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Summary
A collection of one-shots. Features a variety of stories: post season 2 fix-its, historical backstory, canon compliant, etc.
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Bookmark Notes:
Chapter 33 is a PERFECT example of song references and original characters done right!
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Bookmark Notes:
"Crowley could feel it, the holy lust in him, stretching out across the room and then collapsing back in on itself like a rubber band as he bustled back over and pressed the refilled glass into Crowley’s hand...
Because when an angel lusts, oh, it’s forbidden, sure, but it’s bright and shining, sun on wet pavement after a rain, a good clean thunderstorm rumble promising rain, the sweet movement of a rushing river. But when a demon lusts, it’s a terrible thing, uncontrollable and burning, evil and ruinous for both the demon and the desired. It’s not pleasant. It’s not supposed to be. It’s why he can never, ever act on it, even though he knows Aziraphale wants it. Knows Aziraphale waits in his bookshop, and thinks he burns for it. Aziraphale knows nothing of burning. Crowley, though, his skin on fire, his muscles on fire, feathers smoking, even his very bones molten with hellfire, every miserable scale sparking, the shower water turning to steam as soon as it hits his burning skin. Crowley dreams, and he burns."
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The strongest walls are finished over time, She had said to him.
And oh, he learned how right She was. He had watched humans love for millennia, from the very first, and he had wanted. Oh, that was his failing, what made him a bad angel, what profaned his very soul. It wasn’t the disobedience, wasn’t the forsaken sword, wasn’t the fraternizing with the enemy. It was the want, the need, the suggestion that She wasn’t enough, that there was something else he lacked. Over hundreds of years, thousands, even, he had penned up his longing, terrified at what it might suggest, terrified at its enormity. And Crowley spent just as long slowly chipping at it, testing it with a chisel all over, lightly, for faults. And for a terribly long time he hadn’t found any. Aziraphale had enjoyed it, perversely, had rejoiced in the unfailing strength of his walls, thinking them infallible, strong enough to withstand anything. And inside those walls his want, his longing, his love, had festered like a disease, something awful and ruinous, and Aziraphale had not known it himself, because his walls were so high, and so strong, that even he could not see in.
And then Crowley had found the weak spot after all, had crossed the bookshop in one long desperate movement and had struck out, his mouth on Aziraphale’s, his shoulders, under Aziraphale’s hands, trembling very slightly, and Aziraphale’s walls had come tumbling down in one blow, the entire thing structurally unsound all this time, a danger to all standing around it. And now here Aziraphale is, expose in his wants, his desire a raw wound, and what can he do with it now? It bleeds from him, seeping, like an ocean. Limitless, vast, full of terrible, unknown things. And always, all this time, there.
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Bookmark Notes:
Music :p