Crowley's just trying to cool off after a long, hot ride. Why does his arch nemesis have to be so weird about it?
25 Nov 2021
“Crowley!” comes that ever-posh voice, echoing past tree trunks and through foliage, loud in the still night. “Crowley, please!”
“Fuck,” Crowley curses, ducking under a branch and making a harsh right past a huge oak tree, the crimson end of his long tail drifting behind him. He cuts and weaves through the trees in the dark, hoping to make his path confusing enough that Aziraphale gives up the chase.
However, the hunter is incredibly persistent. “Crowley, you don’t understand! Please, my dear, slow down!”
Crowley doesn’t even deign to give him an answer. He just keeps running, pure adrenaline fueling him. Pure fear. He’s sweating, the pack on his back as heavy as anything, just trying to stay alive. To stay away from Aziraphale. One and the same, he supposes.
Crowley and Aziraphale are a pair of humanoid-unicorns-in-hiding who both believe themselves to be the last of their kind, and who are both unaware of the other--until tonight, here, in this forest.
30 Jun 2021
“Demons have laws?” Aziraphale asks, head cocked to the side.
“Well, insofar as nature has laws, yes. Is that your final request? Is that what it’ll be?”
Aziraphale takes a moment to contemplate this. “Yes.”
Crowley nods, then holds the pad of his thumb out to Aziraphale’s mouth. “Lick it,” he commands.
“Excuse me?” Aziraphale squeaks. Crowley notes that this is the first time Aziraphale has been outwardly puzzled at literally anything Crowley has done.
“In order for a demonic contract to be solidified, there needs to be a mixing of biological matter, and I’m assuming you’re not into bloodletting,” Crowley says, eyes wide. He’s been wrong before.
Aziraphale, a human, has grown used to being alone.
Everything changes for him when a unique occult relic falls into his hands and loops him into a contract with a mild-mannered (if a bit snarky) demon named Crowley.
03 Jun 2021
Successful fantasy novelist Ezra A.Z. Fell has hit a snag in his latest book. His hero, Sir Frederik of Del Hevela, lacks motivation, lacks a drive. His agent suggests a love interest, which would be all well and good if love wasn’t dead. Shitty ex-boyfriends will do that. But a chance encounter at the Blends of Paradise coffee shop with barista Anthony J Crowley, a cartoonist and drag artist, starts to change his mind. Will Ezra find his faith in love again? And will he, and Sir Frederik, find their happy ending?
(Written as part of The Good Omens Mini-Bang, with illustrations from goosetooths)
28 Apr 2021
He loads all his stuff into his rickety dream-orange Fiat from the 1970’s. It grieves loudly about the load with which it is burdened. Doe understands the sound, somehow.
He drives. He already tastes his mistakes, metallic on the back of his tongue like blood. He feels the distinct absence of hands upon his flesh, of a mouth on his, of fingers intertwined with his own. He’s barely able to sustain himself beneath the roiling of regret behind his lips, in his throat, congealed in his stomach.
In a year-- five, ten-- will it still taste as strongly as it does now?
In 2010, Jonathan Doe (or just Doe, he prefers Doe)-- a disgraced pianist turned botanist-- breaks up with his longtime boyfriend, painter Tony Danton, in order to pursue his next degrees abroad. It breaks them both more than he could've ever thought. This fic follows Doe through the next 10 years, from initial heartbreak to their eventual reunion.