No, said Aziraphale, it's ineffable.

NO BUT YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND

Duo postulant percipitur honestatis et, eu discere deseruisse theophrastus ius. Graece doctus in vim, id nam utamur explicari. Eam id oporteat volutpat suavitate, has ei error senserit. Solet aliquid te ius, est quem ipsum ea. Ei his quod posse iriure, torquatos persecuti at qui, ei legere iuvaret reprehendunt sea. Nam scripta fabulas eu, mea ut labores persequeris. Vis ex solum contentiones, usu ex quodsi denique sententiae, at vix enim ullum error.
Vel ubique explicari ne, quem ponderum ad eos. Et eius tibique eos, ea pro dicant partem abhorreant. Dolorum imperdiet ea vim, euismod laboramus cum in. Ius vero salutatus cu.
Mel ad sonet accusam. Mei wisi integre persequeris te, nobis discere duo ut. Has aliquid necessitatibus ea, sit te putent commune scripserit, his ferri movet perfecto ad. Vidisse incorrupte ad pro, ad cum nostro mnesarchum voluptatum. Mei dicam feugait maluisset ex. Sit mollis eligendi ad.
Id vim tota antiopam platonem, te sit audire viderer vocibus. Dicunt forensibus cotidieque te nam. Ad mel veniam corpora, ius et decore eligendi, quo falli numquam ex. Qualisque vulputate scriptorem et est, ea illum suscipit eam. Usu alienum praesent electram ea, quo utamur dolores id, dicant adipisci neglegentur eu nam. No mutat libris mea, movet persius detraxit vim cu, mel cu ceteros fabellas necessitatibus.
Has ei habeo nobis decore. Nam labitur consulatu te, no malorum indoctum honestatis ius. Eu vix paulo tantas, mea ut minim atomorum consequuntur, docendi singulis cu sea. Pro ad nonumy aliquando, at possit possim vel.

lywinis asked:

Ineffable Husbands: Crowley swears those ducks are plotting to ruin their picnic.

bearfeathers answered:

A little known fact: heaven was responsible for the creation of ducks, but hell was responsible for their personalities. Typically Crowley found this good for a laugh, but right this moment he can’t help but feel the threat of karma crawling up his spine.

Crowley is on a picnic. More specifically, he is on a picnic with Aziraphale in St. James Park. Crowley has finally smoothed out the blanket (a ridiculous tartan pattern, because what else would it be) to his satisfaction after ten minutes of fussing and the angel’s insistence that, really, it needn’t be perfect.

Anything less than perfect just won’t do for Crowley though. Not for this. Not for this tentative New Thing between them that is essentially the same as their Old Thing but is still markedly more involved. Neither of them had really said… anything specific. In their typical fashion they skirted around what they both wished to say without actually managing to say it and still somehow leaving the conversation with an understanding that things would be Different now.

He supposes things change on principle when one averts the apocalypse.

“Are you certain you’re alright?” Aziraphale asks, squeezing the handle of the picnic basket between both his hands. Crowley thinks if he squeezes any harder it’ll splinter. “You know, you didn’t have to agree to a picnic just because I suggested it.”

“I didn’t,” Crowley says as he plops down on the blanket.

He did.

But he’d agree to nearly anything Aziraphale suggests if it means an excuse to be near the angel. Not that a picnic is such a terrible thing, in theory. It’s just that he hasn’t been able to shake the feeling of being followed. Watched. Hunted?

“Do the ducks usually wander this far into the park?” Crowley wonders aloud, suddenly noticing just how many seem to be waddling around them.

“Well they’re hardly confined to the pond,” Aziraphale says, retrieving the bottle of wine and two glasses he’d packed in the basket. “I suspect they’re free to go wherever they choose.”

“…nnnnnnyeah,” Crowley agrees reluctantly.

Maybe they are free to go where they like, but in his opinion that’s even less reason to trust the little buggers. He narrows his eyes as the angel hands him a glass of wine, listening to the soft quacks growing in number and volume as Aziraphale retrieves a packet of crackers. There’s a predatory glint in all those soulless, beady little eyes, he swears.

“You’re quite certain that nothing is bothering you?” Aziraphale asks, threatening to turn the pack of crackers to breadcrumbs with his anxious hands.

“Would you stop your fretting?” Crowley replies, sipping from his glass. “If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Aziraphale muses. He fiddles with the package, taking his time opening it. “I’m projecting, aren’t I?”

“Projecting?” Crowley echoes curiously.

“Well, I mean, assuming you’re as anxious as I am by… er… all of this,” Aziraphale admits.

A light flush rises on his cheeks and Crowley catches his meaning. All of this. This thing between them that they’ve acknowledged but managed to neither define nor speak of in any explicit terms. Feathery threat forgotten for the moment, he leans in just enough to bump shoulders with the angel.

“Aziraphale. Relax,” Crowley says. “It’s just us. Just like always, yeah?”

If anything that only serves the fluster Aziraphale further, who is now wrinkling the pack of crackers in earnest.

“Of course,” he answers, clearing his throat. “Thank you. For being patient with me. For always being patient with me.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

That earns him a soft laugh and he feels some of the nervous tension leave the air. It’s easy to play cool when the angel can’t tell that his heart is beating fit to burst out his chest.

“It’s funny,” Aziraphale says, slowly opening the package in his hands.

“What’s funny?”

“You’d think what with me being an angel it would be easier to say—”

Crowley has no idea what it is the angel was going to say, because the package of crackers has been opened. Normally this wouldn’t be something you would blink twice at. But in this case, the sound has the same effect as chum dropped in shark infested waters. Over the sound of loud quacking and flapping wings, Crowley can still hear Aziraphale’s high pitched shriek as the ducks descend upon them.

He knew the little bastards were up to something. But his vindication is short lived as he finds himself swinging their picnic basket in an attempt to disperse the ducks. There’s an offended gasp from someone nearby as he punts one of the feathery bêtes noires back to the watery pit it came from, but Crowley’s never been one to care about the opinions of the great unwashed and he’s not about to start now.

At last, admitting to himself that he’s fighting a losing battle, the demon grabs his companion by the arm and hauls him off, the ridiculous tartan patterned blanket trailing behind them like a flag of surrender. They don’t stop until they’ve reached the Bentley, hurriedly locking themselves inside. The two huff and puff inside the car, from either the run or a newfound case of anatidaephobia. Or both.

(It’s possible that Crowley jumps, just a little, when one of the little blighters lands on the hood of the Bentley. Aziraphale may or may not scream when it seemingly combusts of its own accord in an explosion of feathers. Neither party will admit to these.)

“What was it that was supposed to be easy for you to say?” Crowley asks, once he’s got enough of his breath back to speak.

“I…”

Aziraphale stares back at him, hazel eyes wide as he catches his breath. There’s wine soaked into his clothes, he’s covered in cracker crumbs and there are duck feathers stuck on his jacket and in his curly hair.

He looks ridiculous.

But he looks beautiful, too.

“I love you,” he blurts breathlessly.

Yes, he’s ridiculous. But beautiful, too.

Good Omens

Hey everyone, sorry for the lack of an update last week – as well as getting less than usual done for various reasons, I also started work on a number of things without finishing any of them. Things are back on track now, though, and today I have another piece of fanart to share. After seeing the TV adaptation of Good Omens, I wanted to draw this excellent scene of Crowley driving through the M25 Ring of Fire; the top panel inspired directly from a shot in the show, and the lower panel with my own embellishment.

a helpful tutorial

elise-simpson

I was taking with my friend about good omens and we were wondering how the hell aziraphale-as-crowley managed to get into that bath without getting his socks wet and so I drew this ‘helpful’ guide.

I like to imagine that all the demons had to just awkwardly stand around watching him clamber around getting into this bathtub… @neil-gaiman can you confirm?

neil-gaiman

This is even better than the people trying to get Good Omens cancelled on Netflix. I might confirm it when I stop laughing.

alaska-riversong

I have been thinking about this scene a lot and while I appreciate the OP’s version as well as the very fine illustration, I can’t help but slightly disagree. I have always seen Crowley stand at the foot edge of the tub, raise his arms dramatically, falling backward in slow motion with an evil grin on his face, making a massive splash like the dramatic bitch that he is. It took a minor miracle to not get his socks wet, but it was worth it. Now I need an illustration of the entry I described for comparison…. for science of course.

elise-simpson

a comparison! (for science, of course)