Innana12



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  1. Public Bookmark *

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    Told to “go up there and start some trouble,” Crowley bypasses humanity and goes straight for an angel: The Guardian of the Eastern Gate. An AU.

    (Book canon, but TV canon references are there)

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    19 Sep 2019

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    “You…” Aziraphale sounded baffled, and suddenly quite sober. “You liked that? But, my dear, you said it was torturous. ‘Six thousand years of torture,’ as I recall.”

    “Yeah. Yeah, but the anticipation, and the yearning, and…and how every moment with you was so maddeningly intense, and…”

    And what else could Crowley say? How could he expect Aziraphale to understand that after six thousand years of torture he’d actually got a bit used to it? That he’d felt like a band strained further and further, and now he found himself permanently stretched, flopping about with too much slack and no way to hold on to what he’d been reaching towards for so long?

    (Crowley kind of misses the pining when it's gone. Aziraphale comes up with a solution.)

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    13 Sep 2019

  3. Public Bookmark *

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    This is light speed in comparison to the last few centuries of their relationship, but Crowley is barely holding on to his patience.

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    11 Sep 2019

  4. Public Bookmark 51

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    “Ask me, angel. I can’t do it unless you ask."
     
     After the Ritz, they end up at Crowley's place again. Love ensues.

    Chapters two and three just added! Those are the smutty ones.

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    11 Sep 2019

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    Here in the South Downs cottage, Crowley has more than he ever thought he would: the two of them, safe, and he gets to live alongside Aziraphale every day. He still can't bring himself to say it, though, still finds himself wanting, doesn't want to drag the angel down with the mess of his love, doesn't want to ruin what they have.

    Aziraphale, however, is getting tired of Crowley staring longingly off into the night sky, and confronts him.

    There is more of a balance here than Crowley thought.

    ***

    The angel smiles. That crinkling kindness, that laugh in the corner of him, bright and deathless and pure, and Crowley’s resolve is melting. Aziraphale does remove his glasses now, fingers brushing his temples, folds them into his own pocket, pocketing Crowley’s last defense. Neither of them looks away. The night sounds clutter around them, the sway of elderly oak branches, the gentle scuttle of a village turning itself into bed, reinventing for the next day, the caw and croon of things with feathers, searching for love. A knowing hum in an ancient throat, leaning in.

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    07 Sep 2019