20 Oct 2019
A Good Omens Choose Your Own Adventure Fic:
Dark, acrid mist seeps from the ground, spiraling up, ravenous, as though intent on swallowing up the sun. At it’s center, Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies, rises - born of mist and smoke. And there, Crowley stands, one hand on the bookshop door, his back open and unguarded.
Aziraphale is lunging, ancient instincts buried in his bones, deeper than marrow, driving him to throw up his arms as he leaps in front of Crowley.
26 Sep 2019
Seventeen days, twenty hours and eleven minutes after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, an angel and demon, following a luxurious dinner at Le Gavroche, stroll along a crowded London promenade, their hands intertwined.
For Crowley, strolling with the sunset sky bleeding pastel and their interlocked hands swinging between them, it is impossible to conceal the bounce in his step - nor does he try. And it is only his dark glasses, perched diligently on the bridge of his nose, that stand between his pleasure-creased gaze and outright discovery.
As they arrive back at Crowley’s apartment, the demon holds open the door. Once inside, Crowley shrugs out of his jacket and then helps Aziraphale with his coat. As the angel settles, Crowley procures a bottle of wine, and it really is shaping up to be an excellent evening when -
“Crowley, my dear. You never told me you had a collection of poetry!”
Crowley’s arm snaps back, and he forcefully wrenches the cork free of the bottle. It bounces across his immaculate kitchen.
15 Sep 2019
A collection of artwork accompanied by short ficlets and drabbles.
03 Sep 2019
The name is a whisper. Hardly more than a breath; and it slips out, a careful caress between split, bloody lips.
Aziraphale has him by the arm, and Crowley’s vision flares white as his broken wrist bends. They’ve passed Heaven’s gate. Beyond it is a white marble path, and beyond that, a ledge. Beneath, lies void space. Earth - and then Hell, lie an unfathomable distance below the emptiness.
He won’t survive the fall a second time. Not bound as he is, wings bent and broken at his back.
Aziraphale’s fingers are a brutal pressure around his skin.
And it’s not Aziraphale’s touch. It’s not. But Crowley knows those hands, is intimately familiar with the soft, barely there callus on the inside of his angel’s thumb, of the cool pressure of his rounded, manicured nails. This is not Aziraphale, but Crowley grounds himself in what he recognizes in his touch.
The edge is nearing, and reality is tightening like a rope round Crowley’s neck. Aziraphale’s grip is firm, and Crowley is spent. He can’t fight. Not even if he wanted to.
“Angel,” Crowley says, a hoarse whisper. “Remember yourself. Remember me.”
27 Jul 2019
Crowley goes too slow, Aziraphale drinks copious amounts of alcohol, and the bookshop is (very nearly) set on fire. Again.
- - - -
"Aziraphale is not one to overindulge in alcohol.
Except for when the occasion really calls for it.
And this one does.
Because - because -
He wants Crowley. He wants his companionship. He wants him here, now. He wants Crowley - he wants. He wants-
Another glass of wine. By now he’s lost count.
Because Crowley is not here. Aziraphale could call him. He could, but - but. Aziraphale is in no state. Probably. And besides, Crowley cannot come. Not tonight, at least. Maybe never. Crowley drove off, after all. Maybe Aziraphale has waited too long. Maybe he’s gone too slow.
And this thought is painful enough to warrant another drink. Or three.
He’s drunk his way through a Chateau Pontet Bordeaux red blend, an Albert Mann pinot noir, the Monsanto Chianti Classico Riserva, and half of the crystal encased Glenglassaugh whiskey by this point, and he’s fine. He is. Really. Even if the room has begun to sway around him."