I_M_B00



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  1. Rec *

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    “I need you,” said Aziraphale, which was far more straightforward than Crowley had been expecting, even after two bottles of wine. The angel stared at his plate, turning as red as the little gems of pomegranate seed on it.

    “Well,” Crowley said, at last, trying to keep any giveaway hoarseness out of his voice. “Here I am."

    “It’s just that—oh, dear, some things are so difficult to say over the telephone apparatus, aren’t they? Especially if you have your voice messages on. It feels so impersonal, and I really couldn’t wait any longer to ask."

    “Good strategy. I’m right here, go ahead,” Crowley said encouragingly, wondering if he should reach for the angel’s hand. Unfortunately, the angel’s closest hand was gripping cutlery as if it was a lifebuoy. Crowley considered putting his hand on one invitingly touchable thigh instead.

    “Will you come to a party with me?"

    ****

    Crowley and Aziraphale pose as husbands for a house party, because Aziraphale is bad at saying no (to anyone but Crowley and anyone trying to buy books).

    Crowley thinks this is a good chance to prove himself the perfect potential demon husband to a fussy angel. But things get complicated fast. Really complicated.

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    08 Dec 2019

  2. Rec *

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    Having felt left out of the Almostpocalypse, Pestilence comes out of retirement to attack London with a few plagues. Meanwhile, Crowley and Aziraphale negotiate the recent post-Armageddon’t changes to their 6000-year love affair like a couple of dumbasses and are embarrassed to discover that even Death thinks they need to get their shit together. Also Aziraphale is a BAMF.

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    07 Nov 2019

  3. Rec *

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    "I'm in a bit of a pickle, my dear," Aziraphale said over the telephone.

    Crowley was seized by immediate fury. Not even a decade, and they're at it again, he thought viciously. You'd think they'd be embarrassed enough to stay out of things for a few centuries at least, after botching the apocalypse like that.

    "Who's done something to you?" hissed Crowley.

    "Ah," said Aziraphale, in the quiet tone of someone who didn't mean to learn someone else's secrets and was mildly sheepish about it. "This crossword clue -- I'm stuck -- 1980s French fencer, thought you might know. It's eight letters and has a Q in it."

    "Trinquet," Crowley snapped, in the tone of someone who had revealed one of his secrets and was annoyed about it.


    An account pertaining to the cultivation of figs, the ecstasy of St. Theresa of Avila, the ontological uncertainty of mammoths, the nature of temptation, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and the ten years following the end of the world.

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    21 Oct 2019

  4. Rec 16

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    Armageddon happened yesterday. And it was all Crowley’s fault.
    Now the earth has a 7 year timestamp. 7 years of trial and tribulation. 7 years, like the world is on some fucking egg timer. And Crowley is stuck there.
    Aziraphale wakes up in Heaven. It is full to the brim of celestial harmonies and green grass, which does nothing to change the fact that Aziraphale can’t remember anything. Still, Adam has ensured that everyone is happy, and will continue to be. Forever. Aziraphale knows only his name, and that is enough.
    Isn’t it?

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    13 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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    28 Aug 2019