infatuation makes your heart race
love is quiet. love sets you at ease.
and because most of my pieces are mental screenshots of little scenes in my head, here's the scene:
Crowley was tugged into consciousness bit by bit. The afternoon light slowly filtered in, as well as the hum of music from the other room and the weird angle his neck was at. He was warm and content and wanted to sink back into his nap, but the threads of sleep fluttered away the more he tried. Finally, he took a deeper breath, shifting in the armchair, and cracked an eye open just a sliver. There he was, the angel, sitting at his desk. Had hardly noticed Crowley was awake, engulfed in his task of retouching a damaged page. Looking at his hands, Crowley became aware of the fuzzy warmth covering his own and peeked down to see a blanket tucked around his shoulders.
The feeling hit him so hard he let his head loll to the side, eyes closed. His chest tightened and he just…buckled. Finally came undone under the weight of his love for Aziraphale. Its inexorable, steadfast pull which he had been pushing back against for millennia, it had finally caught him off guard, sleepy and vulnerable and so tired from holding back, from refusing to name it. It was a quiet surrender. Crowley looked back at Aziraphale with the understanding of a man meeting his end and embracing it.
Perhaps he could gently pull the blanket to the side and get up. Perhaps he could cross the few steps to the desk and place a freshly made cup of tea to Aziraphale’s right. Perhaps he would hold his gaze, for longer than needed to answer “Don’t mention it”. Perhaps he would ask him if he would like a scone with that. Perhaps Aziraphale would understand that this was not about the scone at all. And yet, what Crowley was asking of him was also exactly about scones. And tea. And quiet afternoons together. Perhaps the angel would finally put down his sword, too, and the world would let out a breath it had been holding for millennia.
parce qu'on s'est crié des mots qui ont sali tous nos plus beaux dessins, on a hurlé des chaudières d'encre noire sur le bonheur
j'expose ma tête, mes yeux, mon cœur et mes mains
si tu reviens
something quiet, gentle, and romantic for today. I’ve been assured it’s suggestive enough for @goodomensafterdark ‘s smut war, so enjoy this soft interlude with suggestive tummy ❤️
gets in charge of the bookshop for 1 (one) day: shows up in a cardigan vest and metal sleeve garters, keeps the shop CLOSED, avoids selling a single book... iconic, truly did THE MOST, 10/10 😩👌🏻
(also, the way he was this 🤏🏻 close to finally achieving the status of house husband he's been dreaming about for MILLENIA just to have the rug pulled out from under him last minute... truly DEVASTATING 😩 my girl really can't catch a break 🤧)
I know we all think Aziraphale is gonna come back from heaven dearly missing wine and food and good music but I think he's gonna come back and immediately crawl under a blanket because he is severely overstimulated by the fucking Big Light energy in heaven.
Those fluorescent overhead lights and the sheer brightness of this place absolutely do not mesh with the autisms, I mean look at his bookshop!! Dim and muted. Poor thing