The Evolution Of Crowley Not Wanting The Apocalypse Because The Stars Are Cool To Not Wanting The Apocalypse

Crowley, clearly angry: I AM IN A BAD MOOD! So NOBODY TALK TO ME!! Aziraphale, pouting: Even me? Crowley, confused: What? No. Obviously, YOU can talk to me. Crowley, angry again: BUT NOBODY ELSE! I MEAN IT! LEAVE ME ALONE! Crowley, softly to Aziraphale: To reiterate, this does not apply to you, Angel.

Hear me out: Crowley being held prisoner in Hell in S3. Aziraphale says fuck it to his Supreme Archangel duties and sneaks into Hell cosplaying as a demon to rescue him.

Let's get cozy, friend.

[crow-time.com]

what might have happened in 1941....

GOOD OMENS "Every Day"

"We're a team, a group. Group of the two of us."

Crowley fumbles for words, because none of those labels describes their relationship accurately. But he is afraid to use the word couple in any sense for a reason - he doesn't want to frighten the angel because if there's one think he can't bear, it's losing Aziraphale. He could confess the truth and risk rejection, or be careful and hope to keep friendship. Crowley needs Aziraphale in his life, whatever it means. Friends, lovers, anything. It's either him or nothing.

Yet, his approach doesn't help...

girl stop i'm rewatching that "you look me in the eye and tell me you want to do this" job scene rn HAND OVER MY MOUTH WHAT IS THIS SEXUAL TENSION

Sleight Of Hand - Chapter 1: The Pledge

@moonyinpisces and I proudly present Chapter 1 of “Sleight Of Hand”: The Pledge!

Read on Ao3 (with extra Comic pages!)

Early release of comic pages as well as sketches and uncensored Versions on my Patreon.

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“It’s our last night on Earth,” Crowley says, voice wrung together in chapped, rusted parts. “Six thousand years of this. Of never– of not getting to– *eurgh!”* Uncaring of the styling, Crowley runs frantic hands through his hair, mussing it up in tight, torturous fists. “Six thousand years. And it’s a bloody *photograph* that does us in.” 

His eyes are golden, molten in the warm, ambient light. The pulse at his long, taut neck is fluttering like a trapped bird, the skin there thin, delicate. “Hm,” Aziraphale says distractedly, without thinking too much of it. “I’d always thought it would’ve been what we’d got up to at Job’s.”

Crowley zeroes in on Aziraphale, at that point. All of this has been musings to himself, of attacks towards nobody in particular. Perhaps God. Most likely God. But now he’s not looking at God, and he’s looking at Aziraphale instead. It sets Aziraphale on edge, prickles the angelic sense at the back of his neck. It quickens his pulse, settles the heat of his body decidedly southward. But more than that, perhaps most of all; it makes Aziraphale be as reminded of Crowley’s human body as he is of his own, at this exact moment. 

The demon takes a step forward. Aziraphale, a stuttered step back. His fingers are curled into the top of his opposite sleeve, tips brushing the edge of the polaroid he’d nearly grabbed.

“Calm down, Crowley,” he says waveringly. 

“Calm *down?*” Crowley repeats quietly, dangerously. He’s looking Aziraphale in the eye, now. He’s looking nowhere else. 

Another step. Forward, back. Aziraphale licks his lips. 

“It’s all going to be alright, my dear boy,” he tries. He clears his throat, shifts his fingers further into his sleeve. “You see–”

He’s cut off. Quick as a flash, Crowley’s gripping him around the shoulders, shoves him back so his arse is pressed to the lip of the vanity, the lit-up mirror alighting him from behind. Aziraphale’s arms draw up around the demon’s shoulders in surprise. There’s nowhere else to go, no more steps to take. The look in Crowley’s eye speaks of a hunger all-too-familiar to Aziraphale. Reminiscent of meat, of basements, of languishing drunkenly at the end of another man’s Earth. Behind Crowley’s head, Aziraphale has the photograph clenched in one hand. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers. 

“Don’t–” Crowley’s expression is fierce, desperate. “Don’t say *anything–*” 

Aziraphale opens his mouth to say something else.

*“Angel.”* Crowley makes a desperate sort of sound, and then their lips are pressed together, and Aziraphale freezes altogether. 

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When the lady who sells you coffee mentions a naked man at your bookshop and now your husband thinks you're stepping out on him:

😇😇