraphale hums quietly in acknowledgement. His voice is a familiar mixture of good-natured teasing and genuine affection when he says, “Please just don’t provide any details about what you two get up to. That might be overdoing it.”

Crowley huffs out a laugh and it's laced with relief. “Deal.”

Sometimes, Aziraphale’s touch feels so good that Crowley's corporation reacts in ways he can’t exactly control, nor hide, no matter how unintentional on Aziraphale’s part. Crowley is honest about it when it happens, not because he tries to tempt Aziraphale into activities he doesn’t want. But honesty is the crucial factor that got them here in the first place and that means he’d better hold onto it.

So when he disentangles from Aziraphale’s embrace, or gently pushes his hands away, or gets up to disappear into the bathroom, or bedroom, or wherever to deal with things on his own, it’s not a flight. It’s part of the balance they’ve found. And though Aziraphale isn’t with him, physically speaking, the honesty between them makes all the difference.

Because when Crowley closes the door behind him, his whole body still warm and tingling and so very sensitive from Aziraphale’s touch, there is no shame anymore. No guilt. It doesn’t feel like hiding, not like it used to, when they were forced to deny their feelings. And it doesn’t feel like betrayal, either, not since he's told Aziraphale about his fantasies and received nothing but sincere reassurances in return.

Instead, there is a tantalising whisper in Crowley’s ear now, Aziraphale’s voice, low and insistent: I want you to feel good. And since Crowley has a ridiculously bad track record when it comes to denying Aziraphale (much unlike denying himself, which he’s always excelled at), he follows orders for a change. With enthusiasm. What once was a rough, impatient chase for release has turned into something indulgent and exploratory. A quest for pleasure that leaves Crowley breathless and shivering in all the best ways.

Sometimes, when he returns, warm and boneless, his skin still humming with the echo of pleasure, Aziraphale is waiting for him. There is no expectation to speak, just warm hands that draw him close, one resting gently against Crowley's nape, the other settling on his waist. Aziraphale’s slow breath leaves damp spots in the crook of Crowley’s neck where Aziraphale loves to tuck his face, as if trying to exclude the world, determined to focus on Crowley, and Crowley alone. Aziraphale’s soft body presses against Crowley’s, almost as if he is wrapped in layers of bubble wrap, protected like something precious that mustn’t, under any circumstances, break. And if someone were to ask Crowley what happiness looked like, he would always reply: like this. Aziraphale holding him like nothing else in the universe mattered.

Lately, though, there has been an alarming shift in Aziraphale’s demeanour. Crowley might be imagining it—he’s good at that sort of thing, after all—but Aziraphale seems to scrutinise him when he returns from his solo trips, as if searching for an answer on his face or in his movements. As soon as Crowley looks at him, ready to ask about it, Aziraphale hastily averts his gaze and feigns being busy with whatever is at hand. Even if he ends up holding his novel upside down.

“Spit it out, Angel,” Crowley demands this one time Aziraphale isn’t fast enough to pretend. “What’s on your mind?” He flops down on the sofa next to Aziraphale and gently pries the novel he has intended to use for cover from his hands.

Aziraphale doesn’t reply right away. He stares at his hands as if they’ve betrayed him by surrendering his cover and then starts rubbing them together in a nervous gesture. After a moment, he clasps them tightly and Crowley can almost taste the strained tension.

This doesn’t bode well. With the way Aziraphale has been behaving, alternately staring and not-staring at him, Crowley wonders whether he's unwittingly done something wrong. He's racking his brain, but can’t think of anything out of the ordinary.

When Aziraphale finally starts speaking, it’s not what Crowley has expected at all.

“Are you truly happy, Crowley?”

Crowley blinks and hesitates for a moment, considering his answer.

“Am I …?” Crowley frowns as he realises something. “Hang on, are you trying to determine that by gawking at me after I’ve had a wank?”

Aziraphale turns bright red right up to his blonde curls.

“Maybe I am,” he retorts defensively, letting his gaze wander everywhere but Crowley. Anxiety is radiating from him in waves and Crowley can’t bear it. He turns on the sofa until he faces Aziraphale, gently tugging at his sleeves to get him to unclench his fingers. Aziraphale reluctantly does him the favour and Crowley takes both of his hands in his own.

“What’s your verdict?” Crowley asks, tangling and untangling their fingers in slow, soothing motions. A firm yes to Aziraphale’s question sits on his tongue, ready to be blurted out with unwavering conviction. But he’s genuinely curious to hear Aziraphale’s take first. “Do I look happy?”

Frustration replaces the nervousness on Aziraphale’s face. Crowley is almost relieved about the mood shift. “If I knew I could’ve stopped looking and we wouldn’t need to have this rather uncomfortable conversation.”

Crowley laughs, despite himself.

“Oh, Angel.” He pulls Aziraphale close until he leans against his chest, their fingers still intertwined and moving. “Back to needless worrying, are we?”

He makes sure his voice is more affectionate than teasing, because the truth is, Crowley wants to have this conversation if something troubles Aziraphale enough to make him ask such questions. Prodding for answers is rather Crowley’s area of competence after all.

He buries his nose in Aziraphale’s hair and smiles at the familiar scent. He suspects that Aziraphale would have an answer to his question about Crowley’s happiness if he just looked at him right now. Because with Aziraphale’s soft curls tickling his nose and Aziraphale’s body hesitantly relaxing against him, Crowley feels a softness creeping onto his face that should prevent any follow-up questions.

“Is this what it is?” Aziraphale asks, his voice shaky. “A needless worry?”

“Yes, Angel,” Crowley answers without hesitation and tightens his grip on Aziraphale for emphasis. “As needless as your worry that I’ll accidentally use that fancy first edition of yours as a coaster. Told you it won’t happen again.”

“I should very well hope so,” Aziraphale replies distractedly, a small smile flickering across his face that vanishes much too fast. The worried crease between his brows tells Crowley his heart isn’t in the banter, his concerns too grave to hide beneath a joke. So Crowley finally follows his first impulse.

“I'm happy,” Crowley reassures him, putting as much confidence into his voice as he can. “I'm happy with you,” he specifies, because that’s what this is really about, isn’t it? At least if the way Aziraphale melts against him at the addition is anything to go by. Something tender and protective stirs in Crowley’s chest at this display of trust, amazed how a simple truth from his lips can chase the tension from Aziraphale’s body immediately.

It's difficult to reconcile Aziraphale’s doubts with his own feeling of certainty. How can they be so out of tune when Crowley feels cracked open by every touch and smile and moment they share, completely laid bare in Aziraphale’s presence? And still, the one being Crowley has discarded his sunglasses for, so to speak, can’t seem to read the devotion in his eyes. A dull ache settles in Crowley’s chest at the thought, but he fights to ignore it. The insecurity in Aziraphale’s voice, in every uncertain glance and twitch of his hands, makes Crowley want to do nothing more than soothe him.

“So you don’t …” Aziraphale swallows and looks like continuing with his sentence causes him physical pain, “... miss anything? In this version of us we have?”

So that’s the reason Aziraphale looks at him the way he does? Trying to read Crowley’s level of satisfaction off his face in these moments, as if this was the most reliable and important indicator for his happiness? Silently worrying whether whatever goes on behind closed doors is enough to satiate Crowley? 

Maybe Crowley shouldn’t be surprised. He gets it—he’s asked himself those very same questions after realising that the version of a relationship he’d imagined with Aziraphale was never going to happen.

But the truth is, pleasuring himself is not an issue. He could do that on his own, quite successfully really, thank you very much. No assistance needed. 

Loving himself, though … far more complicated. But Aziraphale has no trouble loving him exactly as he is. And the quiet ease with which he does it soothes parts of Crowley that still feel painfully raw. Being loved like that made him realise that his desire for physical intimacy is, at its core, a desperate need for closeness. The kind of closeness that means safety, a closeness that binds them together so thoroughly and irrevocably that nothing will tear them apart ever again. And Aziraphale gives him that feeling of closeness in a hundred different ways, none of which involves getting into bed with him. 

So no, he doesn’t miss a thing, and Crowley would give just about anything to make Aziraphale see that. 

He needs to at least try.

Maybe those silly romcoms he used to watch—solely for the fun of dripping his cynicism all over them, insistently telling himself how little he craved all of this—will finally come in handy. His brain has replayed the entire plot with himself and Aziraphale in the starring roles often enough after all. True, last time he enlisted their help to communicate his feelings didn’t go as planned. But that was before he knew they both might not follow the script down to the very last scene. And while he’s always preferred actions to words, trying to reassure a book-loving, word-loving angel definitely merits some sacrifices, even more so as they’re still exploring the boundaries of intimacy together.

“I love you, Angel,” Crowley says. The first few words are a struggle, but each new one comes easier than the last. “And I love the way you love me. I don’t want to have it any other way. You make it seem so … easy.”

Finally, there's a smile on Aziraphale’s face, so wide that it crinkles the corners of his eyes. A comforting warmth settles in Crowley’s chest. Seems like the romcoms had a point. Declarations of love don’t deserve cynicism, not when they make Aziraphale look like that.

“Because it is,” Aziraphale whispers back. Crowley’s heart stumbles in his chest.

“Careful. You can’t just say things like that, Angel,” Crowley scolds teasingly. There is only so much sentimentality he can stomach in a single day (or at least that's what he likes to tell himself). “I might burst from all the emotions.”

This time, Aziraphale laughs and oh, Crowley loves his laugh, especially when it smoothes out the worry lines on his face like it does now. Aziraphale turns his head just enough to peer at Crowley.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” he says with an amused twinkle in his eyes.

“Nah,” Crowley agrees. “Better not. Quite the mess probably.”

He untangles their fingers and threads a hand through Aziraphale’s soft hair. 

“I'm not missing anything,” Crowley says, serious again, because Aziraphale might quip now, but the question underneath is a real one.

“Even if we’re not …?”

“Yes, Angel. Even if we’re not unbuttoning that ridiculous waistcoat of yours in the heat of passion.”

Aziraphale huffs a laugh. “I was going to say, even if we’re not ending up the way you imagined us to?”

Crowley hums. “What we've got right now beats anything I've ever imagined.” He smiles. “And you know about the vast extent of my imagination.” 

Aziraphale chuckles. “Oh yes, I rather think I do.” He slips his hand into Crowley’s again, brushing his thumb over delicate skin. “Considering what I suspect goes on in that head of yours, I’m flattered I manage to live up to that.”

Crowley laughs, a ridiculous wave of relief fluttering through him at the familiar banter and the worry fading from Aziraphale’s face. For once, it feels like he might’ve actually succeeded in getting his point across.

“You do more than that,” Crowley says. “I've had some pretty elaborate scenarios in there, you know. But they all fell short in the happiness department.” He brushes his lips to Aziraphale’s temple. “I will tell you as often as you need to hear it, Angel—I’ve got everything I want right here with me.”

Aziraphale nestles against Crowley, smiling, his fingers twisting into Crowley’s shirt, gripping the fabric like he never wants to let go. He turns his face until it finds its place in the crook of Crowley’s neck, the same spot he always seeks. Crowley’s throat tightens. He raises his hand to cradle the back of Aziraphale’s head, a steadying touch carrying the same protective tenderness Crowley knows so well from being held by Aziraphale.

“That works out rather well,” Aziraphale murmurs, his words ghosting over Crowley’s skin. “It feels the same for me.”

[whocaresaboutdecent]

latest fics / first lines

Rules: post the beginning lines of your most recent 10 published fanfics (or chapters, if you don't have 10 fics), then attempt to tag 10 people!

Thank you @the-written-wyrm for tagging me! It’s fun to see them all together like that.

1) Not Quite Like in the Romance Novels (Good Omens)

“Oh Crowley, that was scrumptious,” Aziraphale said, beaming, as he licked the last trace of rich chocolate mousse from the corner of his mouth.

2) Somewhere to Belong (Good Omens)

Over the course of his existence, Aziraphale had been called a traitor more than once.

3) The Poinsettia Plot (Good Omens)

Crowley didn’t like Christmas.

4) Tales from a Cottage in the South Downs (Good Omens)

I love you, Crowley.

5) Is It About Me? (The Quarry)

The first thing Dylan noticed when he stepped into their room at Harbinger Motel was the disappointingly wide gap between the two single beds that were shoved into opposite corners of the room. 

6) Locked Out (Good Omens)

After Armageddon't, Crowley feels they’re lingering on the threshold of something.

7) Clouds of Possibilities (The Quarry)

Ryan cowered on the floor in front of the storm shelter, his forehead resting on his knees, his eyes shielded from the glaring sunlight. 

8) Several Nudges in the Right Direction (Good Omens)

On the day of Crowley’s first visit to the bookshop after lockdown, Aziraphale felt unusually nervous.

9) Do It Properly (Good Omens)

A fierce, frightening surge of panic mingled with the bitter taste of separation that lingered on Aziraphale’s lips.

10) Us (Good Omens)

Us. How can such a short, simple word contain so many complicated, complex feelings?

(The last two technically have another first line, but it's a quote from the TV show and I decided to go with the first line I actually wrote myself)

I don’t really know who to tag, so if you're reading this and want to join, feel free to do so and tag me so I can see the answers :)

[whocaresaboutdecent]

Not Quite Like in the Romance Novels

General Audiences | 3,594 Words | Read on Ao3

Summary: Ever since Aziraphale learned what Crowley’s lips felt like against his own, he’s been trying to figure out whether it was just that kiss he didn’t enjoy—or whether he simply doesn’t understand the appeal of kissing at all.

And if it’s the latter, however is he supposed to tell Crowley he might not be the right person for that one fabulous kiss? Especially when all Aziraphale wants is for Crowley to understand just how deeply he loves him.

“Oh Crowley, that was scrumptious,” Aziraphale said, beaming as he licked the last trace of rich chocolate mousse from the corner of his mouth. Crowley, with his unrivaled talent for discovering the places that offered the most exquisite desserts, had truly outdone himself for this occasion. Aziraphale looked across the table, meeting Crowley’s knowing smirk with a radiant smile of his own as he dabbed at his lips with a napkin.

“Guess good food was hard to come by amidst all this holiness,” Crowley muttered. It could have passed for teasing, if the tight set of Crowley's jaw hadn’t turned the words bitter.

Aziraphale’s smile faltered. He looked away, feeling queasy as though the mousse had suddenly become difficult to stomach.

So this was it. Their reprieve was over. No matter how euphoric their reunion had been, some things couldn’t be cured by a hug—even one so tight he hadn’t been sure they would ever let go again.

They had worked together so seamlessly in these past months, ridding earth of lingering heavenly and hellish influences, that it was easy to forget the pain. But now, in the stillness of the bookshop, its insistent VERY CLOSED sign firmly in place, and without the takeaway food to distract him, Aziraphale couldn’t help but acknowledge that it had been presumptuous to think they could simply move on. That they could avoid the conversation he feared would hurt them both all over again.

But there was no use. Unspoken words hung between them, threatening not only this fragile illusion of joyful celebration but whatever future they might try to build.

“I'm glad you enjoyed dessert, Angel.” Crowley’s voice disrupted Aziraphale’s thoughts, and the soft tone almost eased the sting. Crowley’s attempt to uphold his usual nonchalance was disrupted by the nervous bounce of his leg. They were both navigating carefully now, caught between lingering wounds, tentative relief and, in Aziraphale’s case, a crushing fear that he was about to fail the one person he needed to be safe and happy.

Aziraphale folded his napkin and set it gently on the empty plate. “You’ve always known how to indulge me.”

Crowley waved the remark off with a casual flick of his hand, but Aziraphale saw the faint glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes as he leaned forward, elbow propped on the table, chin resting in his hand. His gaze lingered on Aziraphale with that strangely familiar blend of fascination and amusement. It was a gaze Aziraphale had grown fond of over the millennia, Crowley’s obvious affection wrapping around him like a warm blanket.

But now… he believed he recognised something else creeping in. Expectation. As if watching Aziraphale enjoy food stirred a whole different type of hunger in Crowley.

Crowley had always catered to Aziraphale’s cravings, yet Aziraphale wasn’t sure he could offer the same in return. It felt like Crowley had taken to watching him want while deep down hoping for Aziraphale to one day want something that went beyond the sweet taste of chocolate.

Something Aziraphale didn’t know how to want, no matter how determinedly he tried

They hadn’t kissed again.

Crowley, it seemed, was too discouraged to try again and Aziraphale … Aziraphale didn’t know what he was. Reluctant? Disillusioned? Lacking the desire to repeat that? 

It had been three years, yet the bitter taste of Crowley’s kiss still lingered on Aziraphale’s lips. No dessert, however sweet and carefully chosen, could mask the unpleasant aftertaste of that first, ill-timed attempt at intimacy.

But maybe something else could.

Aziraphale’s fingers twitched, yearning to smooth the already immaculate tablecloth. He refrained. The room didn’t need more tension.

“Will …,” Aziraphale began, casting a careful glance at Crowley before looking away again. He swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Will you dance with me?”

The silence that preceded Crowley’s answer was excruciating. The anxiety that Crowley might decline constricted his chest. Aziraphale hadn’t exactly asked the last time. He had been too excited, too certain the answer would be yes.

Just like Crowley hadn’t asked when he …

No. There was no point in dwelling on that.

“Dance?” Crowley echoed at last, blinking like his mind struggled to process the request.

Aziraphale nodded and gestured towards the record player. It crackled to life, settling on a calm, slow melody. There was only one type of dance suitable for this music.

“Please?”

Aziraphale extended a hand in silent invitation. 

After a long pause, Crowley took it and they stepped into the open space at the center of the bookshop. Aziraphale’s skin tingled under the warmth of Crowley’s fingers.

“‘S that okay?” Crowley asked, placing his free hand on Aziraphale’s waist, pulling him close.

“Of course,” Aziraphale replied softly, his own fingers resting at the small of Crowley’s back. “I did ask you to dance, didn’t I?”

Crowley gave a half-shrug. 

“Just checking,” he murmured, and Aziraphale smiled.

They began to turn slowly in place. Aziraphale breathed in Crowley’s scent, so familiar, so grounding. The warmth radiating from him seeped into Aziraphale’s body, soothing something he hadn’t known needed soothing. This kind of closeness was a flavour of intimacy he felt comfortable with. Something he understood. Something he could welcome. He let his eyes fall shut as the music washed over them.

“I would like to try something,” Aziraphale said after a while, opening his eyes and leaning back just enough to see Crowley’s face.

“Do you, now?” Crowley drawled in an attempt to appear casual, but the flicker of anticipation in his eyes gave him away. 

Unwittingly, Aziraphale had brought their faces close, dangerously close. Crowley’s gaze flicked to his mouth. Aziraphale didn’t dare move, his muscles tense with anxiety. When had Crowley’s proximity begun to feel so overwhelming? Why did Aziraphale long to pull away, afraid Crowley might lunge for a second kiss out of nowhere? 

No matter how fiercely he reassured himself that Crowley wouldn’t, that he had only done so out of desperation, Aziraphale stood frozen, barely daring to breathe, unease swelling in his chest. Not because it was Crowley, never that, but because of what this type of closeness may ask of him. The pressure to reciprocate with equal enthusiasm as if his desire to kiss was some type of fool-proof measuring unit for how deeply he cared about Crowley. The prospect of kisses turning into other activities humans engaged in when they were fond of each other. Activities Aziraphale could imagine engaging in even less.

The moment stretched between them, charged with possibility. Aziraphale held his breath. Then, gently, Crowley let go and stepped back, giving Aziraphale space and the moment slipped by, unclaimed. 

Aziraphale exhaled, slow and shaky, when Crowley finally averted his gaze. Relief swept through him, swallowed at once by an overwhelming flood of guilt when he caught the hurt on Crowley’s face.

“Crowley, I …”

Aziraphale clenched his jaw, furious with himself. This wasn’t how being near Crowley was supposed to feel. Not after everything they had been through. Not after 6,000 years of trust and friendship. And yet, he couldn’t help it.

Crowley invading his personal space had always felt safe, before, warm and familiar, a welcome presence that eased his loneliness. Aziraphale had treasured their rare moments of closeness, convinced that Crowley understood as well as he did that they could never allow outsiders to grasp the depth of their affection. They had to keep it deniable. And deniable meant they were never in danger of doing anything to make Aziraphale feel uncomfortable.

Until the parameters had changed with their dismissal from Heaven and Hell.

Until Crowley had kissed him.

“What is it you want to try, Angel?” Crowley asked hoarsely, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. “Another dessert? That wine Nina recommended? I’ve got …”

“Kissing you,” Aziraphale interrupted, his heart pounding so painfully fast he was certain Crowley could hear it even over the music.

Crowley blinked, his expression went slack. “Wha … What?”

“I would like to try and kiss you,” Aziraphale repeated, his voice far steadier than he felt.

Crowley leaned back, as if he needed to examine the idea from a safer distance. He ran a hand through his hair, and Aziraphale caught a fleeting glimpse of his trembling fingers.

"Try?" Crowley echoed. He fought to rid his face of any emotion, but his eyes betrayed him. He was unpracticed in hiding his feelings after millennia of relying on his sunglasses to do the job. Confusion flickered over his face and … distrust? It was a look Aziraphale had never seen directed at him before. “What do you mean, try?”

“I … I suppose I should explain some things first,” Aziraphale admitted, and then didn’t find the right words to continue. How were you supposed to tell someone I love you, but maybe not in the way you want me to? How were you supposed to say that out loud to someone who had expressed his desire with painful clarity?

One fabulous kiss and we're good.

Aziraphale fiddled with the seam of his waistcoat, his fingers twitching and restless as he searched for words that refused to come. Crowley watched him, attentive. Encouraging, even.

“I want to be kissed by you if that’s what's up for debate,” Crowley offered quietly when the silence stretched into something uncomfortable.

Aziraphale gave a weak smile at that, but the reassurance didn’t exactly soothe his nerves.

“How do you know?” Aziraphale finally whispered. 

Crowley frowned. “How do I …?”

“Know, yes.”

“Have you looked at yourself, Angel?” 

The slightly embarrassed expression on Crowley’s face told Aziraphale that he had blurted this out without pausing to think properly. Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile at the accidental compliment. 

“You’re lovely to look at, too,” Aziraphale replied, relishing how easily these words managed to fluster Crowley. “But … is that really how you know?”

Another silence stretched between them in which Crowley seemed to consider his answer. He didn’t brush the question off. He wasn’t offended. And if Aziraphale was honest with himself, he should have known that Crowley would never ridicule a question he understood to be genuine. He seemed to weigh the question with a seriousness Aziraphale hadn’t dared to hope for.

“I … ngk.” Crowley raised his hands helplessly in surrender. It seemed like he had wanted to say something, but couldn’t convince himself to go through with it. Instead he just stammered: “I guess I just … know?”

Aziraphale smiled, but it felt so forced that it wouldn’t convince anyone, least of all Crowley. “Obviously that’s not been one of your many questions.”

Crowley shook his head, narrowing his eyes as if trying to decode what Aziraphale wasn’t saying.

“So … you don’t know?” Crowley asked slowly. “If you want to be kissed by me?”

Aziraphale shook his head quickly, horrified at how that had sounded. “Oh, no, no, I didn’t mean … it’s not you, Crowley,” Aziraphale hurried to clarify. “It’s simply that I’ve never been quite at ease with … that sort of thing.” He gestured helplessly, unsure how to explain. “The kissing part.”

Crowley was silent. Too silent. His gaze fixed somewhere just past Aziraphale’s shoulder, unblinking.

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale began, wringing his hands, “Perhaps I got it all wrong. Perhaps it’s just that the kisses I’ve had weren’t exactly … pleasant?”

This snapped Crowley out of his stupor. “What?”

“Well, you have to admit, our first …” Aziraphale began, but he didn’t get far.

“No, Angel. I meant … kisses? Plural?” Crowley asked, brow furrowing.

“Oh.”

Aziraphale looked away, heat rising in his cheeks. “You remember I learned the Gavotte? There was this one time … after a dance, my partner just …” Aziraphale waved his hand, inviting Crowley to fill the gap himself. “I … I wasn’t prepared for that.”

In truth, he had flinched so violently the poor man never asked him to dance again. No matter how often Aziraphale had tried to reassure the young man afterwards that it was fine, his own mind kept insisting it wasn’t - that something about it felt wrong. Aziraphale had attributed this feeling to the lack of trust and intimacy between them, but then …

“I always thought kissing you would feel different,” Aziraphale admitted in a low voice.

“But it didn’t?” Crowley inquired.

“It didn't,” Aziraphale confirmed.

Being kissed by Crowley had felt rough and desperate and sad. Like everything Aziraphale didn’t want it to be. 

Why would anyone ever want to kiss, if it felt like that? It seemed almost cruel that Crowley could kiss him in a way that made Aziraphale want to pull away, when all he had ever longed for was Crowley’s closeness.

But surely it wasn’t supposed to feel like that, was it? Not according to the romance novels stacked in the shelves around them. Not when there was the promise of butterflies or fireworks or warmth spreading through your body. 

Oh, it certainly sounded so wonderful. Why didn’t it feel like that?

Perhaps it was the idea of kissing that moved Aziraphale, not the act itself. Perhaps that was simply his configuration, someone who treasured the idealised idea of something more than its messy reality.

Crowley cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t have kissed you like that, Angel. I…”

“There’s no need,” Aziraphale interrupted gently. “It was a challenging situation for both of us. An impulsive act.”

Crowley grimaced. “Well … yeah. But not only that.”

Aziraphale didn’t dare ask what it had been instead, afraid the answer might overwhelm them both. A long pause stretched between them before Crowley asked, his voice quieter now, “Why did you think kissing me would feel different?”

Aziraphale stared at him. “Please tell me you know, Crowley.”

Crowley only watched him, his expression unreadable. “You’ll have to say it.”

Aziraphale wordlessly took Crowley’s hands and pulled him back into their slow dance. They turned in small, deliberate circles to the soft melody drifting through the room, soothing, intimate. Aziraphale wished he could stay like this forever.

“Do you remember what I told you about dancing?” Aziraphale asked cautiously. “And Jane Austen novels? 

“That people would realise they had misunderstood each other and were actually deeply in love?” Crowley asked, his eyebrows raised slightly.

Aziraphale gave a small nod. Then, steadying himself, he looked up at Crowley, into those amber eyes that watched him anxiously.

“I don’t need this dance to realise that I love you, Crowley.”

At that, Crowley’s fingers tightened around his, so firmly it hurt.

Aziraphale pressed on. “I’ve known for ages. But I thought … Perhaps it helps you to understand how I feel about you.” Aziraphale swallowed as his voice grew thinner and thinner with every word. “Especially if we never have this fabulous kiss you were hoping for.”

“Angel.” Aziraphale’s heart clenched at the gentleness in Crowley’s voice.

Crowley was still watching him, his face frustratingly difficult to read. Crowley didn’t look fine, not exactly, but he didn’t look broken either. He looked like someone carefully working through something complicated. Adjusting. Trying to understand.

“We don’t need to kiss again,” Crowley said finally. 

“But you said you wanted to,” Aziraphale reminded him softly.

“Yeah.” Crowley shrugged and the move almost carried his usual nonchalance. “But wanting and needing are two different things, aren’t they?”

Well, Aziraphale supposed they were. 

He wanted to collect all those lovely books, he wanted to savour scrumptious dinners at elegant restaurants, and he wanted to sample the best wines this world had to offer. 

But he needed Crowley.

And the thought that Crowley might need him in return, just in a different way, in a way Aziraphale didn’t feel comfortable with, tightened the painful knot that had settled in his stomach. 

He needed Crowley to be happy.

And if there was even the smallest chance that a kiss could feel as lovely as all the stories suggested, he was more than willing to try. Not to prove something. But to understand.

“I want to kiss you,” Azriaphale insisted, steadier this time. “I want to try.”

Crowley held his gaze for a long moment. Then, without saying a word, he nodded and let go of Aziraphale. He stepped back, still hovering close, within Aziraphale’s reach, but not closer.

“Your speed, Angel,” he said. “As far as you're willing to go.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. They simply looked at each other as Aziraphale gathered every last bit of his courage.

Finally, Aziraphale lifted his hand and Crowley’s eyes flicked towards the movement. His fingertips trailed along Crowley’s jaw, sensing the warm skin. Crowley’s breath hitched, but he kept perfectly still. His eyes closed when Aziraphale’s hand moved into the hair on the back of his neck.

Aziraphale leaned in and brushed his lips against Crowley’s, insecure, uncertain. Crowley still didn’t move. He wasn’t leaning in nor chasing the touch when Aziraphale pulled away almost instantly.

And it was that total surrender of control that gave Aziraphale the courage to try again. This quiet reassurance: no pressure. No expectation.

This time, the touch was more deliberate. Crowley’s lips were soft, tender, they moved slowly, without the urgency of their very first kiss. Aziraphale leaned in further, and Crowley’s fingers threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, his touch impossibly gentle, so very different from the iron grip on Aziraphale’s lapels. Cherishing instead of restraining.

Aziraphale desperately wanted to feel, just a little bit, like he had read about in his novels, just a little bit like he felt in his fantasies. He was kissing Crowley, after all.

But he didn’t. 

The sensation was nice, but nothing more. Not the revelation he had half-expected it to be. Not the answer to all his questions.

And yet, he didn’t pull away. 

What kept him there was not the sensation of the kiss itself, but the deep affection radiating from Crowley in every touch. There was no trace of the cruel desperation from their first kiss. It turned the bitter taste on Aziraphale’s lips into something sweet, into something he could hold onto.

When Aziraphale finally pulled back, Crowley kept his eyes closed.

Aziraphale studied him, appreciating the quiet, content expression on his face, while his heart was hammering, but not with the kind of excitement he was supposed to feel. It was the wrong kind of nervous, the anxious kind. Each beat pumped the uncomfortable feeling of failure through his veins.

Crowley’s fingers still played gently with the hair at Aziraphale’s nape and Aziraphale didn’t want him to stop. Selfish, his mind provided. Selfish angel.

“How did it feel for you?” Crowley asked at last, voice low and husky. When he opened his eyes, a softness crept into them that pulled Aziraphale’s throat tight.

Aziraphale knew there were words he was supposed to say. Breathtaking. Incredible. Like I never wanted to stop. He had encountered all of these expressions in his novels. 

But not while kissing Crowley.

“I’m not sure,” Aziraphale answered honestly. “Nice, perhaps?”

Crowley huffed out a noise that could have almost passed for a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so painfully fragile. His hand slipped away from Aziraphale’s neck and the loss of touch almost hurt physically.

“But it’s not something you want.” Crowley had spoken quietly, without accusation but with an unwavering certainty. There it was. This truth Aziraphale hadn’t been able to explain, not to Crowley, not even to himself, loomed between them now, just like that.

“But it’s something you want,” Aziraphale replied, speaking Crowley’s truth just as plainly as Crowley had spoken Aziraphale’s. And with both of these statements side by side, panic rose in Aziraphale’s chest, sharp and fast. 

This wasn’t how it was meant to be. The boundaries Heaven and Hell had imposed on them were finally gone. He couldn’t bear a new division, a new imbalance between them. Not after everything.

He loved Crowley, he was certain of that. He loved him more fiercely than he had ever loved anything in all his existence. But how could he show Crowley the depth of his love when the one thing Crowley longed for felt like trying to speak in a language Aziraphale couldn’t quite master?

“Angel,” Crowley said softly. “What I want is …” He faltered, the same way he had three years ago. Aziraphale held his breath, sensing the weight behind the unspoken words.

“I mean I would like to spend... my existence with you. Being us. However this us looks like.” Crowley swallowed visibly, voice thick with emotion. “The important bit is that it's you and me. That’s all that matters.”

Aziraphale let out his breath when Crowley’s reassurance dissolved the tightness in his chest. Crowley wouldn’t leave. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t demanding something Aziraphale couldn’t provide.

He was staying.

Crowley managed a shaky grin. “It doesn’t have to be a kiss, Angel. But if you ever feel like putting your fingers into my hair again like before, I'm all y… mmh.”

Aziraphale watched with fascination as Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut, an underlying tension fleeing his features. The silky strands of Crowley’s hair tickled Aziraphale’s skin where they slipped through his fingers.

“Do you like this?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley just mmhed and tilted his head slightly to grant Aziraphale better access.

“Me too,” Aziraphale said, just in case there were any doubts.

Crowley smiled and murmured “Let’s … let’s not rush these things, Angel.” 

He gently closed his fingers around Aziraphale’s wrist and pulled his hand from his hair, intertwining their fingers instead.

“Let’s take some time to figure it out. What we both feel comfortable with.” 

“I’d love that,” Aziraphale replied. Quieter, he added: “I want this, Crowley. Being an us.”

Crowley smiled. “Me too, Angel. Us is everything I need.”

[whocaresaboutdecent]

Last Line Tag Game

Thank you for tagging me again @the-written-wyrm :)

Rules: Share the last line you wrote, then tag as many ppl as there are words.

Crowley watches grimly as every single star vanishes from view, one after the other swallowed by a thick, dark cloud of smoke and ashes.

Not tagging anyone this time, but please feel free to participate if you want to :)

[whocaresaboutdecent]

I was in London yesterday for MCM and had some time beforehand to walk through early morning London, which was lovely. I also visited Crowley’s and Aziraphale’s bench in St. James's Park.

And then I stumbled upon "Baker Street" (actually North Gower Street) by accident. I was on my way to somewhere else when I was like "hang on, you know this place" :D

[eklmrlos]

please just 90 minutes of them cuddling and being in love

[scales-n-art]

Rockstar!Crowley from my dear friend @constantfluxx 's Good Omens AU series. I CANNOT wait for this AU to drop, seriously. I crave it with a passion 🔥

Go check out her amazing series! 🖤

Thank you for letting me draw the source of all my thirst these days, bb. Luv u.

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Commissions Open!

[ace-misplaced]

(template by @alek-softy )

[arashixyarts]

Off to alpha centauri ! 🍋

2D loop assignment

[gloww0rms]

Lizzy McAlpine - an ego thing

[whocaresaboutdecent]

✨ POST SIX PICTURES THAT AREN'T SELFIES ✨

I was tagged by @rcreveal - thank you! That was fun.

Have some animals and nature :)

Do you want to join?

@the-sign-of-tea @cyan-kelpie