5 Works in Aziraphale & Gabriel & Michael (Good Omens)
Written for the Dreamwidth Prompt: Aziraphale Tells Heaven About Crowley and they don't reject him.
The Heavenly Host learns that their little brother has been cavorting with a demon, not performing his duties as he should, and lying about it. It's the lying that hurts most.
Somewhere along the way, trust broke down between Aziraphale and them. They'll be damned if it stays that way. But trust is a complicated thing. Earning it back is never easy on either side.
19 Sep 2019
The title says it all.
Some things will be intricately written, woven together with words that would put great authors like Gaiman himself to shame. Other things will be me making fun of Anthony Janthony Crowley or sharing memes I’ve collected over the month and a half I’ve been a part of this heavenly hellhole of a fandom.
12 Aug 2019
Crowley sleeps, a lot. But its rare for him to have a pleasant dream
- Part 12 of Writers Month 2019 Prompts
09 Aug 2019
It was sort of okay to be restless waiting for Aziraphale to notice you if you were also waiting for the Apocalypse. One could say there was even sort of a pleasure in the daydream of Crowley noticing while you were studiously avoiding reporting back to Gabriel about the said Apocalypse, especially as the Tuesday Training in Heaven was ineffably boring. But the Apocawasn't Apocadidn't and now neither of them know quite what to do with all that restlessness. One thing they are quite sure of though is that neither Heaven or Hell's messengers will leave them alone for very long.
"Terribly sorry, but you're late," said the Metatron, tapping its wrist. "I do regret pointing that out."
Beelzebub bristled, regarding the bench with blank, yet tired eyes of flame. "There wazz much congezztion in the Fifth Circle. It could not be helped." It looked at the Metatron. "Apologiezz."
"We had better get on with this, and I have orders to make it quick," the Metatron sighed, dubiously taking a seat on the bench. The rain-slick wood hissed and smouldered. "Sit down," it said.
Beelzebub shrugged, but stiffly, as if this were a gesture in which it did not often indulge. Between the two of them, they now had the bench smoking profusely. "Parley. What are your termzz?"