Maeraxys
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Objectively speaking, Crowley is a good vampire: he doesn't hunt, he doesn't kill, he doesn't bother anyone else with his, erm, condition. He has an arrangement with a family of witches to keep him fed and, well, alive, and he likes spending his endless days alone and unbothered. Perhaps 'like' is too strong of a word, but he tolerates his existence, and it's enough.
Until he meets an angel under the rain. Suddenly, he finds himself wanting more, dreaming about blue eyes and sweet smiles, finding excuses upon excuses to see Aziraphale-like-the-angel, again. Just once more, as he tells himself every time. And it's never enough.
Meanwhile, the vampiric society he's a reluctant part of changes management, and demands more of Crowley: more details about his rather unorthodox methods, more proofs of his suspicious activities, more of himself than he's willing to give.
It's all a mess, really. But at the end of the day, aren't the greatest love stories supposed to be messy?- Language:
- English
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Bookmarked by Maeraxys
14 Mar 2025
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“So, let me get this straight,” Crowley said, dragging that r a little for best effect. “Your librarian asks for an escort, and the first person you think of is me?”
When tabloid reporter Anthony Crowley gets roped into posing as the loving partner of their intern’s fussy librarian friend for an infernal wedding in the country, he has an inkling that he won’t come out of that little spot of bother unscathed. There is more to Aziraphale than meets the eye, and soon Crowley will discover that relationships are not for the faint of heart.
- Language:
- English
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- 403,339
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- 42/42
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- 9
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Bookmarked by Maeraxys
04 Feb 2024
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How Two Hands Touch by thefoxandtherose
Fandoms: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
05 Jul 2021
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Aziraphale didn't believe in reiki, or healing energies, or crystals, despite the thinly veiled implications and upsell offerings of this particular spa. But he believed in love. He believed in loving the people around him, and he believed in channeling that care into his work.
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Crowley seeks out a new massage therapist when his old injury starts giving him hell.Bookmarked by Maeraxys
22 Nov 2023
Bookmarker's Notes
“Holy buggering fuck!”
“Are you alright there, dear?"
"Might be, if you'd stop digging your thumb into my fucking rib," Crowley said, nearly laughing.
"Maybe," Aziraphale said sweetly, "you should relax your arm and breathe like I fucking asked you."
"Like you...wait, like you what ?"
"Breathe, I said."
"No - after that!"
"Oh, I'm afraid I'm not in the habit of repeating myself."
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“Look I just...I need to know why. If it's something...you know, if it's something I did, if I did something wrong, if I've offended you somehow..."
Aziraphale shook his head, adamantly. The idea of Crowley blaming himself was intolerable, when it had been his weakness, his failure to..."No, no you didn't-"
"I at least want a chance to say I'm sorry if-"
“No, Crowley, it’s -” and God, help him, he was going to have to say it. “It's me. It's a...a personal matter.”
Crowley had stopped pacing, but was looking at him now with open concern.
“Are you - wait, are you okay?” He shook his head, correcting himself. “I mean, sorry, sorry that’s…you don’t have to tell me, I just…”
Aziraphale drew a deep breath, measured his tone; he was going to try to explain this in as few words as possible. The bare minimum - the absolute minimum he needed to share to ease Crowley’s guilt. To offer reassurance. And then he was going to run, and hide, for as long as it took for him to forget that he'd ever been foolish enough to allow himself to fall into such a simple, careless trap.
"This...please understand that this is very...this is a very sensitive..." He took a deep breath and started again. "Crowley. My job requires a very high level of professionalism. People come to me hurting, or anxious, and you...they...there is a lot of trust placed in me. It's a very vulnerable position. And I take that very seriously."
Crowley still looked concerned, but he was laser focused, nodding. Trying to understand.
"And I...I found myself ... struggling to." He swallowed. "Struggling to remain professional. With you.”
Crowley looked suddenly bereft. "Because...is it because of the joking around? The swearing and the...the teasing? Because I can stop that, you know, if I’d known...I won't say anything..."
“No, Crowley please…”
“But I…”
"I care about you, Crowley." He nearly cried it, in this stupid car park of this stupid shopping centre, in this horrible banal spot that was making a mockery of the way his heart felt like it was being torn out of him. "I care about you, more than I should, and I found myself wanting...I've come dangerously close to…” the incident with Crowley’s hands loomed large in his mind, but he didn’t know how to say any more.
“You care about me," Crowley said, confused, and Aziraphale couldn’t meet his eyes.
"Yes."
"You....oh," he said, as though he was only just realizing something. "You're attracted to me."
Aziraphale swallowed past the tightness in his throat, carefully eyeing a discolored bit of pavement to his left. He nodded, once.
There was silence.
"So you see why I couldn't..."
"Does this happen often, then?" Crowley interrupted him, his voice uncertain.
Aziraphale did meet his eyes at that.
"Never," he said adamantly. "Never, never in 25 years - my dear, I'm so sorry..."
Crowley smiled a bit sadly.
"So. So I can't be your client anymore."
"I don't....I don't think it would be...."
"No, I get it," he said, softly. “I get it.”
The silence hung heavy between them.
"I'm not your client anymore." Crowley spoke slowly, and then suddenly looked up.
Aziraphale thought for a moment he was going to repeat it again, and he wasn’t sure he could bear to hear it. "Crowley…"
"No, no wait. Shut up. Sorry!” he said, immediately. “No, what I mean is...Aziraphale. Go to dinner with me."
Aziraphale felt a rush of confusion, then happiness, and then a sick sinking feeling in his stomach. What was this about?
"Crowley, please," he said, instinctively putting his hands up as though he could physically push the thought away. "Don’t...don't be unkind, I told you I was..."
"Aziraphale," he said, and suddenly his hands were caught, wrists held between the warm dry fingers of the other man. He stared at them, dumbfounded. "Please, I'm serious. If I'm not a client anymore I can...I can ask you that, now, can't I?"
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That this could be the kingdom by seekwill for Mussimm
Fandoms: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Good Omens (TV)
20 Dec 2019
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I have lived my whole life with a wrecked heart. Fr. Aziraphale Fell’s present mirrors his past, as long ago roommate, classmate, and former friend Anthony Crowley reappears in his life in an unexpected and disarming way, challenging Aziraphale’s choices, and bringing him back to the breaking point, when he made a decision he couldn’t take back. It isn’t temptation, it’s revelation.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 21,385
- Chapters:
- 1/1
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- 9
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- 387
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- 2,142
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- 716
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Bookmarked by Maeraxys
14 Jan 2024
Bookmarker's Notes
From the moment I met you…” Crowley’s breathing is ragged. Aziraphale’s too. They are on the precipice. They are on the edge of fucking up their entire lives. Crowley groans through the screen. Aziraphale can make out the outline of Crowley’s face and he imagines the rest of it, the creases at the corners of his eyes, forehead pinched in pain. “I have loved you.” Aziraphale’s hands come to his face, his breath is hot on his palms. Oh Christ. Oh, Jesus Christ. “Every day of my life. You were so kind. So light, like you were made of air. And warm. I didn’t have words for it then. I didn’t know what it was and when I did, I couldn’t… I couldn’t…”
Aziraphale knows.
“I thought when I left it would go away, yeah? I thought it would stop but you were always there, in my peripheral vision. You’ve been fucking haunting me. And me, I’m an idiot because I thought seeing you would jolt me out of it. Thought seeing you in your collar and your vestments and still living here and doing this absolute horseshit would dash me out of it but it hasn’t. You’re still good, Aziraphale. You believe some absolute garbage but you’re so good. And being with you, seeing you, all it’s done is remind me that I have lived my whole life with a wrecked heart.” His voice cracks, just inches away. Aziraphale wants to hold him, wants to run his fingertips over that sad, wry mouth. “Why didn’t you come with me?”
He opens his mouth to speak - I wanted to. I was so scared. I didn’t know what was inside of me. I didn’t know what we meant. I was so scared to give it a name. - and says “I’m sorry.”
Crowley breathes hard. “When I look at you… when you look at me…” He stops, he is building up to something, and it comes out in a torrent. “Am I alone in this? Tell me if I’m alone in this, and I will go, and you will never hear from me, ever again.”
Aziraphale realizes that he is crying, has been since Crowley said I have loved you . Because it was too much. Too much to hope he would ever be loved, could still be loved now, after all this time, after what he did. That Crowley could keep coming back to him. He sobs, once, tries to choke it back.
“Angel?”
A lightning strike. An electric shock. Crowley calling him angel. “No,” he sputters. His hand comes up and presses into the screen. He is furious there is a wall between them and at the same time, he wouldn’t be able to survive if there was just Crowley and him and these words.
“No?” Crowley’s voice sounds like hope.
“No, you’re not alone in this.”
Crowley’s hand is on the screen too. He can feel it against his.
To give this thing a name. "I love you." It has always been true. It has never not been true. He drops his forehead against the barrier, and waits to feel shame, but it never arrives. Instead it feels like his ribcage has opened on hinges, and his heart is beating furiously in the open air, gasping for breath. Unburied. Alive. God is present, has not left and will not leave.
“I love you, Aziraphale.”
“How can you forgive me?” He asks. “After what I did.”
“I forgive you.”
“How?”
“Just do. Love you.”
A wound that has been open inside of him since that night in the rain begins to heal. It will leave a scar, but it will heal.
“You will always have a place to go,” says Crowley, voice changed, a cautious optimism taking hold. “If you leave.”
When, when.
Then there are sounds of movement and Crowley’s hand is down from the screen and light briefly shines through from the curtain being opened. Aziraphale scrambles to his feet to open the door to the confessional but the handle flies out from under his fingers, opens up to Crowley, staring at him. Eyes rimmed red and mouth unsteady. In his hand, a business card.
“If you leave.” Crowley thrusts the card at him. “You can stay at my place.”
Aziraphale takes the card, his fingertips brushing against Crowley’s. The brief moment of contact is a revelation. He holds the card in his hands, an address scribbled on the back.
When Aziraphale looks up from the treasure he holds Crowley leans forward the stops, as if he remembers where he is. “You’re more than this,” he hisses, and even though his voice is small and contained it still reverberates through the empty cathedral. “And you know that.”
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Summary
In which temptations are accomplished, grand romantic gestures are made, and two ineffable co-stars only take four seasons of an award-winning television program to realize they’re on their own side (at last, at last.)
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 95,505
- Chapters:
- 12/12
- Collections:
- 11
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- 5,609
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- 16,020
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Bookmarked by Maeraxys
22 Jan 2024
Bookmarker's Notes
Chapter 9
(The last person Crowley loved had hair like expensive writing paper, and skin as soft as petals.
He was fussy and he was kind. He wore cravats and waistcoats and looked like a Victorian dandy who had rolled around in a bunch of second-hand books.
They met at a film premiere.
The last person Crowlety loved wasn’t sharp at all - he was soft. He was soft and round-edged and gentle-fingered. He was something Crowley didn’t think he’d ever want until he didn’t want anything else.
They kissed for the first time for a television scene, and Crowley pinned him up against a hotel door and let his wasted heart burn itself black beneath his ribcage.
He was forty-six. Too old to feel like this.
But some days he felt a lot older.
The last person Crowley loved was a spark in a bed of straw. A headlight at the end of a long road. A lighthouse on the coast - a lighthouse that called the Velvet Underground “bebop” and loved dark chocolate and rare meat and told Crowley - nothing. He never really put it into words, did he?
Though once, once, he called Crowley “love.”
Oh.
And this soft heartache was somehow the sharpest of them all.)