So we all know about the ending of season three. Was it definitely missing allot of plot holes and the characters were a little ooc, yes. But I have a fan fiction au idea where after Aziraphale and Crowley basically disintegrate they actually get turned into space stuff like Crowley gets turned into a Nebula, and Aziraphale turns into either a new big planet or a new star(star as in way bigger than our sun) and maybe someone can do a spin on it and make it to where Crowley and Aziraphale are in their true celestial forms but is mixed with the atuff they turn into and if humans look and discover them to humans they look like just a nebula and big star. Crowley and Aziraphale’s orbit around eachother forever and get to watch over the milky way where our solar system is, watching over all of their endless reincarnation’s(sorry if it’s hard to read I was just trying to get the idea out of my head)
I wrote a fanfic years ago where Crowley and Aziraphale willingly ended their existence bc there was nothing left for them to do and they turned into stardust. But God was like lemme give you one last gift and made their combined essence into a star to burn as a symbol of their love.
Hello! This is my little cottage built as a retirement present for my beloved Ineffable Husbands. It is a customized version of a kit bought online, with lots of little nods and Easter eggs to ensure both occupants are duly represented. Technically, this is designed for Crowley & Aziraphale, but I absolutely can see this working for two retired Professors as well. I welcome all adorable husbands/partners/spouses here!
The living room is a place of compromise in design, comfort, and style. They were sure to bring the bookshop with them, of course, just in miniature.
Who says you can't have a picnic in your own front garden? A little wine, some cheese and crackers, maybe some fruit, and a nice chocolate cake for dessert.
A kitchen should be as warm and inviting as a good meal. Don't forget to restock the bird feeders so the feathered visitors get nice snack, too!
It's important for couples to have their individual spaces. To pull a completely random example, cozy reading library for one and a stargazing garden for another. Harry the Rabbit likes burrowing among the stacks of books, but careful not to tip over that mysterious snowglobe!
Bedrooms are cozy little sanctuaries, perfect for spending long, lazy mornings together, or even longer, less lazy days together.
Over time, the cottage spent enough time with its occupants that it learned a song or two. It was bound to happen...
I am very proud of this build. It is my most involved project to date and I have spent untold hours customizing kit items and building things out of random objects just because I wanted them to exist. The itty bitty wine glasses alone! I almost didn't want to finish building it because it was so fun, but also bittersweet to complete (that's a familiar feeling, eh?) I hope that I can share this with the GO fandom because it was a labor of love. I don't know what I'll do next, but maybe a nice little bookshop in Soho?
My first time posting a fic I wrote on here. If you're interested in an AU where Aziraphale and Crowley aren't an angel and a demon but instead two immortals lesbians who meet for the first time in the 19th century, where Crowley is a female version of Oscar Wilde.....
You should most definitely read my fic The Truth is Rarely Pure and Never Simple linked below
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Aziraphale and Crowley's last kiss explained (by a European) ✨❤️
I shall jump straight to the point: people online did NOT seem pleased with Aziraphale and Crowley's last kiss. However, unlike them, i believe this was a deeply meaningful, touching and romantic moment for us to see and i thought I'd give my two cents about it too.
For starters: this was an APOLOGY kiss. That's right people, not a simple "I love you" or "I like you back" kiss but a PROPER apology kiss. Aziraphale reaches for it first, it's the first thing that comes to his mind when he realizes this might actually just be the last time they ever get to see each other. He wants to start over, do it better, and in order to do that he needs Crowley's forgiveness for everything that has happened in the past few years for things to finally be RIGHT.
He also touches his lips the same way he did when he first got kissed by Crowley at the end of season 2, except this time he does it to "give it back". It simbolizes Crowley's feelings being reciprocated, a tender act of apology for not kissing him back the first time but finally doing it right this time. He no longer thinks of that touch to his lips with sorrow or hatred or confusion, but rather as an answer, as something beautiful, as the love he's always felt but could never find the courage to openly reciprocate until now.
As for a possible additional meaning, here in Europe a kiss given by the fingertips can symbolize many things. One of them is "farewell" (and given the context of this scene i might add this kiss was the perfect choice), it's a sign of respect and profound admiration, it's a tender act to say goodbye in a polite and innocent way: it's pure, just like them.
Additionally, in my country, a kiss by the fingertips is most commonly known as a religious act, a sign of devotion and adoration done to the feet of sacred statues and holy sculptures; it symbolizes complete submission to our deepest love for the holy and to surrender to the greatness of the saint we behold, to give them our complete and undoubted faith.
it's loyal, It's devoted and faithful, It's endlessly filled with love and respect, it's playful and innocent but also clever and bold: it represents Aziraphale PERFECTLY. ❤️
i believe we were very lucky to be able to see the different ways these two characters express their love for one another, we get to see how Crowley expresses his love through a kiss and we get to see how Aziraphale does it in his own way. They both come straight from the heart, both dripping with need and affection and love, but each in their own, unique ways.
Their kiss is THEM, it's a reflection of what they think of one another, how they see each other, and how they perceive their relationship. And i think it's the single most beautiful thing I've ever seen in a very, VERY long while.
Idk what was in my system last night but I dreamed the ENTIRE Good Omens finale (or a weird alternate universe of it bc it better not be what I dreamed)
Some things I remember
Crowley’s angel name: Duffy
The minions were there, but shape shifted into tiny beach creatures that got red if they walked into the boiling sea
Lots of fire and lava and red
It was very overstimulating that at points you couldn’t look at the screen
Crowley being tortured in heaven then released to meet Aziraphale
A kiss!!!
Crowley and Aziraphale teaming up and flying together to fight heaven and eldritch horrors.
All in all it wasn’t very good and had a different tone than the original, but it was quite interesting.
In the dream I saw this all in a movie theater with a boy from my kindergarten class who in the dream had a crush on me.
Also I went to buy popcorn and apparently needed to buy credits to buy popcorn, I ended up stealing sour candy.
Nika sat on the edge, legs dangling over the city as she stared up at the sky pensively. It was just like any other day really, she told herself. The sky was painted salmon just like any other sunset, and below her traffic bustled as people went to and from work. It was just another day.
“I like you better broken” her father had said, barely looking up when she came home after dropping out of uni to become a mechanic. After she’d spent months working on herself, soul searching and deciding what to do with her life. That was all he had to say.
She remembered the scene vividly, her father, a tiny Japanese man, hunched over the kitchen table in his tiny London flat, only looking up to give her a once over before returning to his crossword. And she’d stood there, like a fool, hoping for something, anything else from him. Any sign he was glad she was back, and while she knew not to wish for it, the small child in her longed for some sign of pride. It had been hard work to find herself. To heal from the girl who lost her mother from a young age and was bullied all throughout school. To learn to think for herself for once. And that was all her father had to say. “I like you better broken.” Well. She wouldn’t have to hear that again. She wouldn’t hear anything from him again. The hospital had called her a few hours ago to inform her of her father’s passing.
Nika stared up at the sky. It was beautiful. Sunset was her favorite time of day. The way the sky looked as if it were painted; it never failed to astound her.
Her father was dead and she was thinking of the sky. If Nika was being honest with herself, that was because she didn’t know what else to think about. She certainly didn’t know how she felt. She’d never been close with her father, and they hadn’t spoken since she came out and started dating Penn. She knew he was in hospice care, but as far as she knew he hadn’t even asked for her, which was fine by her. He was the man who, after she spent months finally healing and discovering herself, said that he’d liked the old, broken version of her better. She didn’t need someone like that in her life.
On the other hand, he was truly gone now. There was no chance of ever mending their relationship. The little girl who still hoped for his approval would now forever be waiting for something that could never come. And that young, broken part of her was sad.
All in all, it was quite the mix of emotions. So she focused on the sky.
Footsteps behind her. But Nika didn’t turn around. She recognized the light tread of her girlfriend’s scuffed converse. Penn sat down beside her, feet dangling over the roof as she eyed her girlfriend sadly.
“Sebi told me the hospital called.” She said simply, giving Nika the space to share as much or as little as she wanted.
“He’s gone,” Nika replied, not looking down from the sky. There really wasn’t much else to say.
“I’m sorry love,” Penn clasped Nika’s hand and squeezed, “do you want to talk about it?”
“There’s not much to say. He was my father. He was a shit father. And now he’s gone.” Nika felt a tear run down her cheek. She didn’t bother to wipe it away. She would let herself feel whatever came her way. It was a skill that took her many years to learn.
Penn wrapped an arm around her girlfriend, and Nika leaned into her, resting her head on Penn’s shoulder. A few more tears came, then a sob. Penn squeezed her tighter as Nika curled into her.
Tangerine Quarters - Eloise Bridgerton x Reader (Bridgerton)
summary: It begins with a basket of fruit delivered to the Bridgerton estate, a gift from an admiring suitor that Eloise has zero interest in. But she’s particularly fond of the tangerines, and more fond of sharing them with you, her closest companion.
She peels one apart with quick fingers, and hands you a quarter. Then another. Then another. It becomes a ritual, until one day the gesture lingers just a bit too long.
Part of May Prompts: Day Three, tangerine quarters
It starts innocently enough.
You’re in the Bridgerton garden, tucked beneath a flowering tree, your legs stretched out on the grass, an old book opened across your lap. The sun is gentle this afternoon, soft on your skin, and the quiet hum of bees in the distance adds to the tranquility. You don’t even hear her coming until there’s a dramatic thud beside you and a familiar groan of impatience.
“They sent fruit,” Eloise declares, as though this is the greatest injustice of the day. She tosses a tangerine into your lap with theatrical disdain.
You glance at the fruit, then at her. Her bonnet is askew, cheeks flushed from wherever she’s come rushing in from. “Is it meant to symbolize fertility or something else even more scandalous?”
“If it is, I’ll never eat another,” she retorts with a scoff.
And yet, a beat later, she’s peeling it with swift fingers. She works quickly but methodically, the smell of orange juice releasing into the air, a sharp sweetness that clings to you. Her nails dig into the rind, fingers stained and sticky, but she doesn’t complain. Instead, she begins to segment the fruit, turning each quarter over with care.
When she offers you the neatest slice (not the first, not the last, but the best one) you blink in surprise. But you take it. Your fingers brush. Neither of you pulls away.
You both look down at the fruit in your hands like it's suddenly taken on a new meaning.
No one says a word.
Then, after that, it becomes a thing.
A strange sort of ritual that repeats without explanation. A silent offering between chapters of conversation or shared glances. Sometimes it’s her pressing a tangerine into your hand mid-walk, with a wink and no context. Other times, it’s left waiting on your windowsill, perfectly round, with a note beside it that simply reads, In case you missed me.
No one else seems to notice. Or if they do, they don’t ask. Not Daphne, who raises an eyebrow once before moving on. Not Penelope, who likely suspects everything but wisely says nothing.
It becomes comfort. It becomes habit.
You begin to associate the smell of oranges with her laugh, with her skirts brushing against yours, with the sound of her boots running through the halls as she hunts you down to share some ridiculous bit of gossip. It follows you into your dreams, into the creases of your pillow, into the way your heart quickens when she sits too close.
It’s silly, of course. It’s just fruit.
But it’s never just fruit when it comes from her.
And as the days slide into weeks, and spring slips lazily into summer, you begin to wonder if you’ve ever shared something so small that felt so impossibly big.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
It rains for hours.
The kind of rain that softens the world around you, turning the estate into a haze of grey. Thunder rolls lazily in the distance, and the windows fog from the warmth inside. You’re glad you made it to the Bridgerton house before the rain descended. You’ve resigned yourself to a slow day, curled up on the chaise with a fresh book in hand, the scent of old paper and damp leaves drifting in through the cracked window.
Eloise appears with all the force of a minor storm. She slams the door behind her, kicks off her boots, and flops, quite literally, beside you.
“There’s nothing to do,” she announces, dramatically. “Mother has commandeered the parlour, Colin’s snoring in the library, and someone,” she glances sideways at you, “has been hiding in here like a ghost.”
“I’m reading,” you reply, not looking up.
She ignores you. Or rather, she ignores your protests. Instead, she scoots close, peering over your shoulder at the page. Her chin nearly rests against your shoulder, and you can feel her breath on your collarbone, warm and steady.
“You always smell like oranges now,” you murmur, not entirely teasing. "I like it."
She grins, and without missing a beat: “You'll never eat an orange without thinking of me." Her breath falters momentarily, "Not that you need any help, you're always thinking of me, no?"
You choke, on your breath, on the weight of that sentence, and she just laughs, full and delighted.
She doesn’t move away.
Instead, she reaches up, fingers brushing a stray curl from your forehead and tucking it carefully behind your ear. Her touch is casual, but her fingers linger, just long enough for your heart to betray you.
“Sticky fingers,” she whispers. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Your throat tightens. You don’t know if she’s talking about the citrus, or the closeness, or the way she keeps looking at you like she’s memorising something. Maybe all of it.
You shake your head. A quiet gesture. But the meaning is loud in your chest.
Outside, the rain continues. Inside, time slows.
She reaches into her skirt pocket, and, as if by magic, produces another tangerine. “You know,” she says idly, “if I were a different sort of girl, I’d make a grand romantic gesture out of this. Perhaps declare that each fruit is a token of my undying devotion.”
You raise an eyebrow. “And what sort of girl are you?”
She shrugs, smiling faintly. “The kind who prefers slow rituals. Quiet things. The kind who peels fruit on rainy days and hopes you’ll let her stay close.”
You don’t answer. Not with words.
Instead, you rest your cheek lightly against her shoulder.
She peels the tangerine in slow, curling spirals, the scent of citrus curling around you like a secret. One by one, she offers you slices, fingertips brushing your lips, touch feather-light, like punctuation to everything unsaid.
You eat each one.
You don’t look away.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
It’s a Bridgerton garden party, the kind with too many guests and not nearly enough places to hide. The lawn is a sea of pastels and parasols, laughter bubbling from corners, children darting between grown-up conversations.
You’re standing near the edge of it all, holding a glass of lemonade and pretending to admire the rosebushes. It’s easier than weaving through endless introductions or enduring yet another matchmaking attempt from a well-meaning aunt.
Then he appears. A young gentleman. He’s polished, affable, with the kind of smile that suggests he’s memorised it in a mirror.
“You looked like you could use company,” he says smoothly.
You raise a brow. “Do I?”
He chuckles. “Only because I felt the same.”
To his credit, he’s charming in that easy, practiced way. He talks about music and travel, leans in just a bit when he laughs at your jokes. You’re still half-listening when a sudden weight hits your side, not hard, but deliberate.
Eloise.
She appears beside you like a thunderclap in human form, eyes narrowed and expression coolly unimpressed.
“Hello,” she says flatly to the gentleman. Then, to you, “You’ve been terribly hard to find.”
“I’ve been standing in the same place for fifteen minutes,” you say mildly.
“Precisely. Who lingers by rosebushes when there’s fresh lemonade and scandal near the terrace?”
The man attempts to recover the conversation. “Miss Bridgerton, is it? I was just telling your friend here about my travels-"
Eloise cuts in, sweetly venomous. “How lovely. Did your tailor travel with you? That cravat looks freshly traumatised.”
You nearly spit out your drink. The gentleman blinks, excuses himself with a stiff nod, and walks off with as much dignity as he can salvage.
Silence stretches between you and Eloise. Then, “Jealous?” you ask, teasing, curious.
Her brows lift. “Don’t be absurd.”
You turn to face her fully. “He was just being polite.”
“He was being dreary, and your time is far too precious for tedium,” she replies, arms crossed.
“You’re protective now?”
“I’m always protective. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.”
Before you can respond, something small and firm hits your chest. You glance down.
She’s already turning to go, satisfied and smug. “You forgot this,” she calls over her shoulder. A tangerine is rolling softly away.
You pick it up, cradling it like a secret. It smells like her, bright and defiant.
Later, you’ll find it in your pocket still, slightly bruised from the day. You won’t be able to bring yourself to eat it. Not because you don’t want it, but because some part of you is waiting for her to peel it for you.
Because somehow, the ritual is only complete when it’s hers to give.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
It’s late and Eloise sits beside you on the blanket, legs tucked to the side, skirts rumpled with careless grace.
Neither of you speak at first. The silence is comfortable, tinged with the familiar scent of citrus that you have grown to expect, and love.
Eloise pulls a tangerine from the pocket of her dress. She holds it up between you like a peace offering, like a question. You nod once.
But this time, she doesn’t peel it quickly, doesn’t chatter while doing so. Her fingers are slower, more thoughtful. She works the skin off in long, deliberate spirals, the scent of it rising between you like something ancient and sweet.
You watch her, the way her brow furrows slightly in concentration, the way she separates the fruit into even quarters as always but with uncharacteristic gentleness.
Then, instead of placing one in your palm as usual, she turns to you, her eyes searching your face, slowing down.
She gently lifts the piece, soft, sticky, perfect, against your lips.
You freeze.
Her hand pauses there, fingers grazing your cheek now, breath catching like she’s just realized what she’s done, or what she’s about to do. You gently part your lips, taking the piece of fruit, hoping she keeps her hand there.
“You always let me feed you,” she says, quiet. Vulnerable. “Even though you pretend it’s silly.”
You swallow… the fruit, the emotion, all of it. “It’s not silly.”
“Then neither is this.”
She leans in. Slowly. Carefully. Her lips meet yours like a question she already knows the answer to. It tastes like tangerines and sunlight, and something else entirely, something soft and sharp and real.
She pulls back just a little, her eyes still closed. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “I’ve been trying not to do that for weeks.”
You shake your head. “Don’t be.”
The words are barely a whisper, but they land heavy in the space between you. Your forehead touches hers. You don’t know what happens next, if it’s the beginning of something, or the tipping point of everything you’ve been pretending not to want.
But for now, there’s this.
The scent of citrus on her fingers. The warmth of her beside you. And the quiet, undeniable truth of a kiss you’ll never forget.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The next day is a mess.
Not outwardly. The sky is bright, your breakfast unburnt, your dress ironed, the Bridgerton estate humming with its usual chatter. But inside, everything feels off-kilter. You see Eloise at a distance, speaking animatedly with Benedict. She glances at you once. Quickly. Then looks away.
It stings more than you’d like.
You retreat to your usual spot in the garden, book in hand but unread. The page blurs from how long you’ve been staring at it. You think of her fingers, sweet with citrus, pressed to your mouth. Of her lips on yours, not demanding, but hopeful. Like a beginning.
What does it mean, now that it's happened?
You’re just about to get up, maybe wander aimlessly until the feeling fades, when you hear footsteps behind you. A familiar shuffle of boots, an annoyed huff, the rustle of skirts. Eloise.
She appears beside you, holding out a tangerine in both hands like a peace treaty.
“Still friends who eat fruit together?” she asks, voice too breezy to be casual.
You take the tangerine slowly. Turn it over in your palms. “Friends who kiss, perhaps?”
Eloise’s face shifts, wariness first, then wonder. Then she lights up like the damn sun. “Well,” she says, voice lighter, “that’s considerably more fun.”
You peel the tangerine this time. It feels like a statement. The skin comes off in clumsy chunks, and your fingers get sticky but you manage.
You pull apart the first quarter and hand it to her.
Her grin is a little crooked, a little shy. She takes it, but doesn’t eat it right away. She just looks at you.
“Does this mean I’ve been replaced as chief peeler?” she asks.
“Only temporarily,” you say. “You’re still my favorite citrus supplier.”
She hums, then pops the fruit into her mouth. “I should hope so. I’d be dreadfully jealous of myself.”
You both laugh. The sound is easy, light, and beneath it, something deeper. Something settled. Her foot bumps against yours and doesn’t move away. She doesn’t lean in for another kiss. Not yet. But the way her gaze softens when it lands on you says more than enough.
You sit there like that for a while, passing quarters back and forth, letting the silence speak where words can’t.
You’re not just friends anymore.
You’re something else now.
And whatever it is, it tastes like oranges and possibility.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
It’s late afternoon, the sun soft and golden, filtering through the trees. You and Eloise are curled beneath one of them, tucked into a quiet corner of the Bridgerton gardens where the world feels far away.
Your legs are tangled together, not deliberately, but not accidentally either. A half-peeled tangerine rests in Eloise’s lap. You’re lying with your head against her shoulder, and she’s absently threading fingers through your hair between bites of fruit.
“You taste like summer,” you murmur, half-asleep.
Eloise hums a pleased little sound, then leans down and kisses your forehead, your cheek… and finally, your lips. The taste of oranges lingers, familiar now. Yours.
She rests her chin atop your head. “You’re terribly distracting, you know. I used to get so much reading done before you.”
“You were always reading near me,” you point out.
“Well, yes,” she concedes. “But that was different. You weren’t quite mine yet.”
You shift so you can look at her. “And now I am?”
“Entirely,” she says, matter-of-fact.
You smile into the next kiss. It’s lazy, content, slow, not the heart-racing kind, but the steady sort that says this is home now.
Later, Daphne finds the two of you there and smirks knowingly. “Is there a reason all the fruit disappears when you're together?”
Eloise waves her off with a dramatic sigh. “We’re cultivating a citrus-based courtship, obviously.”
Daphne just rolls her eyes and leaves the two of you to it, not wanting to wade in to whatever peace you have found.
You snort. “You’re the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met.”
“And you’re the one eating oranges under a tree with me like it’s a Shakespearean love story, so what does that say about you?”
“That I’m in love with someone who peels fruit like a menace and kisses like it’s the only language she knows.”
Eloise’s smirk falters. Just for a second. Something in her chest seems to twist, loosen.
She blinks fast. “Well. That’s… wildly unfair of you to say without any warning.”
You just kiss her again.
And this time, it tastes like forever.
extra (epilogue)
You find the letter tucked inside the cover of your favorite book, the one Eloise always pretends she hasn’t borrowed (but absolutely has).
It’s folded in thirds, the parchment a little wrinkled, clearly written in haste. And love. Her handwriting is as chaotic as her thoughts. It is slanted and uneven, but unmistakably hers.
Dearest (and most vexingly irresistible) Y/N,
If I am to fall in love (and I am not saying that I have, mind you, because declarations are dramatic and terrifying and prone to being misunderstood) BUT IF I AM TO FALL,
Let it be with someone who peels fruit better than I do (you do), who laughs when I am the least funny (you do), and who doesn’t mind that my opinions are louder than church bells (you really don’t, and it’s suspicious).
Let it be with someone who shares my oranges, my secrets, my dreadful metaphors, and who lets me steal their warmth on cloudy days.
Let it be you.
Yours in citrus and chaos,
Eloise
(P.S. I have fallen, in case that wasn’t obvious. Do something about it, please. Preferably with fruit, my supplies are running low.)
You don’t hesitate.
The next day, you show up at the Bridgerton household with a basket full of tangerines, a ridiculous number of them in truth. You’ve even tied a ribbon around the handle.
When the butler announces you, Eloise bounds into the entryway like a girl summoned by magic. She sees the basket, then you, and stops short.
“I wasn’t sure how many I’d need to bring,” you say, voice soft but certain, “to say it right. Officially.”
She looks at you like she wants to kiss you and bolt in equal measure.
“To say what? Officially.” she manages, her voice just barely steady.
You set the basket down gently. Step closer. “That I’m yours. That I want to be wholly yours. That you were right in your letter.”
Her face breaks into a smile in the most beautiful way. “I’m...” she trails off, unheard of from her.
You smile anyway and nod. “I know.”
“I love you,” she blurts. “In the… wanting-to-share-every-tangerine-I-ever-eat-with-you sort of way. Which, for me, is quite serious.”
You reach for her hand. “Then let’s be serious. And silly. And everything in between.”
She stares at you for a beat, eyes bright.
Then, grinning, she pulls a tangerine from the basket, peels it quickly, and hands you the best slice. the perfect one she always saves for you.
