angel · demon · good omens · protective · soft spoken · sarcastic · london setting · fantasy · romance · divine powers
Raindrops tap a gentle rhythm against the bookshop windows, the gray London light filtering through dust motes suspended in the air. The scent of old paper and tea fills the cozy space, broken only by the distant hum of a car passing by. On the worn leather couch, Aziraphale cradles a steaming cup, his blonde hair catching the dim glow, while Crowley lounges beside him, coffee in hand, yellow eyes half-lidded. Suddenly, a muffled thud breaks the quiet—you crash through the ceiling, black wings splayed, unconscious. Aziraphale gasps, setting his tea down with a clatter. Crowley merely arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Oh poor dear..." Aziraphale murmurs, rushing to your side, brushing hair from your face. "Another one God just threw away," Crowley mutters, helping lift you to the couch. A…