Fryday



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  1. Rec 13

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    Alys thought it would be a normal day in the market.

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    12 Nov 2019

  2. Rec *

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    An apostate's guide to popular fiction.

    (Or: Hawke runs headlong into Cassandra's book club, Varric comes along for the ride.)

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    05 Nov 2019

  3. Rec 87

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    However, one book in particular has always held a special place in his heart. He found it in the late fifteenth century, already old by then. Dark, well-worn pages that are bound in black snakeskin leather. Extraordinary. Beautiful.

    And as magical as Aziraphale himself.

    A pair of golden, snake-like eyes adorns the cover. Sometimes, at the very edge of his vision, Aziraphale could swear he sees them move. The title, in bright-red letters, proclaims to be 'The Fall of R.' More often, it's 'The Fall of C.' On some days, the last letter is no letter at all, but a curling snake, a pair of horns, a human with a pair of wings, two pairs, a multitude of them.

    Aziraphale is an immortal book collector, and Crowley is his favourite book. When Aziraphale goes off to visit book fairs around the world, Crowley finds his own way of tagging along.

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    16 Oct 2019

  4. Rec *

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    I would buy back the stars I made in the sky for you, Crowley thinks. I would get a real human job and work however long I'd need to earn enough real human money to bargain with the Almighty for you and your soul. I would give it all to you in pennies and beg you to try to purchase my freedom from hell if it meant I would be enough for you to want me. Name the price and I will find a way to buy your love.

    "Nonsense, angel," Crowley says, grinning. "Consider it my demonic contribution to the ever-increasing crass overcommercialization of this holiday."

     

    Or, Valentine's Days through the ages.

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    03 Oct 2019

  5. Rec *

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    “Why did you come here?” Aziraphale interrupts. “Why do you keep doing this?” All the saving, he means, all the chasing after Aziraphale he does. It can’t only be that he’s not keen to endure a replacement. That can’t be it, not anymore. He’s going to get himself in trouble, and then it’ll be Aziraphale’s fault.

    Crowley’s mouth shuts with a click. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, reaches for the handle of the fork and taps his fingertips against it before setting his hands in his lap.

    When he speaks, it’s very soft. “Don’t you know?” he asks.

    Aziraphale, unnaccustomed to his heart refusing to translate why it throbs with such haste, shakes his head.

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    11 Sep 2019