twelfth_day



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  1. Public Bookmark *

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    Aziraphale, epicure that he is, has never tasted pussy. Crowley manifests one for him.

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    02 Jul 2026

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    If dreams were what humans said, manifestations of your worst desires and your greatest fears, then what would he ever dream of but Aziraphale?

    Crowley was certain he’d dream of Aziraphale until the end of days and, well, he was very nearly right.

    (AKA Crowley gets busted humping his bed after a wet dream. Fucking ensues.)

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    02 Jul 2026

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    Aziraphale glances down at the macaron in Crowley’s hand - two blush pink biscuits sandwich a layer of swirled white buttercream containing red-pink specks that Aziraphale takes to be pomegranate arils. Crowley places the macaron against Aziraphale’s lips with more reverence than the angel had thought him capable. “It’s alright, angel. Just take a bite.”

    “Is that what you told Eve?”

    “Something like it. It worked, didn’t it?”

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    02 Jul 2026

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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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    30 Jun 2026

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    God should not have built them with such discrepancy, made them need for love, and long for wholeness, then left them to their own devices.

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    30 Jun 2026