Ruyu



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    “What do you get out of this?”

    Aziraphale turned his head and looked confused. “Get out of what? I'm sorry, I don't know what you're asking.”

    “This.” He sat up and smoothed his skirt down his legs and gestured to his hair, his blouse, now hanging loosely off his shoulders. “The clothes and the heels and the makeup. I guess it's just been so long since I felt and dressed like this, Nanny notwithstanding, and I was worried, clearly stupidly, that you would want me less. I think I was just curious what you get out of it."

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    05 Dec 2019

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    Said I, a few weeks ago: "I feel there’s also room for e.g. bedsharing fic where the apocalypse has Not Happened and they’ve fallen into queerplatonic (or so they think) bedsharing and Crowley thinks he’s alone in being driven slowly to distraction by it, so he says nothing. Then one night he wakes when it’s still dark, and at first he doesn’t know why, until he hears Aziraphale’s breathing a little raspier than usual, and feels the very slight trembling of the bed."

    And lo, that is exactly what this is.

    Language:
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    06 Nov 2019

  3. Public Bookmark *

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    Crowley likes giving Aziraphale things. Whatever he wants, actually.

    Which, happily, includes Crowley himself, as it turns out.

    Language:
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    03 Nov 2019

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    "All right, I know I'm going to regret asking this," Aziraphale says. "What exactly does this wager entail?"

    Crowley grins like the cat that not only got the cream but has absconded with the entire cow. He grabs the bottle and swigs straight from it despite Aziraphale's tut of disapproval.

    "The pot goes to whichever demon can get an angel into bed by the end of the evening."

    AKA The Fic That Tumblr Made Me Write. Heaven and Hell share a corporate party once per millennium. This time someone's had the bright idea of issuing a challenge to the demons of Hell. Crowley has no intention of missing the opportunity; Aziraphale's just enough of a bastard to make him work for it.

    Language:
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    27 Oct 2019

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    He can’t do this.

    “Can I—” he bursts, stops, overflows again. “Would it be too terribly forward of me to ask—”

    This is so much. How can small words hold so much? Perhaps he can keep it in, after all. If the words can hold it, maybe he can too. Maybe he won’t crack and rupture.

    Or: After the bus ride back from Tadfield and the erstwhile End of the World, Aziraphale reaches his breaking point.

    Language:
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    27 Oct 2019