#[ again ]
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Okay but like hiccup and Astrid were 110% on the aspectrum like there is no way they arenât a little greysexual/demiromantic
#I was tied down by my baby counsin and made to watch HTTYD 1#again#but rewatching all rtte was all on me#Iâm not even sorry#itâs a good fucking show#asexual#aromantic#aroace
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#charlie's face đ#again#the way she looks at al at times is hilarious#also the horror on lucifer's face#he must've thought there was something going on between them#especially with al mentioning that he's ' happy to fulfill her bizarre requests'#charlie morningstar#alastor the radio demon#lucifer morningstar#charlastor#radiobelle#charlie x alastor
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I...I think I just spent 13 hours processing my newest trauma through Aziraphale and ended up writing the most serious and fucking real break up scene between Aziraphale and Crowley I've ever even considered writing
I...Fucking hell
Just-
I sat here, tears in my eyes, and I chose them to help me procress and I just wrote the most real thing that ever came out of my lil fingertips
I will not throw this away. I will figure out a way to write a story around this scene alone, but I'm just going to leave it here for now. Cause, fuck.
It's still not refined, mind you. I just wrote this and felt like posting it here, so nevermind the mistakes and whatnot
Crowley awoke to sunlight spilling over him, casting a warm glow that he immediately tried to escape. He groaned, pulling the blankets over his head, desperate to keep the world out a little longer. But as he tugged the covers, he noticed a strange weight to themânot quite right, somehow softer, smelling faintly of old books and tea. The dissonance nagged at his half-dreaming mind, until the realization hit him, sharp and sudden.
This wasnât his bed. This was Aziraphaleâs.
Memories surged, each one a jolt to his drowsy senses. Aziraphale collapsing into his arms, Raphaelâs sombre warning about the angelâs deteriorating core, the fear that it might devour him from within. Crowley recalled their painful conversationâAziraphale pressing his pinky ring into his hand and giving him an ancient box, packed with letters, photographs and sketches. Each drawing was of Crowleyâhis eyes, his smile, his handsâcaptured in Aziraphaleâs tender, attentive gaze. They were relics, moments preserved over centuries, a farewell gift for Crowley to remember him by ifâŠ
Then he remembered the new attack at night. Aziraphaleâs body trembling, his essence struggling against itself, and Crowley, desperately holding him close, trying to soothe the angel through the worst of it, following Raphaelâs advice as best he could.
Finally, exhausted, Aziraphale had drifted off, leaving Crowley to watch over him until sleep claimed him too.
Crowley reached across the bed, expecting the familiar warmth beside him, only to feel the cold emptiness of the sheets. Panic surged through him, flooding his senses and banishing any lingering sleep. His heart pounded as he sat up, scanning the room with wild, searching eyes.
âAziraphale!â he called out, his voice hoarse, thick with fear. He pushed himself out of bed, stumbling, as he searched the flat in a frenzy.
He dashed down the stairs, heart racing with every step, calling Aziraphaleâs name. His voice echoed through the stillness of the bookshop, each unanswered call intensifying his dread.
Then, he spotted him.
Aziraphale sat at his desk, removing his reading glasses with that calm, familiar gesture, looking up at Crowley with a mildly perplexed expression, as though yesterdayâs horrors were nothing but a forgotten dream. He was impeccably dressed, the picture of serene composure, as if-.
âCrowley?â Aziraphaleâs voice was soft, achingly gentle, piercing through Crowleyâs panic and grounding him in a way only the angelâs presence ever could.
Crowley freezes, his breath catching in his throat as a rush of disbelief floods through him, quickly followed by an overwhelming tide of relief that he barely knows how to process. His heart is a frantic drumbeat in his chest, each thud like a battering ram against his ribs. The word escapes him in a choked whisper, almost too quiet to hear. âAziraphaleâŠâ His name sounds foreign on his lips, trembling, as if heâs afraid speaking it too loudly might shatter this fragile moment. Without thinking, he takes a step, then another, his feet moving quicker than his mind can catch up.
Aziraphale watches him, his expression a study in calm, but thereâs a subtle sorrow hidden behind those soft eyes. He sets his book aside with deliberate slowness, as if aware of the weight of the moment, as if he understands how badly Crowley needs him to be real, to *be here.* When Crowley reaches him, he stops, every inch of his body tense, his eyes scanning Aziraphaleâs face like a desperate search for any crack, any fracture, anything that would suggest the angel is not whole. Heâs afraid to blink, afraid that when his eyes open again, Aziraphale might disappear.
âI-I thoughtâŠâ Crowley starts, the words stumbling from his lips, each syllable trembling as if the very act of speaking could unravel everything. His breath is shallow, the air thick with an almost suffocating fear. His chest is tight, constricted, and his heart thunders in his ears as he struggles to form a thought that makes any sense at all. But the fear that clings to him like a shadow has no words, no logic. All that remains is this raw, pulsing panic, the lingering horror of something worse just out of reach.
Aziraphaleâs eyes soften, a glimmer of understanding passing through them. He steps closer, slowly, deliberately, as if every movement is meant to reassure, to calm. His hands rise, gentle, placing themselves on Crowleyâs shoulders with a touch that feels both familiar and distant. Itâs cold. The coolness of Aziraphaleâs fingers seeps into Crowleyâs skin, a stark contrast to the warmth he craves, and something inside him snaps. Heâs here, yes, but thereâs something wrong. Somethingâs missing.
âForgive me, my dear,â Aziraphale says, his voice gentle but carrying a depth of sorrow, as though he, too, feels the weight of the unspoken words between them. âI woke hours ago and couldnât bear to disturb your rest.â His hand moves up, his fingers brushing a lock of Crowleyâs hair away from his forehead with such tenderness that it almost aches. But the coldness of that touch, too, is an unforgivable reminder of the fragility of this moment, of how close they came to losing everything. Yesterday lingers between them, a tangible thing, and Crowley can almost taste the terror that still clings to the edges of his mind.
Crowleyâs breath shudders in his chest, his hands moving on their own to grab Aziraphaleâs wrists, the action almost frantic, his fingers trembling with an urgency he canât control. He holds on as if the simple act of touch can anchor him to this reality, to the feeling of Aziraphale being alive, being here. âYou⊠you scared me, angel,â Crowley breathes, his voice hoarse, cracking under the weight of the emotions heâs barely able to express. âI thoughtâŠâ He falters, unable to finish the sentence, unable to voice the horror that still simmers in the pit of his stomach. His pulse races, but the relief he should be feeling is tangled with something darker, something deeper that refuses to let go.
Aziraphaletakes hold of Crowleyâs hands, his fingers cold, tremblingâjust as they were yesterday. The coldness isnât just the absence of warmth, itâs something else, something more. A coldness that seeps into Crowleyâs bones, that gnaws at his soul. The tremors in Aziraphaleâs touch are like a faint echo of the nightmare they just survived, a reminder that whatever theyâve survivedâwhatever theyâve wonâisnât over. Not yet.
âTake a deep breath, my dear,â Aziraphale murmurs, his voice low and soothing, yet edged with something brittle, something that tells Crowley this calm is fragile, as if one wrong move could shatter it. Aziraphaleâs thumb traces circles on Crowleyâs knuckles, slow, deliberate, trying to steady him. But the touch is faint, delicate, like the fluttering wings of a moth in the dark, and Crowley feels the tremors of Aziraphaleâs fingers under his own, an unmistakable sign that the danger still looms over them. The same cold fear claws at Crowleyâs insides, pulling him down into a place he doesnât want to go, a place where he canât save Aziraphale, canât stop whatever is coming.
Crowley inhales sharply, the breath caught in his chest, but it does little to calm the panic roiling inside him. He squeezes Aziraphaleâs hands harder, his knuckles white with the effort, trying to hold on to something, anything, that might give him control over this suffocating fear. âHow can you stay so calm?â His voice cracks, thick with emotion, the words escaping like a ragged plea. âHow can you act like nothingâs wrong when youâŠâ He canât finish the sentence. Itâs too much. The thought hangs in the air, suffocating him, a silent terror too vast to voice.
Aziraphaleâs lips form a smileâgentle, almost pityingâbut it doesnât reach his eyes. Itâs a smile that feels like a lie. He lifts Crowleyâs hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to it with the same chilling coldness thatâs invaded every inch of their world. The touch is wrong. So wrong. Crowley feels it deep in his bones, the absence of warmth, the emptiness where something vital should be. Aziraphaleâs warmth has always been his anchor, but now it feels like a lie, like something pretending to be real.
Aziraphale pulls back slightly, his gaze meeting Crowleyâs with an intensity that sends a shiver down his spine. âWe said what we had to say yesterday, remember?â he whispers, his voice soft, but the words heavy with unspoken truths. âItâs done, my dear.â He kisses Crowleyâs hand again, the coldness like a knife to Crowleyâs heart. âNow we just have to keep going and see what happens.â
Crowley feels his heart twist at the words. Keep going? The question hangs between them like a stone. How could he go on, knowing that at any moment, the coldness might take over, that Aziraphaleâs life might slip away, like sand through his fingers? How could he keep living in a world where any breath might be the last?
âKeep going?â Crowley repeats, his voice raw with emotion. âYou want me to just go on, knowing I could lose you at any second? That any moment might be your last?â His hands tighten around Aziraphaleâs, his fingers pressing into the cold skin, trying to hold on, trying to do somethingâanythingâthat might stop the inevitable.
Aziraphale gazes at him, soft and steady, though Crowley sees the weariness in his eyes, the fragility beneath the calm. âIâm here now, Crowley,â he whispers, his voice carrying a quiet, almost tragic certainty. âIâm still here.â
âBut for how long?â Crowleyâs voice cracks, the words slipping from him like sand through a sieve. He canât stop the tremor in his voice, the panic that tightens around his chest. âHow much longer beforeâŠâ He canât finish, his breath catching in his throat, his chest constricting under the weight of the unspoken. His grip on Aziraphaleâs hands tightens, desperate, as though holding on tighter could keep the inevitable at bay.
âRemember what I told you yesterday,â Aziraphale says softly, his voice imbued with a quiet strength that Crowley canât quite reconcile with the coldness in his touch. His eyes are gentle, but thereâs a firm resolve there, the kind of determination that makes Crowley feel both comforted and frustrated. âLetâs make the most of the time we have left. Worrying wonât change anything right now.â His words are like a balm, meant to soothe, but they sting, too, because Crowley knows the truth buried in themâtheir time is slipping away, and thereâs nothing either of them can do to stop it.
With a fluid motion, Aziraphale gives Crowleyâs hand a tug, a silent invitation to follow, and Crowley moves almost automatically, his feet dragging slightly as though his bodyâs trying to delay the inevitable. Aziraphale leads him into the kitchen, the familiar hum of the backroom falling away as the warm, homely space embraces them in its quiet comfort. The smell of coffee lingers in the air, but it does little to erase the heavy, anxious weight that still clings to Crowleyâs chest.
âCome now. Sit down. Just breathe, okay?â Aziraphaleâs voice is still calm, still that gentle pull to something more grounded, more present. Itâs almost maddeningâthe way he seems to accept everything with such grace, such peace when all Crowley can think of is the clock ticking away, each second closer to the end. Aziraphale releases his hand, and Crowleyâs eyes linger on his retreating form as the angel moves through the kitchen with practiced ease, opening cupboards and retrieving mugs as if this is just another morning as if the world isnât crumbling in slow motion around them.
âCoffee?â Aziraphale asks, his back turned as he busies himself with the preparations.
Crowley nods, but the action feels hollow, the sound of it a thin echo in the stillness. He canât tear his eyes away from Aziraphale, the fluidity of his movements unsettling in its normalcy. Itâs so strange, so disorienting, to see the angel functioning as though nothing is wrong when everything feels so terribly, undeniably wrong. The sense of detachment gnaws at himâlike heâs floating, disconnected, watching this moment unfold from a distance.
âI canât justâŠâ Crowleyâs voice breaks the silence, raw and jagged. His words feel like theyâre being pulled from somewhere deep inside, something ugly and vulnerable. âSit here and enjoy our time together, knowingâŠâ His throat tightens, the words strangled with an emotion that refuses to settle. âKnowing that every moment could be our last.â
The words hang in the air between them, thick with fear and pain, but Aziraphale doesnât flinch. He doesnât turn away. Instead, he finishes making the coffee with the same unhurried precision, then carries the steaming cup over to Crowley, setting it gently in front of him. The warmth of the cup contrasts sharply with the chill that still lingers in Crowleyâs veins, the tension that hasnât yet loosened its grip.
Aziraphale pulls out a chair and sits down beside him, the movement smooth, almost comforting. For a moment, theyâre both silent, the weight of everything unspoken pressing on them like a heavy, suffocating blanket. Then Aziraphale speaks again, his voice soft but unshakable. âThe more you focus on that fear, the less youâll appreciate the time we have.â
His words cut through the silence, and they settle into Crowleyâs mind like stones dropped into water, sending ripples through the chaos in his chest. Itâs not what Crowley wants to hearânot at allâbut thereâs something about the way Aziraphale says it, with that same quiet conviction that has always grounded Crowley in a way heâs not sure he understands, that makes him stop and think.
Crowley looks down at the cup in front of him, the steam rising in delicate tendrils, and for a moment, he allows himself to inhale deeply, the rich scent of the coffee filling his lungs, pulling him away from the frantic, spiraling thoughts. The world feels still, as if time has bent around them, waiting, uncertain. But no matter how much he tries to center himself in the present, the fear lingers, clawing at the edges of his mind. Every moment could be their last.
âYou donât understand,â Crowley mutters, the words barely above a whisper. He takes a sip of the coffee, the bitter warmth hitting his tongue like a small comfort, a brief distraction. But it doesnât change the heaviness in his chest, the pit of dread that refuses to let go. âI canât just forget about it. I canât justâŠâ He trails off, his voice faltering, before adding, softer, âI canât lose you.â
Aziraphale doesnât say anything at first, his eyes searching Crowleyâs face, reading the depth of the fear that lingers there. His fingers move to rest lightly on Crowleyâs hand, the touch tender but insistent. Thereâs a stillness in him that Crowley canât quite understand, a quiet acceptance that doesnât sit right with the storm of panic inside him.
âThen donât,â Aziraphale finally says, his voice low, a thread of sadness woven through his words. âDonât lose me. Not yet. Not here.â
Crowley wraps his hands around the cup, the warmth of it almost mocking as his fingers tremble around the edges. The heat is a stark contrast to the chill gnawing at his insides, and he presses it to his lips, taking a sip without truly tasting it. The burn on his tongue barely registersâhis mind is too consumed with the weight of everything else to care about something so trivial.
As he lowers the cup, his eyes find Aziraphale, and in that moment, the frustration he's been holding back finally boils over. He doesnât even try to hide the sharpness in his voice, the edge that has been growing with each passing second. âYou canât just expect me not to worry,â he spits out, his chest tightening with the sting of helplessness. âYou canât be so⊠accepting of your own fucking death. Itâs⊠itâs not fair.â
Aziraphale doesnât flinch, doesnât pull away from the heat in Crowleyâs words. Instead, he places his hand on Crowleyâs forearm, the coolness of his touch seeping through the fabric of his shirt, sharp and unmistakable. The contrast of it hits Crowley like a punch to the gut, a reminder that nothing is normal, nothing is safe. The weight of Aziraphaleâs touch is gentle, but thereâs a certain finality to it that makes Crowley want to recoil.
âWhat else can I do?â Aziraphale murmurs softly, his voice as calm and steady as ever, almost too calm. His thumb moves in slow, deliberate circles on Crowleyâs arm, as though the gesture alone can somehow fix everything. âIâd rather focus on livingâon cherishing you while I still can, reading the books I still can readâthan worry over what may or may not come.â
The words fall over Crowley like cold water, and for a moment, they donât make sense. He watches Aziraphale, still not entirely grasping the serene acceptance that emanates from him, the angel so resigned to a fate Crowley canât even begin to wrap his mind around. He wants to scream, to shake Aziraphale, to make him see reason, to make him *fight*. But the words that come out instead are hoarse and raw, brittle with frustration. âYou could⊠try. You could look for some way to fix this, toââ
He falters, the rest of the sentence dying on his tongue. The weight of Aziraphaleâs cold hand on his arm pulls him under, like sinking into the deepest part of the ocean. He can barely breathe as he looks at Aziraphale, really looks at him, and for the first time in a long while, something like doubt, something sharp and ugly, pricks at his heart.
Aziraphaleâs expression is unreadable as he stares back, that familiar calm still settling around him, but Crowley can see it nowâthe faintest tremor in the angelâs eyes, a flicker of something deeper, something resigned. Itâs that same quiet acceptance, but now it feels different. It feels like⊠giving up.
Crowley feels his chest tighten with something dark and unbearable. His breath catches in his throat. âBut youâve already⊠given up, havenât you?â His voice cracks on the words, the realization settling on him like a weight heâs been carrying for far too long. He doesn't want to admit it, but he knows it now, deep in his bones. He knows that Aziraphale isnât fighting anymore. And that thought, that cruel truth, makes his stomach churn with helplessness.
Aziraphale doesnât look away. His hand lingers on Crowleyâs arm, but itâs colder than it should be, colder than Crowley remembers. âNo,â Aziraphale says softly, his voice steady despite the weight of Crowleyâs words. âI havenât given up. Iâve simply chosen to live as fully as I can for however long I have left.â His gaze doesnât waver, and Crowley feels the weight of that look, like the angel is daring him to understand, to accept it. But all Crowley can think about is the absence of hope in those eyes, the stillness that has settled in Aziraphaleâs soul. It cuts deeper than anything he could say. Aziraphale shakes his head slowly, almost as though trying to rid himself of the weight of Crowleyâs words. His voice is softer this time, but the strength in it is undeniable. âI havenât given up, Crowley. Iâm still waiting for the right moment to meet with Raphaelâto finally get concrete answers about what's happening to my core, my True FormâŠâ He takes a slow, steadying breath, as if gathering every last bit of strength. His grip on Crowleyâs forearm tightens ever so slightly, a silent anchor. âBut⊠the risk of it all⊠Itâs real. I canât just live my life in fear.â
The words hit Crowley like a stone sinking in his gut. His chest tightens painfully, the breath in his lungs becoming thick, difficult. He sets his mug down with a soft clink, the sound somehow more jarring than it should be. The porcelain seems too delicate in his hands, too fragile for the weight of what Aziraphale is saying. âSo, weâre just⊠waiting?â he asks, his voice rough. âWaiting for this thing inside you to slowly eat away at you until⊠until everything is completely gone?â
He reaches out for Aziraphaleâs hand, his fingers trembling, but he grips it firmly, unwilling to let go. His touch is desperate, as though holding on to this one moment, this one piece of Aziraphale, might somehow stop the inevitable.
Aziraphaleâs hand trembles beneath his grip, and the sight of it breaks something in Crowley. He swallows hard, forcing down the bitterness rising in his throat. âWe wait⊠until Raphael can get me to Heaven and do a thorough examination,â Aziraphale says quietly, the words almost a whisper, as though speaking them aloud makes them too real to bear.
Crowleyâs knuckles whiten with the intensity of his grip, his breath coming in shallow bursts. âAnd if he finds thereâs no cure?â he forces out, his voice cracking as he dares to ask the question heâs been too terrified to face. âIf he tells you that your core is⊠is set on destroying you?â
Aziraphale meets his gaze without flinching, the sorrow in his eyes as clear as the day itself. âThen⊠weâll have to accept it.â His voice is steady, but Crowley can hear the hesitation, the barely contained fear beneath it. He leans in closer, his forehead almost touching Crowleyâs. âThatâs why we need to cherish this time we have now, Crowley.â
But the words only make Crowleyâs chest tighten even more, as though an invisible weight is pressing down on him, squeezing the air out of his lungs. âYou say that like itâs easy,â he rasps, his voice breaking with the rawness of his emotions. âLike I can just⊠sit here and enjoy each second, knowing it might be your last. That⊠that at any moment you could be gone.â
Aziraphale raises his cold hand, gently cupping Crowleyâs chin, his fingers sending an icy shock through him. The touch is tender, almost too tender, and yet it leaves Crowley feeling more alone than ever. âIf it comes to that, youâll regret not making the most of the time we had,â Aziraphale murmurs, his voice soft but filled with a quiet urgency, as though heâs begging Crowley to understand.
Crowleyâs heart aches at the angelâs words, the raw pain in his chest spreading like wildfire. He stares into Aziraphaleâs eyes, searching for the warmth heâs always known, but all he can see is that cold acceptance. The thought of losing him is like a jagged knife twisting in his soul. His voice is hoarse as he finally speaks, his words trembling with emotion. âEnjoy what, angel?â he whispers. âLiving each moment terrified it might be the last? Knowing you could⊠disappear, just⊠just like that?â
His voice catches, and he swallows hard, fighting to keep himself together. The ache in his chest is unbearable, and yet it pales in comparison to the crushing fear that threatens to swallow him whole.
Aziraphale brushes his cool thumb over Crowleyâs lower lip, the touch soft, almost tender, but it feels like a cruel reminder of everything they stand to lose. âThatâs why you have to push those fears aside. Live in the moment.â He gives Crowley a sad smile, his gaze searching the demonâs face as though trying to piece together a way to make him understand. âIâm here right now. I donât want you looking at me and already seeing a memory⊠while Iâm still right here.â
Crowleyâs heart aches at those words, a heavy, suffocating ache that feels like it might split him open. He closes his eyes, a fresh wave of tears threatening to break free, but he keeps them at bay. The thought of Aziraphale slipping away, of losing him before heâs even had the chance to truly *live* with him, is more than Crowley can bear.
âHow am I supposed to do that, angel?â he whispers, his voice cracking with the weight of it all. âHow can I just act like everythingâs normal when I know itâs⊠itâs not?â
Aziraphale leans in, his lips pressing a kiss to Crowleyâs forehead, and then another, gentle and lingering, on his cheek. The kiss is coldâso painfully coldâ the warmth of Aziraphaleâs breath against his skin is the only warmth left in him. âWhy?â Aziraphale asks softly, his voice almost a plea. âWhy do you look at me here, right next to you, and already think Iâm gone?â
Crowleyâs eyes remain closed, but a fresh wave of emotion surges up from deep within him, breaking free in a burst of frustration. âBecause Iâm terrified!â he snaps, his voice a harsh rasp. âBecause the thought of losing you⊠itâs unbearable. And I feel so⊠so helpless, knowing I canât stop it.â
The words come crashing out of him, raw and unfiltered, and as soon as theyâre spoken, he feels them settle in the air between them like a weight neither of them can escape. Aziraphale doesnât pull away, doesnât recoil from the outburst. Instead, he just stays there, his cool hand still cradling Crowleyâs cheek, as though trying to hold him together even when everything feels like itâs falling apart.
Crowley opens his eyes, and the sight of Aziraphale, with his eyes wide and sad, feels like a cold slap. Thereâs anguish in his gaze, a raw, unrestrained dread clinging to every feature. His heart aches, and his words catch in his throat, the simple act of breathing becoming a struggle. âSeeing you like thisâfeeling how cold you areâŠâ he begins, his voice shaking. He swallows hard, and when he speaks again, the words come out in a ragged whisper. âItâs like youâre already slipping away from me.â
Aziraphale steps back just slightly, and with the gentleness that only he can muster, he reaches up and wipes away Crowleyâs tears with his cold fingertips, the chill of his touch cutting through the rawness of the moment. His eyes are tender but laced with sorrow. âYouâre grieving me before Iâm even gone, Crowley,â he murmurs, his voice quiet, almost too soft. âThis is why I didnât want you to know.â
The weight of Aziraphaleâs words presses down on Crowley, settling deep into his chest like lead. His throat tightens, making it hard to breathe, hard to speak. Aziraphaleâs voice drops to a whisper, laced with something deeper, a sadness that feels almost like resignation. âYouâre looking at me, but youâre not really seeing me anymore, are you? In your mind, Iâm already dead, aren't I?â
Crowley feels a sharp ache slice through him, a twisting pain that threatens to overwhelm him. He tries to form words, tries to push through the suffocating knot in his chest, but they come out cracked and broken. âI see you, angel. I do.â His voice falters, and his eyes begin to burn. âBut I canât forget that youâre⊠that youâre not well. That youâre notâŠâ He trails off, his voice a mere breath, as if heâs afraid to even say the words.
He looks at Aziraphale, really looks at himâsearching, searching through every inch of that familiar face, the one heâs known for over six thousand years. But now, those features seem different. Fragile. Temporary. Like they could vanish in a blink. Like theyâve never been more precious, and yet so delicate.
Aziraphale gently runs his fingers down Crowleyâs jawline, as if touching him like he would one of his most treasured booksâcareful, reverential, and full of a quiet, unspoken sadness. âI may be the one whoâs sick,â Aziraphale says softly, his thumb brushing over Crowleyâs skin, âbut youâre the one leaving me before Iâm even gone.â
Crowleyâs heart gives a painful lurch, the air catching in his chest. He fights to breathe, but it feels like thereâs too much weight pressing on his lungs, too much hurt lodged in his ribs. âI canât help it, all right?â he spits out, his voice cracking like shattered glass. He grips Aziraphaleâs wrists, holding on like a lifeline, the coldness of the angelâs skin sinking deep into him, grounding him in the unbearable reality of it all. âEvery time I look at you, it feels like Iâm standing at the edge of an abyss, just waiting to fall.â
Aziraphaleâs gaze drops to where Crowleyâs hands are clenched around his wrists, his breathing shaky now, like heâs caught between something painful and something beyond his control. âCrowleyâŠâ His voice is hesitant, breaking in places, though his words are measured. âYou canât go on like this.â He pulls back, just enough that the space between them feels unbearably large. âYouâre torturing yourself by staying with me. Every time you look at me, all you see is whatâs comingâand thatâs going to destroy you too. I wonât let you do that to yourself.â
Crowleyâs chest tightens painfully as Aziraphale carefully, deliberately pulls his wrists free from his grasp. The loss of that contactâthe absence of the only thing thatâs felt real in this momentâalmost knocks the air from him. Aziraphale takes another step back, and the space between them seems to stretch, pulling Crowleyâs heart with it.
âYou should go.â Aziraphaleâs voice is soft, but thereâs no mistaking the finality in it. The words strike Crowley like a blow, the weight of them enough to shatter him entirely. Every instinct in him screams to hold on, to keep fighting, to do whatever it takes to stop this. But Aziraphaleâs eyesâthose kind, eternal eyesâhold his gaze, and for the first time in forever, Crowley isnât sure whether heâs staring at the angel heâs loved for millennia, or the ghost of the man heâs losing.
Crowley stands frozen, his mind struggling to make sense of the situation, his heart beating erratically in his chest. He canât believe what heâs hearing, canât comprehend the words that just came out of Aziraphaleâs mouth. The ground beneath him feels like itâs slipping away, pulling him into a void he doesnât know how to escape from. His voice trembles as he whispers, barely managing to get the words out. âWhat..? You⊠youâre telling me to leave?â
Aziraphale doesnât turn to face him, but Crowley can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a thousand-pound stone. He swallows hard, his throat dry. âYou canât be serious. Youâre asking me to leave you now, when youâre⊠when youâre like this?â
The silence between them is deafening, broken only by the sound of Aziraphaleâs slow, measured breaths. Finally, Aziraphale stands, his posture stiff and fragile, as though each movement is costing him something precious. His heart is pounding in his chest, every beat a reminder of the pain heâs trying to keep buried. The sound of it echoes in Crowleyâs mind like a ticking clock. He can see the anguish in Aziraphaleâs eyes even without looking directly at him. âI canât watch you tear yourself apart like this, Crowley,â Aziraphale says quietly, his voice a little too controlled, too careful. âI canât keep looking into your eyes and seeing you staring past me, into a future that hasnât even happened yet.â
He walks toward the sink, taking Crowleyâs empty mug and placing it with mechanical precision in the basin, as though itâs the only thing he has control over right now. âGo.â
Crowley stumbles, his body aching as he tries to steady himself, his legs weak, unsteady. He feels as though the floor is slipping out from beneath him. âNo,â he says, his voice rough, desperate, and it cracks at the end like a dying breath. âNo, angel. You canât⊠you canât tell me to leave. I canât just walk away, knowing you mightâŠâ
His voice trails off, his chest tight with fear, with a dread that he canât push away. âI wonât leave you, angel. I canât.â
Aziraphale doesnât turn to him. His voice comes cold and distant, like an echo from a faraway place. âWhy?â he asks, his eyes never leaving the sink, his voice as measured and distant as a thought long past. âIs it because you love me, or because youâre feeling guilty?â
Crowley feels the words hit him like a slap, the coldness of them sinking deep into his skin. His heart clenches painfully at the accusation, at the ice in Aziraphaleâs tone.
âBoth,â he admits, his voice cracking, rough with the weight of the truth. âOf course, both. I love you. Iâm in love with you, and I canât bear the thought of losing you.â He takes a step forward, though the space between them feels impossibly wide, like a chasm he could never cross. âSitting here, absolutely powerless, is driving me fucking insane, Aziraphale.â
But Aziraphale doesnât move. He remains still, picking up a dish towel and methodically drying the mug as if the act of cleaning is the only thing keeping him grounded. His voice, when it comes, is soft but unyielding. âLeave.â He dries the mug with a slow, deliberate motion. âIf you truly love me, come back when you can look at me without seeing my True Form being destroyed. Come back when you can see me.â
Aziraphale turns then, his face streaked with tears, and Crowleyâs chest constricts painfully at the sight. âThe angel whoâs still here,â Aziraphale says, his voice catching. âNot just an empty shell.â
Before Crowley can say a word, Aziraphale turns again, his movements precise, almost mechanical as he places the mug back in the cupboard. âBut if you realize your reason for coming back is just fear and guiltânot loveâthen donât return.â His voice remains steady, but thereâs a subtle break, like a crack in glass, that Crowley can barely hear. Still, Aziraphale doesnât look at him. He closes the cupboard door with a soft click, and the sound echoes in the stillness of the room.
Crowley stands there, his heart a tangled mess of emotions, his chest tight, suffocating. He wants to argue, to fight, to deny everything Aziraphale just said. He wants to scream, to tell him that this isnât right, that he canât leave him like this. But deep down, he knows Aziraphale is rightâhis love, tangled as it is with fear and guilt, isnât enough to change the inevitable. He isnât strong enough to fix whatâs broken.
Aziraphale brushes past him then, moving toward the hall. For a brief moment, Crowley catches sight of the tears streaming down Aziraphaleâs face, streaking down his cheeks, disappearing into the collar of his coat. The sight of it sends a knife of pain through Crowleyâs chest. He wants to reach out, to pull Aziraphale close, to tell him that none of this is fairâthat he canât lose himâbut his limbs feel as if theyâre weighed down with lead. His heart is an anchor, pulling him deeper into the darkness of helplessness.
Aziraphaleâs figure is distant, slipping away, and Crowley feels that cold void widening between them. And in that moment, despite every instinct screaming at him to reach out, to fight for them, he feels the weight of a loss that hasnât even happened yet.
Crowley stands frozen in the middle of the kitchen, the weight of Aziraphaleâs departure pressing down on him. He watches the angelâs retreating figure, each step a reminder of the growing chasm between them, an abyss he feels powerless to cross. The silence in the room is deafening, and every breath Crowley takes seems to echo louder in the emptiness
A faint metallic sound slices through the quiet, drawing Crowleyâs attention downward. His eyes fall on the Bentleyâs keys, lying innocently on the kitchen table. Aziraphale must have miracled them thereâanother sign of the angelâs quiet control, even in the midst of his own heartache. The keys glint in the dim light, a small, seemingly insignificant object that suddenly feels like everything.
Crowley feels a wave of emotions crash over him, each one more overwhelming than the last: a searing anger, raw and unjust, directed at Aziraphale for pushing him away; a deep confusion, questioning everything thatâs brought them to this point; a heart-wrenching hurt, knowing that Aziraphale is slipping away, piece by piece; and a sorrow so profound, it makes the air feel thicker, harder to breathe. But thereâs one feeling that cuts through it allâa deep, hollow acceptance. He knows this is the way it ends. He knows he canât stop it, no matter how much he wants to.
He picks up the keys, clutching them tightly in his hand, feeling their cool weight anchor him to the present. Without a second thought, he snaps his fingers, summoning the pair of shades from Aziraphaleâs nightstand. He places them on his face, the familiar, dark lenses a mask he can hide behind. The world outside the shop suddenly feels sharper, colder, and yet somehow farther away. The door swings open with a heavy, final sound, and he steps outside into the crisp November air.
The cold cuts through him, biting at his skin, but he doesnât feel it. Heâs numb, each step feeling like itâs dragging him through quicksand. His mind is consumed with Aziraphaleâhis face, his words, the unspoken pain that lingers between them. But the more he thinks about it, the more it all becomes a blur. His mind is spinning, trapped in a vortex of grief and helplessness.
When he reaches the Bentley, his hands shake as he fumbles with the keys, his fingers betraying him, too unsteady to get the door open. He grits his teeth, frustration rising in him like a storm, but finally, the door clicks open. He slides into the driverâs seat, the familiar leather creaking under him, and the cold touch of the steering wheel does nothing to ground him. His fingers wrap around it, gripping it too tightly, as though trying to hold onto something thatâs slipping through his fingers.
The engine rumbles to life, a low growl beneath him, but it feels distant, hollow. He pulls away from the curb, his foot heavy on the gas. The city stretches out before him, its lights blurring in the rearview mirror, but everything feels like a dreamâtoo surreal to grasp, too far away to hold onto.
Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Crowley willingly lets them fall, his vision a mess of blurry streetlights and the endless dark of the road ahead. The tears come in wavesâfamiliar, aching, unstoppable. Thereâs no destination. No plan. No reason for driving, except to escape the suffocating weight of whatâs left unsaid, of whatâs been broken beyond repair.
The city blurs past him, its sounds muffled and distant, as he drives aimlessly through the night, trying, and failing, to outrun the heavy, suffocating grief pressing down on him.
#good omens#crowley#aziraphale#ineffable husbands#anthony j crowley#aziracrow#david tennant#sad times i tell you#spencer writes#good omens fandom#aziraphale good omens#crowley good omens#the second ineffable divorce if you will#or the thrid#aziraphale and crowley#writers on tumblr#angst#a hell lot of it#crowley and aziraphale#good omens crowley#good omens aziraphale#crowley x aziraphale#ineffable idiots#again#creative writing#writer#aziraphale x crowley
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The footage of the Casper high class is now mandatory viewing for all new members of Teen Titans, Young Justice, and even the Justice league. Batman gives his kids a disappointed scowl because they would have had at least one fight before getting it together like that class did.
There should be a dp x dc ver of Danny's class stranded in the middle of nowhere and they are unaware that they are being recorded live for the entire world, with the superhero communities pressured to find them.
#dpxdc#dcxdp#rereading stranded with my class#again#dp x dc#dc x dp#danny phantom#batman#batfam#danny fenton
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Doodles
#dragon ball#dragon ball z#dbz fanart#gohan#son gohan#chichi#son chichi#I was thoughtful so I went to draw Gohan#again#lol#myart
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Pecco out here getting every blessing he can get with Marc as his teammate at Ducati
#motogp#pecco bagnaia#THE POPE AND MOTOGP#Again#If I had a nickel for everytime I was surprised by a Pope motogp pictures I'd have 2 nickels which isn't a lot gut it's weird#Taht it hapoend twice
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5 geo 3 for 1 pale children meal deal at TukDonald's
didnt know what to draw so i gave the knight a cheeseburger
#hollow knight#hollow knight fanart#again#hk hornet#hk the hollow knight#this is the greatest thing ive ever drawn
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more of them
#sharvey#again#for me and the 3 other sharvey enjoyers out there đ«Ą#stardew valley fanart#stardew valley#sdv fanart#sdv harvey#sdv shane#shane x harvey#my art
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> lord zalgo is not being nice to me recently
> have this guy in a heavily similar outfit to that of the tails that belongs to momopatchi!
#miles tails prower#tails the fox#older tails the fox#sth#sonic the hedgehog#sonic au#sth au#a-stray#depiction#im so mad that i cant figure out his outfit#im drawing him in that of other tailses because i wanna see what would fit him best#this is slightly there but not exactly#again#inspo from momopatchi#yall should check em out!!#their style is killer#like legit#so jellyâŠ
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Guys I wanna do a tf2 related thing for my bday but what the hell would that even be!?!?? I become french n leave my son or what
#team fortress 2#tf2#tf2 spy#I turn 19#guys#thatâs crazy#Iâll have to change my age on here#my bday is Saturday and weâre watching moana#I should watch the first oneâŠ.#again
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"I would do everything to save you."
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they are so normal guys
#gravity falls#the book of bill#bill cipher#ford pines#stanford pines#why cant i just draw normal fanart of these guys?#they are matching ;p#billford#kinda?#meme redraw#again#i was going to color these but then i thought 'actually no'#meme#NRart
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the h in nhl stands for homoerotic
bonus intricate rituals:
#this is my new fave live game :')#chiarot tried to scruff sid and my precious gigantic baby son drew said: NO!!!!!!#also it is my duty as a crazy sid/ek fan to say that after sid was freed from the box and was later back on the bench#ek who was still on ice circled back and skated towards him#and tenderly held him by the chin and said something to him (sweet dirty nothings i'm sure)... sid giggled like a schoolgirl about it#anyway. again a very good game for me sid/ek-wise#ek with his arms open waiting for his victory prize aka sid barrelling into him after the otgwg and keeping his face pressed close...#sidney crosby#pittsburgh penguins#ben chiarot#detroit red wings#again#long post#hockey#nhl#sports#GAY#SO GAY
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(some of my pings didnt work so im just redoing them here) @dunkinbublin @yuriannecat @moonbear-from-space @i-heartblood @callme-key
Tagged by @hishighnesstheprincess. 10 bloggers I'd like to know better
last song: RAINBOW CALAMARI INKCANTATIONNNN RAHGGHGHGG
favorite color: Orange !!
last book: Understanding Comics
last movie: i have no fucking idea oh my god . um Miraculous Movie from a year ago i think ??? Sonic OVA ?????
last tv show: god .um i think trigun ? or a mob psycho rewatch
sweet/savory/spicy: i have no idea what savory means tbh its been 20 years i may be stupid. i like a lil bit of spicy tho
relationship status: Single
last thing I searched: "Hes just there for emotional support" trying to find the text meme
current obsession: my own wips.... which i have not made any progress on. Sonic in general, Arcane
looking forward to: drawing more ......
bonus topics group meowing in 5 .... i like to play with my tuoys
favorite drink: green monster rn </3 fucked up . also apple jucie
song playing on a loop in your head: IDV french song that a mutual sent me . i cannot escape
current favorite character: Shadow, Sonic, Knuckles
fun activity you would like to get into: i need to write music or i Will die
last video game: Opened Totk for 5 minutes and left it on for the next 4 hours without playing
last comic/graphic novel: issue 2 of the shadow manga
mrr ?? @candycatstuffs @lazydayslivin @bestjeanistmonster @zeezu-ix @sharks3ye
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no matter what, you're still here
#hello mizurui nation#again#i bestow another offering#mizurui#ruimizu#kamishiro rui#rui kamishiro#rui#kamishiro#akiyama mizuki#mizuki akiyama#n25#wxs#pjsk#prsk#prsk fa#pjsk fa#project sekai#project sekai colorful stage
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