#ineffable ficlet

[suzypfonne]

Crowley is stretched out across the sofa, in the little sitting area at the back of the bookshop. There's a book opened over his eyes, blocking out the blinding lights from above. His sunglasses are folded on the small, wine-glass-littered table beside him. The bell over the bookshop door tinkles.

Without moving, Crowley flatly calls to the intruder, "Shop's closed. We don't have what you're looking for, and we wouldn't sell it to you even if we did."

"Crowley?" a small, familiar voice speaks tentatively into the librichor-drenched room.

The former demon bolts upright, the book falling to the floor, landing miraculously, undamaged. Crowley stares harshly at the beige shape standing in the shadow of the entry way.

"Crowley..." the angel's voice is shaking. All of him is, he fidgets absentmindedly with his ring. He clears his throat and begins, "We've known each other a long time. We've been on this planet, a long time..."

"Don't mock me, Aziraphale!"

The angel takes a step forward into the light, and continues, "I could always rely on you. You could always rely on me." He's sobbing.

Crowley stands suddenly and strides quickly across the shop, stopping a few feet short of the angel. "Stop it! You can't do this, Aziraphale! You can't just show up and throw my own words back at me!"

"We're a team, a pair, a set. Matching bookends. And while we have spent our existence pretending that we aren't. I would like to spend..." his voice cracks remembering how utterly broken Crowley had looked the last time he saw him, eyes brimming with uncried tears.

"I can't do this again. I can't hide. I won't! We can't keep doing this... fucking... ineffable dance. It's insane. I'm going insane, Aziraphale. "

Haltingly, Aziraphale resumes, "I would like to spend... whatever life we have left... together. Being an us..." he trails off as he searches Crowley's face, hoping against hope that he's not too late.

Crowley's angry, bowed posture softens. "What?"

"I love you, Crowley. Please, however you'll have me. Boyfriends. Husbands. Wives. Any of them. All of them."

"Aziraphale... Angel...I..."

In the silence that follows, Aziraphale steps closer and closer, narrowing the gap between them. "I love you. In a way that humankind scarcely has the words to describe. Oh, dear boy, I could spend millennia trying and never quite get it right."

"I love you, too, angel. I tried to say it, before. You already had one foot out the door. I-I never thought I'd see you again. I never hoped to hear those words."

"Oh Crowley. My Crowley. How I've missed you. Please, do it again?"

"Do what again?"

"Kiss me? Darling, please, again and again and..." and the angel's lips are stopped with a kiss. A proper kiss.

[suzypfonne]

Goosebumps 💝 This is beautiful.

Glass

            After it was all over, Aziraphale sat on the edge of a bluff and let his feet hang over the side. Rivers and farmland stretched before him. In the distance he spotted a church crouched behind a copse of trees. His heel knocked loose a pebble. He watched it tumble into empty space and wondered what it would feel like to follow.

            Behind him he heard the gentle rumble of an engine. The sound of a door slamming shut was muted, as was the crunch of boots on gravel as someone approached. He didn’t look around.

            A wine bottle was thrust before his eyes. Automatically, he noted the vintage. He must have gone to some effort for this.

            “Drink?”

            Aziraphale nodded.

            Crowley dropped beside him, sending another cascade of pebbles down the cliff. He produced two wine glasses and handed one to the angel.

            Once the wine had generously been decanted, Crowley knocked his glass against Aziraphale’s with a bright ring that vibrated through his fingers.

            “I believe congratulations are in order,” he said, taking a swig.

            “Hmm,” Aziraphale murmured. He peered into his glass. He could see his reflection along the outer rim.

            Crowley cleared his throat. “They underestimated you.” He hesitated, then made an aborted gesture with one hand. “I underestimated you.”

            Aziraphale took a long pull from his glass.

            Crowley planted his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, trying to catch Aziraphale’s eye. When the angel didn’t look up, he turned away, face etched with resignation. He kicked a heel against the cliff and watched dirt shower down.

            Aziraphale took this opportunity to eye the demon’s profile.

            “How does it work?” he asked.

            Crowley looked over his shoulder. “How does what work?”

            “No Heaven. No Hell.” The icy hand that had been stalking him the last few months seized his heart. “How do you know good from evil?” A dark void threatened to open up beneath his feet. If he put one foot wrong he would fall in and keep falling, forever. He struggled to breathe. “What if you can’t? What if there…isn’t? At all?”

            Suddenly there was a hand on his arm. He could hear his breath harsh in his ears as he looked at it. He looked up into Crowley’s yellow eyes.

            “It’s okay angel. Breathe.”

            Aziraphale could feel tears gathering in his eyes. “The sheer – arrogance,” he murmured, “to think that I – ”

            “Arrogant?” A strangled laugh struggled in the demon’s throat. “Aziraphale – you are the only person I met in all of Hell or Heaven who cared – at all – to even try to figure out what was right and wrong,” he said intently, every line of him leaning forward, eyes wide, trying to make him understand. “The arrogance to try? What about the arrogance of thinking you don’t have to?” His breath pulled rapidly in and out of his chest.

            The tears Aziraphale had been fighting spilled over.

            “I’m not sure this is going to be comforting but – I don’t think anyone knows for sure, certainly not me,” Crowley said. His grip on Aziraphale’s arm tightened. “I’m not sure that what the Almighty imparted in the garden was knowledge of good and evil so much that it was knowledge that everything is complicated and all of it matters so much. It deserves your conscience and your doubt. It deserves your best effort.”

            He tilted his head, tried to catch Aziraphale’s eyes. “I am not worried about you at all,” he said, lips quirking in an attempt at a smile. “You, who gave your sword away at the very Beginning. You’ve always had a heart for these things.”

            Aziraphale raised a hand to wipe his eyes and Crowley let go, turning to look out over the landscape below. Aziraphale immediately missed his grip; but he was still close, shoulders brushing together.

            “’Sides,” Crowley said, aiming for nonchalance and falling staggeringly short, “I’ll still be here. It’s easier together, I think.”

             Crowley looked out at the fields and Aziraphale looked at Crowley. He was swamped by the urge to put his head on Crowley’s shoulder and only just managed to resist it.

            Aziraphale looked into his glass. “About what you said – in the bookshop –” he began.

            Crowley flung up a hand to head him off. He drained the rest of his glass in one go. “We don’t need to talk about that,” he rasped.

            Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Don’t we?”

            Crowley shook his head emphatically. ��It’s okay. I’m sorry I said anything. Or…” He hesitated, his eyes dropping to Aziraphale’s lips before careening away. “…did, anything. You don’t need to say…what you’re going to say. I promise I won’t do it again.” He sloppily crossed his heart and pushed himself to his feet.

            Aziraphale listened to his footsteps crunching back toward the Bentley. A kind of calm anger poured in and began filling up his chest. His face set like stone. “That’s a shame,” he said out loud.

            The footsteps paused. “What was that?”

            “I said – ” Aziraphale pushed himself to his feet and turned around. Crowley stood halfway to the car, bottle and glass in one hand, keys in the other.

            “I said,” he said, “it’s a shame that you will never again tell me that you love me; will never kiss me again.” He twisted his hands together, fingernails biting into skin. “I was rather hoping you would.”

            Crowley stared at him.

            Aziraphale moved forward until they were only inches apart. He held Crowley’s eyes.

            Crowley hesitated for a long moment, searching his face. Finally he swayed forward, almost helplessly, head tilted, and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s.

            Aziraphale inhaled sharply and leaned into the kiss. He brought one hand around to grip Crowley’s shoulder, and used the other to cup Crowley’s face. A tremor ran down Crowley’s body. Aziraphale brushed his thumb along Crowley’s jawline and deepened the kiss. That icy hand retreated and Aziraphale dared to hope he would learn how to keep it at bay. He felt like he had stepped outside in winter and found a patch of sun.

            He pulled back and smiled to himself at the dazed expression on Crowley’s face. “Do you want to get rid of…” he indicated the bottle and glass still in Crowley’s hand.

            Crowley slowly dragged his eyes away and looked at the offending objects. “Hm? Oh, right.” Unceremoniously, he tossed them away, stuffing the keys back into his pocket as he did so. His arms encircled Aziraphale and pulled him back in for another heady kiss.

            The glass hit the ground, but instead of shattering into shards, it shattered into seeds, which germinated far too rapidly, extending tender green shoots and fragile white roots until a patch of wildflowers had rooted in the gravel beside the road, an eddy of pink, red, purple, and impossible blue.

[metalmiez]

‚You’re getting sappy again, angel.‘

‚Hmmm, I don’t see why that’s a problem‘ said angel murmured and his grip around the demon’s waist tightened.

Crowley rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t fight the fond smile that creeped up his lips. His left hand found its way into the angel’s curls and he placed a gentle kiss on Aziraphale’s hairline, lingered into the soft touch. The angel hummed and caressed the demons back.

‚Who‘s the sappy one now?‘ he teased.

‚Oh, shut up‘ Crowley complained, lips still on the angel‘s forehead. He felt Aziraphale laugh.

‚I’m sorry, my love. Of course that‘s all part of your malicious, evil plan‘

‚M‘yea. Very malicious plan‘ the demon grumbled as he put his arms around the angels neck ‚Very, very evil.‘

[crowleys-hips]

i think it's really funny when people describe Crowley's hair as silky or soft or something along those lines in fics, because if you look at David Tennant closely, you can see they used like 50 hair products on his hair to sculpt that shit to perfection. it's probably hard as a rock or stickier than glue. i want a fic where it's like:

Crowley rests his head on Aziraphale's chest, snuggling close. The angel smiles and raises his hand to stroke his hair, but once his fingers are buried in those shiny red locks, they're trapped in a crunchy sea of slick goop. The slimy texture sticks to his fingers like superglue. He tries to pull his hand back, but it's completely stuck. Not even three consecutive miracles can do the trick. He prays for salvation.

[sapphic-bats]

Warlock asks Nanny about it once.

She’s cutting apples for him, just the way he likes, and he’s gazing out of the window at the lush, green gardens that his mother so proudly upholds. Among the waxy leaves and spindly saplings, Brother Francis tends to the flora carefully, though Warlock’s quite sure he’s just taking certain leaves between his finger and his thumb, and studying them closely. But what did Warlock know about gardening?

He notices Nanny looking out those windows, too. Though she always gazes and stares with a deep intent, as if she only cares when she does, and it so happens that she never looks upon the garden empty.

What was that funny thing Nanny and Brother Francis had taught him? The thing that Nanny discouraged, to which Brother Francis promoted quite devoutly?

“Nanny, have you ever been married?”

Warlock knows what marriage is. After all, his parents are married, if you can call it that. They married, once, out of love. But it’s since faded. It’s more traditional, now. Out of convenience and a general apathy to trying again.

Nanny’s quick hand stills, blade edge flat against the cutting board. With her back turned to the young boy, he cannot make out her expression. He never can, what with her poised shades she wears pointedly upon her nose. But she speaks soon again.

“No,” she replies, simply.

Warlock considers this. “Do you ever want to be?”

Nanny, who had taken up the cutting again, pauses once more. She sets the knife against the board and tilts her chin towards Warlock. “Wherever have you learned such personal questions, dear?”

She’s not refusing to answer him. She never has. She just asks in true curiosity, and perhaps a slight avoidance. But Warlock’s eight, now, and he knows how to navigate her tricks.

“Where do you think?”

At that, she pauses, lips pursed with their consistent purple tint. The lipstick she wears, that faintly stains Warlock’s forehead when she kisses him goodnight and tucks him in after a bedtime story: often about a garden, or a bird that chirped too loudly, and was cast down to the ground by the other birds. One who became the kind bird of the grounds, and took in other reject birds that had fallen similarly.

She considers his answer a moment more, satisfied with the obvious influence she’s had on him. She turns back to the apple slices.

“Perhaps,” she answers.

There is quiet for a moment. He doesn’t mind, he’s grown up with Nanny at his side, and has become quite fond of the silence. It is where thoughts are made, she said once.

She finishes cutting the apples, and plates the sweet snack to serve to the boy. “What troubles you, dear? You seem awfully curious, all of the sudden.”

Not that she minds. Nanny never rejects curiosity.

“Nothing’s wrong, Nanny, it’s just—” he pauses, considers his next words and how to place them. “You look at Brother Francis a lot, and—”

Nanny interrupts him after an audible, suspicious gulp. “Who?”

He frowns, eyes boring into the back of her head. “You know Brother Francis.”

She seems quite comically nervous, like she’s pressed a wax-seal act over her true thoughts. “Oh, yes,” she decides, too much breath coming with her words. “The gardener.”

“You like him, Nanny.”

She turns, abruptly. “I most certainly do not!” Her voice comes out a tad shrill, though perhaps it’s just outrage and scandal.

Warlock narrows his eyes, perplexed. “But you look at him all of the time.”

“When has that ever had anything to do with- with love?” She struggles with the word.

The boy shrugs. “Mum and Dad don’t look at each other,” Warlock observes. “But Brother Francis looks for you, too.”

Nanny’s mouth, ready with a retort, or perhaps a counter-argument, flicks towards a different shape. One that might be, he does? Or perhaps Warlock is mistaken. She pauses, lips pursed again, and sets her teeth.

“I’m sure he does, love.”

The plate is set before him, and Warlock soon forgets his questions. He never asks Nanny again.

But he’s reminded of it when her eyes, barely visible in the light, flick towards the window into the dazzling garden.

Years later, Warlock is nearly sixteen, and has since let the thoughts from half his lifetime ago fade. They never die, just sort of… wait. Wait to be plucked again, notes of memory leaping from their tinny strings. Like a harp.

His mother takes him into town. Soho, where he has no interest in seeing, but his mother so desperately needs a new vinyl, a coffee, and though she never says it: a moment to get away from the house, or more specifically, her husband within it.

She agrees to let him wander. She trusts him, for all she hasn’t before. And perhaps, she says, the fresh, un-televised air could do him some good.

He’s only taken two steps out of the coffee shop, where his mother remains to await her tea, before he almost runs smack into two pedestrians, arm in arm. He takes a surprised jump back, tongue set with an angry scolding, when he gets a good look at them from behind.

“Nanny?”

They both freeze in unison, as if they both know the name, and the voice that has conjured it forth once more for the first time in five years. Warlock notices something else.

“Brother Francis?” He prods, shocked. “Izzat you?”

Both of the two now turn, and everything around the three fades into blurring colors and churning noises.

Warlock would be a rotten liar if he had said he hadn’t missed them dearly. He would also be a lousy boy if he didn’t recognize them by the backs of their heads alone, he thinks. Because he would know them anywhere. They’d always done a much better job at raising him than his own parents.

They both look different now. Brother Francis seems to have had dental work done, and has cleaned up quite nicely. Nanny, though, appears to have changed her style completely. Her- his? Their? Who knows. But she still sports a fine pair of shades upon the bridge of her nose.

The pair seem to stutter, splutter with a little awestruck surprise. It’s as if they’d never expected to see him again.

“Oh- Warlock,” Nanny Ashtoreth begins, feigning a cool-headed surprise. “How good to see you.”

She sounds different too. Less of a high strain on her voice, more natural.

But Warlock seems to finally feel a gear shift, and a puzzle piece clicks into place. He glances down to the space between the two, where their arms are linked.

In his dumbfounded state, he feels a smile split the trance.

They both see it at the same time, chins tilting to follow his gaze. When they catch where his eyes are, their stares mingle together in concern. It’s a look that wonders aloud whether or not they should be worried, or blatant.

Warlock looks back up to their faces. “I see now why you two left,” he adds, grinning wider.

He can’t help it. He was right all along.

Warlock remembers something, then. It takes all of his power not to burst out into a triumphant laugh.

“I’m sure he does,” he says, slyly.

Nanny’s eyes, illuminated from behind with daylight, widen. She remembers, too. Of course she does.

And she bites back a twinning smile.

[actual-changeling]

There is a man with fire-red hair running a bookshop in Soho.

He hasn't always been the original owner, as almost all residents on Whickber Street know, but it is a fact you never bring up with him. Hiding behind a pair of sunglasses and layers of rough sarcasm, he is a shadow moving silently between shelves and plants, the Bentley parked outside seemingly more for decoration than actual use.

Previously, there had been a white-haired man with gentle eyes and a favour up his sleeves living among his books, and while he barely sold any of them, he was a pillar of the community just like the building itself. When he disappeared, an unspoken vow to never discuss the subject matter in the vicinity of the shop was made.

There is a woman with fire-red hair sitting in St. James's Park.

She feeds frozen peas to the ducks and puts the fear of God into everyone who dares to offer them bread or attempts to scare them away. The bench is hers, always empty, awaiting her arrival; sometimes she brings a bottle of wine, other times she cradles a Polaroid in the palm of her hand, and even the dark shades cannot stop the occasional tear from dripping down her cheek.

Rumours of her companion and his absence spread quickly, yet no one dares to ask, and the spies scattered around the park form a mutual understanding to avoid her.

There is a person with fire-red hair wandering the streets of London, wearing sunglasses and no coat, no matter the weather or time.

Their head is tipped back, their eyes glued to the sky, and yet they navigate through the masses parting around them with an unnatural ease. No one stops them, no one dares to ask why, and even if they did, they wouldn't offer an answer, not when they are asking themself the very same question.

When it begins to rain, they stop moving, stretching out their hands in a weak imitation of a prayer and allowing the water to seep into their clothes until they're as dark as the wet concrete beneath them.

There is a man with blinding white hair stepping out of an elevator that does not exist, and the end of the world comes with him. If someone were to listen in, they would realise that the man with fire-red hair meets him in the middle of the street, the air thick with lightning that will never find a home.

As they talk, nightingales all over London begin to sing.

[very-normal-abt-this]

if Aziraphale allowed himself to say it (final 15 fix-it)

(after the kiss)

-I lo…I love you.

-Then don't leave.

-I don't want to leave you.

-Then don't!

-I don’t have a choice.

-Why?!

-Because I'll never forgive myself if I don't!

-Sure you will. I do it all the time. Just takes practice.

-No, you don't. You never forgive yourself.

-That why you keep doing it for me?

-Yes. You deserve peace and forgiveness.

-I don't want peace and forgiveness. That sounds boring. What I want is…You.

-Aren't…aren't you going to say it back?

-It bacK.

-Crowley!

-If I say it, will you stay?

-Crowley…

(pause)

-If you don't want to be an angel then…I don't have a choice but to go back. To protect you. To protect us.

-I don't need protection, Angel! I've been taking care of myself for years, in case you haven't noticed.

-Of course I noticed. I also noticed when you needed holy water to protect yourself. And I noticed when we had to switch bodies to protect ourselves. I noticed that the only reason you didn't receive extreme sanctions was that Beelzebub went rogue. They're never going to stop trying to destroy you, you know.  Your very existence is a threat to them.

-So what! I'll take my chances! 

-I can't take chances with your life.

-Ngk.... So you're going to abandon me here, and its "FoR mY oWn GoOd" ?

-Not…abandon. Just a temporary leave of absence. And it's for our own good. I'm doing this for me too, because I need you to be safe. And I'm doing this for the world because…it's our home. 

-(sigh) You'll never stop trying to do good, are you Angel?

-No, I suppose not. But isn't that why you love me?

-Hmm. And what makes you think I love you?

-Crowley! Don't be cruel.

-Like I told you before…I love you because you're just enough of a bastard to be worth loving. 

-That's not exactly what you said back then.

-It was what I thought.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54145684

[twilightcitysky]

Courtship

“Crowley, come in! I was just redecorating.”

“Really? You never redecorate. Last change you made was in 1860, when you had the plumbing installed.”

Aziraphale smiled at him. “After everything that happened, I started thinking things over,” he said tenderly. “We almost lost the bookshop, but here it is, good as new. We almost lost the world, and… and now that we didn’t, I want to make some changes. I think it’s time.”

Crowley frowned. “Here, have you got something in your eye? You keep blinking.”

Aziraphale stopped trying to flutter his eyelashes. “I’ve painted the back room,” he said eventually, in a more normal tone of voice. “Would you like to see?”

He headed towards the door without waiting for an answer and pushed it open. “What do you think?”

“Oh, um. Very nice. I might’ve gone with a warm gray, or maybe mother-of-pearl… but yellow’s good too.”

“I happen to like this particular shade of yellow,” Azirphale said, a trifle testily. “Very much.”

Crowley held up his hands. “Hey, it’s your bookshop. Are you ready for lunch?”

*

“What’s this?”

“They’re flowers. Roses, dahlias, and a few Peruvian lilies.”

"What do they do?"

Aziraphale, holding out the intricately beribboned, carefully wrapped and above all expensive display from the most exclusive florist in London, began to feel a bit awkward. "They… smell nice, I suppose? And they can brighten up a room."

Crowley peered over his glasses. "Sure, for a little while. But they're cut, see?" He touched the bottom of the bouquet, as if Aziraphale perhaps hadn't noticed. "They'll die in a week."

“I suppose. I thought you might–”

“Is this more redecorating? I can help with that, no problem. Listen, why don’t I get rid of these for you… and if you’re wanting something for the bookshop, we’ll get a nice rubber plant to put under the window.”

Aziraphale sighed.

*

“Oi, angel! Think you dropped something!” Crowley jogged to catch up with him and put the matte black box, which he’d left on the seat of the Bentley, back into his hands.

“Ah. Actually, you see… that was for you.” Aziraphale felt his cheeks heat. “In case you got peckish,” he added lamely.

“This fancy stuff? Men break into bedrooms at midnight to leave this kind of chocolate next to pillows. Saw it in an advert.”

Aziraphale brightened. “Would you like me to break into your bedroom?” he asked, a tad breathlessly.

Crowley laughed. “What for? Listen, why don’t you have these. You’ll appreciate ‘em more than I will.”

*

“Are you ready to go?” Crowley glanced at his watch.

“Just one more thing. I. Er. I-thought-you-could-wear-this,” Aziraphale said in a rush. “If you like.”

Crowley took the velvet box from his trembling hand.

He opened it. “It’s…”

“Yes?”

“It’s very sparkly.” Crowley held the ring up to the light.

“It’s a diamond,” Aziraphale said desperately. “A diamond ring.”

“Oh. And you’re givin’ it to me because…”

“I–” Aziraphale stopped. He searched Crowley’s face, looking for a flicker of understanding. “My dear, I would like–”

“Oh wait, let me guess. It’s for your magic act, right? Are you practicing palming again, or is this the sort of ring that squirts ink when you twist the jewel?” Crowley pulled curiously at a glittering stone the size of his thumbnail. “Happy to help if you need an assistant. Just no more bullet tricks, okay?”

Aziraphale stared at him. “Yes,” he replied dully. “My magic act. Yes. Exactly. I’m trying to make something appear.”

“Got it in one!” Crowley gave him a pleased grin. “I know you so well, angel.”

“I daresay you do.”

Aziraphale followed him out to the car. There’s nothing else for it, he thought. I’ll have to throw a cotillion ball.

[fearandhatred]

the rapture

it's a holy thing, in theory, a glorious celebration, where those who believe rise to meet the lord in the air. it's a day of joy, in theory, and maybe even of vindication for those who have always believed.

but no one thinks about how it's like to see the dead rise again—bodies clawing their way out of bolted wood and six feet of packed earth, bodies decomposed and maggot-feasted, nails stained with rot and dirt. no one thinks about the violent lurch of their bodies being jolted into the air by the stomach, gravity flinging their heads back down to earth as they struggle in vain to find footing on molecules and gas. no one thinks about those who don't make it.

no one thinks about the screams.

crowley hadn't thought about any of these things. he certainly hadn't thought about the angels that would be called back to heaven along with the believers.

here they stand dead in the middle of absolute ruin, the promise of heaven the only thing left to look forward to on the wasteland of this earth. the sky has opened up like the eye of god, watching over her people for the very first time, and crowley's black wings against the beams of light only remind him that he doesn't belong up there with the rest of them. crowley wraps his arms tight around aziraphale, squeezes his torso like he can maybe keep aziraphale with him through sheer will or, laughably, demonic intervention. like love could ever be enough. like love could stay.

around them, the cacophony of wails and mockingly exaltant trumpets scorch the earth in their intensity, clashing and agonising even—especially—for them, and words make no sound. but they hold on to each other, even as they shrink into themselves against the noise of the undying. i don't want to leave you either, aziraphale doesn't say, but his hands dig into the cotton of crowley's sleeve, and crowley hears the words through his fingertips.

he feels a stronger upward resistance against his embrace now, and he clings tighter, steadfast, even as aziraphale's grip falters. but he knows he can't hold on forever. he knows that nothing ever lasts.

trembling with something unspeakable, he lifts his arms from aziraphale's torso and covers the angel's ears with his hands. he feels more than hearing aziraphale's resulting sob, and he spreads out his wings to wrap them around their bodies. a shield, a comfort, a goodbye.

it's okay, the gesture says in silence. i'll see you in another lifetime.

[katiefrog217]

Crowley sometimes delights in taking a bath, especially when she can convince Aziraphale to read to her.

Of course, Aziraphale would never risk one of her precious first editions, so Crowley always brings whatever modern romance she can get her hands on (usually a cheap drug store novella with a stereotypical shirtless man or nondescript woman in a ball gown on the front). It's the farthest thing from proper literary prose she can think of, and neither of them have any qualms about these particular books getting wet.

Aziraphale's voice is always soothing when she reads, even when she stumbles and stutters through the absolute mess of plot and dialogue before her (it's quite entertaining for Crowley to watch the angel's face skew and lips purse in utter distaste. Her heaving sighs or poorly concealed eyerolls at the wonton plots are her favorite).

The angel hardly stomachs the books for long, eventually setting them down with a huff and a low, under the breath comment about how modern romance is dead - but it's never about the book. It's like a game to Crowley - seeing how long it takes Aziraphale to put the sorry excuse for a book down before turning her undivided attention to her, or seeing how fast she can convince the angel to join her in the water.

But there are times when Aziraphale's patience wins out: with her soothing voice and gentle caresses of knuckles on her arm, along with the warmth and haze of the bath, Crowley falls into a trace, then sleep.

Crowley would never admit it to anyone, but these times are always her favorite.

A bit of Ineffable Dragon Wives for ya'll ♥️

Referenced off an image that was sent to me. If I can get my hands on a proper link for it, I'll link it 💕

[iwasthenightingale]

Maybe it's just the feral ace person who resides within me, but I desperately want Crowley and Aziraphale's first real kiss to be entirely awkward and innocent and honestly kind of chaste

I want Aziraphale, desperate to hold Crowley, words tumbling out of him as he says "You know, the first time in my bookshop didn't count. And I should very much like to try, er... kissing again. Perhaps. If you were amenable?"

I want Crowley, mute with shock, but nodding incredibly enthusiastically. And Aziraphale's hands, hesitant but still reaching, hovering over Crowley as he shuffles forward and tries to learn how to touch him

I want blushing as Aziraphale asks softly "so, um... was it something l-like... like this?" and Crowley doing everything in his power not to move or self combust as he inches closer

I want the gentlest, most barely there brush of lips, so soft and sweet, and a sharp inhale as Aziraphale wrenches back to take in Crowley, his beautiful Crowley, and feel the tingling warmth against his lips

And then I want them to melt together, not even because the kiss is particularly charged, but because they adore each other and have been kept apart for far far too long, and no amount of closeness or intimacy could ever be enough for them

[indigovigilance]

*On the couch at the South Downs cottage*

C: Aziraphale?

A: *puts down his book* yes dear?

C: would you still love me if I was a worm?

A: Crowley, I was standing right next you when you transformed from a giant snake into a man-shaped being.

C: …

C: but snakes are cool.

A: that’s because you were the first. If you’d been a worm, then worms would be the enduring cross-cultural symbol of wisdom, rebellion, and immortality.

C: you really think so?

A: Of course, dear. *returns his attention to his book*

C: …

C: Aziraphale?

A: *looks up* Yes, dear?

C: you didn’t answer my question.

[metalmiez]

It's ineffable, my dear

With a content sigh, the demon slung his left arm around the angel. He snaked his head across Aziraphale's right shoulder and nuzzled his nose against his cheek.

"Whatcha doin', angel?" Crowley murmured lazily and pressed a kiss against Aziraphale's temple. He felt the angel lean into the soft touch, humming softly.

"About to put the kettle on for my afternoon tea. Did you have a nice nap, dear?" His warm hand wrapped around Crowley's and tenderly caressed the skin on his wrist.

"Mrm. Would've been nicer if someone had allowed me to sleep around his neck."

Aziraphale chuckled.

"You nearly discorporated me last time, when you turned back into your human shape in your sleep, darling."

Crowley grinned about this particular memory. He wanted to tease his angel more, but his silly thoughts derailed when he felt Aziraphale's right hand reaching out and caressing his hair. The demon hummed appreciatively and leaned his face against the soft fabric of his sky-blue shirt. For Satan's sake, it shouldn't feel so nice to bask in Aziraphale's warmth and tender touch - he was a demon after all.

But on the other hand. He had grown quite comfortable in Aziraphale's presence. Every soft touch, every kiss, every affectionate nickname had burned away a tiny bit of Crowley's millennia-old defense. Truth be told, he really liked the tender affections, and to be soft and vulnerable and gentle. If he ever felt the urge to be demonic, he still had his plants to threaten.

With another sigh, he closed his eyes and leaned closer.

I felt the urge to draw some tooth rotting fluff again, and the urge to grin like an idiot was strong with this one. Hopefully, it gives you the same amount of dopamine as it gave me while drawing it <3

[sentientsky]

Do you think Crowley is ever driving through a tunnel at night, carving a path through the heart of London?

And do you think he watches the lights blur past like atoms colliding in the emptiness of a space before time or reason or the fear of a steep fall?

And do you think he blinks, and in that moment—with the road rushing beneath him and the staccato flicker of light against his closed eyelids—he remembers what it felt like to hold the universe between two palms?

To set the gyroscope spinning—to become both creator and divine witness, a hand print pressed into the rough edge of a cave wall (I was here and here I shall remain)?

Do you think he remembers it all?

And do you think he aches when he opens his eyes and finds nothing but chrome and fluorescence and the endless expanse of asphalt laid out before him?

[whocaresaboutdecent]

Have some post S3-fluff written for @ineffablyruined Ineffable-Prompt-A-Thon Week 7: Whisper

I love you, Crowley.

The first time Aziraphale says these words, they are nothing more than a whisper. They feel like a trembling breath brushing against Crowley's ear, quiet enough to be missed, loud enough to send Crowley's heart racing. Rather than hearing them, Crowley senses them in Aziraphale’s desperate embrace, in the way his fingers cling to the fabric of Crowley’s shirt as though letting go might mean losing him again. Aziraphale walks that thin line between deniability and confession, torn between the lingering fear of discovery and the longing to embrace their connection openly. Crowley swallows, not sure if he's meant to have heard the words or pretend that he hasn’t. He settles for the middle ground, tightening his arms around Aziraphale in a wordless reply, as easily deniable as Aziraphale’s faint, almost inaudible whisper.

Months later, in the privacy of the bookshop, Crowley hears the words again. His head rests in Aziraphale’s lap, tender fingers stroking through his hair, affectionate, devotional. Aziraphale smiles down at him, his voice soft but filled with a quiet determination that sends a shiver down Crowley’s spine. There is no room for deniability this time, neither in Aziraphale’s voice nor in the look on his face. The best part is that Aziraphale doesn’t even seem to be trying to hide anything. Crowley smiles, unguarded, and slides a hand to the back of Aziraphale’s neck to pull him down, savouring the taste of those words on Aziraphale’s lips.

The next time, the words carry a proud confidence, a declaration for everyone to hear. It's hardly a coincidence that Aziraphale chooses their friends' very first visit to their cottage to say them again, almost as if he wants as many people as possible to know. He takes Crowley's hand, making sure that his confession sounds louder than all the times he had to deny Crowley, louder than He's not my friend, louder than I don’t even like you. And Crowley doesn’t bother to hide his answering smile behind a mask of demonic indifference.

Crowley knows they'll never be forced to return to secretly whispered words again. But in the quiet nights they spend together at their cottage, they might choose to.

[actual-changeling]

Aziraphale sees Crowley standing next to his their car and he hesitates; this is his last chance, the last possible moment to change his mind about leaving.

Do you think he feels the sunshine on his hands, against his stomach, and remembers how warm Crowley had been in his arms? How warm he had felt beneath his palms even through several layers of fabric?

How for the first time in his existence his body had felt complete, like there was no longer something— someone missing?

Do you think he sees him standing in the sun, all shining fire-red and hidden golden eyes, and regrets not sliding his hand to the back of his neck, up into his hair? Do you think he regrets not taking the chance to feel it silken soft and familiar between his fingers?

Do you think he remembers all the times they enjoyed a warm, sunny day together and the way the star seems to remember that Crowley had put its siblings into the sky? Do you think he remembers rays of sunlight caressing his cheekbones and wishes it had been his fingertips instead?

'Anything you need?' the Metatron asks him, and he is still looking at Crowley with the sun on his skin.

I need you, he thinks, and even though his eyes are hidden away, he knows Crowley is looking at him.

Do you think Aziraphale remembers the kiss, remembers the love he could taste on his tongue, the six millennia of do that, please, kiss me, the slow, painful minute of do that again, please, right now?

(The realization that he won't.)

He almost stays. Almost. But the Metatron is already walking away, and he looks at Crowley again, looks past sunset conversations and sunrise breakfasts and the heart-shaped star in Crowley's chest, and feels his pain.

(Their pain.)

Do you think that's why he leaves anyway? Not just because heaven needs fixing but because all that pain, all the hurt they caused each other, can't have been for nothing?

I can't leave him— no, I don't want to leave him.

No.

No, I want to go back to him.

Do you think he takes his anger and holds onto it until it burns his palm because it is easier to be angry at Crowley, at himself, than to think about everything they just took from each other? Everything they just lost?

Everything they could have been?

Aziraphale takes the memory of sunshine on his skin (Crowley's lips on his) and locks it away in a golden cage made out of faith; faith that Crowley will be there when he comes back.

Once he does (because he will, he will, he has to), there will be sunshine and warmth and Crowley, and they will finally be able to love each other with the sun and the whole universe as their witness.

No more shadows or shades of grey. Just the two of them in the light where they belong.