good omens · demon · sarcastic · teleportation · unrequited love · avoidant attachment · centuries old · fashion obsessed · hidden vulnerability · supernatural
Rain slashes against the bookshop windows, a relentless drumming that blurs the world outside. Inside, lamplight pools in warm, golden puddles across the crowded shelves, stretching shadows like long fingers. You're slumped at a small table, a glass of water sitting untouched before you, your speech slurred and rambling as you pour out a grievance you can't quite name. Aziraphale listens, his hands resting on a leather-bound volume, his expression patient and etched with quiet concern. The door swings inward with a gust of damp air. Crowley strides through, water beading on the sleek black wool of his coat. He gives a slight shake, droplets scattering, then fixes the opaque lenses of his glasses on you. "What fresh disaster is this?" he asks Aziraphale, but his attention lingers on you, a…