catscraftsandcommentary
Terry Pratchett, you goddamn genius wordsmith. The world is poorer for your absence.
imboldygoingtohell
about to hit the hardest whip ever known to mankind
windmillcrusader
newgameplus
It looks like this:
Crowley stands at the counter in sweatpants and combat boots, muttering to himself as he counts out bills with hands shaking from the release of adrenaline for a bag of chips (he’s always starving after a gig) and a pack of cigarettes (Aziraphale is going to tut at him and refuse to kiss him until he brushes his teeth, but he insists the nicotine will settle him). Aziraphale is beside him, his crisp white collar smudged with lipstick; his cheek and lips are stained red.
(It looks like this:
Crowley does drag every Saturday night, and has for almost twenty years. Aziraphale has been at nearly every one of his shows, and he always sits right by the stage, always stands up to cheer at Crowley’s act, always throws a flower on the stage–when they’re both gainfully employed, he’ll buy one; when they’re not, he’ll pick one, from a rose bush outside a bank or a patch of pansies in the park, or even a weed if he must, never picked from the flowers Crowley keeps on their small and structurally unsound balcony–and when it’s over, he’ll make his way to the green room, and the moment he enters, Crowley will drop his makeup wipe and run to him, fling himself into his arms, pepper his face with kisses, dizzy with the energy of a show, and the other queens will roll their eyes and groan and hide their smiles behind makeup brushes and hands, and sometimes Aziraphale, if his back isn’t bothering him too terribly, will spin him around–he always did when they were younger, but retail is hell on the body–but he’ll always tell him he did wonderfully, he looks beautiful, it was his best show yet, and he says it so earnestly Crowley can’t help but believe him)
He holds the duffel bag with Crowley’s costume in it and his heels, because Crowley is not going to put those wretched things back on; he might’ve strutted home towering over London at twenty-five, but he’s going on forty now, he’s too old for that, and he doesn’t need heels to make his ass look great, thanks. Or so Aziraphale tells him, and that’s the only opinion that matters, he supposes. There’s glitter falling off him every time he moves; it’s in his hairline, and smeared on the bills. The cashier has worked this shift for months now, she’s used to it.
(It looks like this:
Almost every Saturday, on the walk home, Crowley begins complaining that he’s hungry, and Aziraphale will tell him that he told him so, he wanted to bring biscuits but Crowley said no, he’s cutting back on the sweets, it’s all lean greens for him, here on, just you watch, angel, I’m going vegan, and Crowley will whine until he agrees, and they’ll stop at the corner store and Crowley will pick out some junk food or another, admitting he sees now the foolishness of healthy living, who cares about sodium or sugar, everyone dies eventually, if he dies of cheese puffs, he’ll count himself lucky, and sometimes Aziraphale will get a snack cake if he’s feeling peckish, and when they go to the counter, he’ll nonchalantly ask for a pack of smokes. And Aziraphale will remind him, quite archly, that he said he was quitting, and Crowley will say, “I am, angel, just this once, i’ve gotta settle down somehow or i won’t sleep” and Aziraphale will point out he bought a pack last week, and if he isn’t smoking them, why does he need to buy another pack tonight? And Crowley, who is terrible at lying to him, will avoid his eyes and mutter about losing them or Hastur at work bumming off him on breaks, which isn’t technically a lie, the bastard.)
The florescent lights are harsh, and they look all wrong on Aziraphale, who seems to radiate a kind of warm lamplight that contrasts oddly with cold overheads, but Crowley catches his distorted reflection in the locked glass case of cigarettes, and vain as he is, he thinks they look nice on him, making the cut of his cheekbones look harsher than they are, the red of his hair bloody, the hollows between his knuckles dark. His hands look old, he thinks, like he’s lived much longer than he has.
He and Aziraphale make an odd pair, he knows, admiring them in the reflection. Aziraphale, wearing an argyle sweatervest and a plaid tie, in his tweed jacket and corduroys and round glasses; Crowley, sloppily-removed makeup staining his face, in an ONLY ANARCHISTS ARE PRETTY shirt that’s older than the cashier whose screen-printed text can hardly even be read anymore, and his flash Valentino sunglasses he found in a charity shop and loved so much they took out of their savings for, and then of course their AC window unit stopped working two days later in the middle of the heatwave, but Aziraphale swore it was worth it, handsome as he looked in them. They look odd, he knows, but he likes it. He loves it.
The cashier hands him his receipt and his change with his pack of cigarettes, and Crowley holds the door for Aziraphale on their way out. He lights a cigarette, and Aziraphale grouses at him to go and walk on the other side of the street if he’s going to be smoking one of those awful things, but he lets Crowley take his arm, lean his head on his shoulder, even takes a drag when Crowley offers him one, his lips meeting Crowley’s fingers on the filter. He’ll never accept the cigarette if Crowley tries to pass it to him, but he nearly always will if Crowley puts it up to his mouth, holds onto it himself. Crowley doesn’t know why; he still coughs and makes faces and says how awful it is, but he likes it, so he doesn’t ask.
“I wrote tonight’s song for you,” Crowley tells him in the dark street, and Aziraphale huffs a laugh; it’s more well-trod ground between them, familiar and never boring.
“You wrote I Really Like You by Carly Rae Jepsen for me?” Aziraphale teases, and Crowley nods solemnly. “How grand of you, dear, writing me another pop sensation.”
“Gotta tell the whole world,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale rolls his eyes, as if he’s joking, which won’t do, so he says, “I’m serious! I’ll tell everyone, angel,” and he raises his voice to shout into the quiet street, “I really, really, really–”
“Crowley!” Aziraphale scolds, but he’s laughing, “it’s one in the morning, people are trying to sleep!”
“What’re they dreaming of that’s better than what we’ve got?” Crowley says, and Aziraphale blushes at that, ducks his head to hide his smile, and Crowley takes a drag of his cigarette, pleased with himself, pleased with the man on his arm, pleased with the lipstick on his cheek that matches the stain on Crowley’s mouth, pleased with the glitter on the cigarette where he holds it between two fingers, pleased with the stamp of his old boots echoing in the street.
(It looks like this:
In the morning, Aziraphale will wake up early, bustle around in the kitchen trying his best to be quiet so he doesn’t wake Crowley on his one day off, but the kitchen as small as it is, Aziraphale as clumsy as he is, the walls as thin as they are, it’s a hopeless cause, and he’ll leave for church, and Crowley will roll into the warm spot he left in the bed. He’ll fall back to sleep with his face pressed into the pillow that smells like his shampoo, thinking that it’s a good thing he’s already got everything he might pray for and God had nothing to do with it, or else he might have to get up and go to church with all the other sorry bastards (and Aziraphale, who he thinks prays for inner peace and money and probably begs forgiveness for whatever blasphemy Crowley’s been cheerfully spewing the past week). Really, he thinks the hours are the whole reason he left the church. He could never worship a morning person.
Or at least, given Aziraphale’s tendency to wake at dawn, not another one.)
iwilltrytobereasonable
ao3feed-goodomens
Savor
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2Kvn2My
by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)
Aziraphale and Crowley are on their honeymoon … in Paris. Crowley really wants his husband. His husband really wants to finish his slice of cake. Crowley tries to find some way to persuade him.
Words: 876, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English
- Fandoms: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Good Omens (TV)
- Rating: Mature
- Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
- Categories: M/M
- Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)
- Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
- Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Mildly Suggestive Content, basically Crowley is really horny for his husband, Aziraphale is really horny for cake
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2Kvn2My
stickyfrogs
fuckyeahneedlework
ms-aileen-valentine-deactivated
I know this project is wonky and I threw a fit over how it turned but you know what? I’m not giving up because I’ve come so far in the project it’s sloppy and I’ve been comparing my work to others and it’s made me feel inferior. I even threw this project across the room because I hated how Artemis and Luna aren’t evenly spaced from Diana but screw it, I’m going to finish this project and be proud I made something like this.
Awww, my friend, I know things like this can be really frustrating. But just think - you took this and you made it your own, and I think it looks lovely.
trek-tracks
apathetic-revenant
The fact that Star Trek’s Wild West episode featured the entire main male cast *except* for antique-pistol-and-dueling-obsessed Sulu…is a shame.
Spock: The bullets are not real.
Sulu: Aw, man :(
number 1 on the list of missed opportunities for this episode. number 2 is that nobody put DeForest Kelley in a cowboy hat.
Here you go
finally…the perfect episode
It’s getting a little crowded at this corral, but your wish is my command
Gunfight at the Damn Fine Corral
mind--master
normal-horoscopes
A NEW SOUL JOINS
WELCOME @augustdementhe YOUR CARDS ARE:
THE SUICIDE KING
THE SUMMER QUEEN
THE AUTUMN LADY
The Suicide King seems to be in a lot of spreads recently, seems the world is urging many people to reconcile with the tragedies of their past. But then comes the Summer Queen, raw emotion, to reap exactly what you have sewn into the world. A powerful card, especially when followed by the Autumn Lady, who represents the dusk of this chapter of your life, she is to move on.
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neil-gaiman