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    Summary

    Aziraphale sat up slowly and took Crowley’s hand. He turned it over, looked at the light coming from his wrist and arm from every angle. Then he brought it to his lips and kissed Crowley’s palm.

    “This is what you meant,” he said, lips still against Crowley’s skin. “In 1832. You meant it literally. You glow.”

    “You glow,” Crowley said. “You burn. You just sometimes also burn through me. It’s a reaction, I think. Because your holiness doesn’t belong in me.”

    “Dearest,” Aziraphale said. “Heat cannot start a fire if there is nothing to burn.”

    (Or, the one where Crowley is drawn to Aziraphale's holy flame like a moth ready to catch fire.)

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  2. 30 Jul 2019

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    Gorgeous

  14. 28 Jul 2019

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