it's a holy thing, in theory, a glorious celebration, where those who believe rise to meet the lord in the air. it's a day of joy, in theory, and maybe even of vindication for those who have always believed.
but no one thinks about how it's like to see the dead rise again—bodies clawing their way out of bolted wood and six feet of packed earth, bodies decomposed and maggot-feasted, nails stained with rot and dirt. no one thinks about the violent lurch of their bodies being jolted into the air by the stomach, gravity flinging their heads back down to earth as they struggle in vain to find footing on molecules and gas. no one thinks about those who don't make it.
no one thinks about the screams.
crowley hadn't thought about any of these things. he certainly hadn't thought about the angels that would be called back to heaven along with the believers.
here they stand dead in the middle of absolute ruin, the promise of heaven the only thing left to look forward to on the wasteland of this earth. the sky has opened up like the eye of god, watching over her people for the very first time, and crowley's black wings against the beams of light only remind him that he doesn't belong up there with the rest of them. crowley wraps his arms tight around aziraphale, squeezes his torso like he can maybe keep aziraphale with him through sheer will or, laughably, demonic intervention. like love could ever be enough. like love could stay.
around them, the cacophony of wails and mockingly exaltant trumpets scorch the earth in their intensity, clashing and agonising even—especially—for them, and words make no sound. but they hold on to each other, even as they shrink into themselves against the noise of the undying. i don't want to leave you either, aziraphale doesn't say, but his hands dig into the cotton of crowley's sleeve, and crowley hears the words through his fingertips.
he feels a stronger upward resistance against his embrace now, and he clings tighter, steadfast, even as aziraphale's grip falters. but he knows he can't hold on forever. he knows that nothing ever lasts.
trembling with something unspeakable, he lifts his arms from aziraphale's torso and covers the angel's ears with his hands. he feels more than hearing aziraphale's resulting sob, and he spreads out his wings to wrap them around their bodies. a shield, a comfort, a goodbye.
it's okay, the gesture says in silence. i'll see you in another lifetime.
While trying to tempt Caligula, Crowley makes a discovery that renders all his efforts for naught. But then it turns out that Aziraphale is here too, so maybe his trip to Rome isn't wasted after all.
***highly recommended to read on a phone because of the Multiplicity Of Line Breaks that just look very weird on a laptop unless your font size is huge
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i've always loved the idea of crowley falling in love with aziraphale in rome. in some ways it really is my roman empire so i figured i might as well make it happen! featuring many shenanigans and an annoying emperor :)
any and all support is greatly appreciated <3
anyway it all started with a dream:
so this is for @eybefioro @captainblou @crowleys-bentley-and-plants who challenged me to write a fic with no angst and also, coincidentally, for that one commenter who asked me on the same day if i would consider writing something happy for once. against all odds and with much difficulty, i have done it. love u guys sm <333
Crowley's time with Jesus dredges up an old wooden box of memories 3000 years past—a flood, a reckoning, and lives lost. And in the box are two other things, one of which is a braided lock of her own hair, straw-like from dried-up rainwater, and hacked off violently and unevenly at the edges.
*don cheadle voice* boom, you looking for this?
it is finally here... the mesopotamia–golgotha fic! this is intended as a sequel to my golgotha fic, via dolorosa. also if you see the very tiny stitches of colour on his clothes and on the C in this drawing... they're surprise tools that will help us later :)
please go check out the wonderful art my beloved @knifeforkspooncup made for me!! i have probably racked up five hours of screen time just looking at it if we're being honest here. thank you loml <3
also this idea came my way because of this post and the lovely (life ruining) additions by @idliketobeatree and @eybefioro. this fic is for u two <3 (i also eventually realised that my original post was factually incorrect but hey it birthed this fic so! happy accidents!)
falling like the stars by crowleys-bentley-and-plants, fearandhatred
the extended constellation poem here!!
The Starmaker wore the freckles on his face without shame, each and every one of them representing all the stars he had ever created, all the fragments of grace he had put into them—that was before the fall.
Millennia later, Aziraphale maps his own stars on Crowley's skin in the form of angel kisses.
individual sections below for easier reading and ✨️details✨️. the full unformatted text is under the cut, the clearer version + text is on ao3! any and all support appreciated <3
soooo... my beloved @crowleys-bentley-and-plants and i were on the topic of calligrams and we got carried away as usual. many, many, many ideas stacked on top of each other later, we ended up with this half-fic half-poem calligram artwork piece...? we are the absolute masters of "what if" statements tbh. love u bestie we are the unstoppable force that meets the immovable object (the definition of a poem)
text below the cut!
they all left marks, dotted warm and feather-light on my skin; that was the first i'd known of gentleness. the very first star swelled all-consuming in my palms, fiery and bright, twinkling with laughter. that's when i felt that first heat, and when i looked, there it was: a singular freckle stamped over my heart.
they all left marks, when i created star after star after star, on the hands i used to mould them into shape; on my collarbones where i pressed them into me; on my cheeks that i bore exposed to their splendour. and when i exploded the universe into being, the stars burned through all that i was, and i was.
they all left marks; they were mine and i theirs, and i was as much of them as i was myself. this must be love, i thought, cosmic and selfless, agape and divine. and if everything else were ever stripped away from me, i thought, i could still cling to the evidence that i had created something, that i was a part of something, that i was something.
they all left marks, and i knew them completely, like the back of my hand, like the constellations of my skin, and as i knew them completely, so also had i thought that i would have them completely.
but then i fell away
from them
and
they
were
gone.
He hadn't realised it then, in the seconds or centuries after his fall. It had been a while before the earth and before nights, before he was allowed to drag himself out of the fire and into the throes of humanity. All he'd known was that his freckles were gone, the only proof of his creations he could have had in Hell, where steel walls and a whole world separated him from the skies, and thus from himself.
So Eden was good, where his serpentine form meant that he wouldn't have to look at his skin, smooth and newly unmarred in its taintedness, in his failures. And he had a purpose. Not an deed of selflessness or love or pride, but a purpose nonetheless, where before he had none, and was nothing. And it was good.
Then came the first night.
He would have thought that the stars were just too far away for him to recognise them, looking up at them now, but no. He recognised them all—and none of them were his. There were the pre-aged stars, scattered around haphazardly by the more senior angels; newly formed ones birthed from other star factories; none of his.
He would have thought that the burning away of the marks from his skin when he'd fallen—searing and gaping bare like cavities—meant nothing, if it wasn't for the little bits of grace he remembered offering up to his stars when he'd made them. If it wasn't for the evidence above him now that when he'd fallen from grace, his stars had, too.
The thing about giving is that there's always someone else who gains. But sometimes when you lose, others lose just the same. You give too much, the sky told him. You lose too much. And then it turned away from him.
Stars as they are commonly known are full of light, powerful and giving; that's how he'd made them, and that's how he loved them. It was the kind of overpowering love you felt helpless in the face of, and he'd thought that was just how love always was. But then there was God, and after God; his stars and their deaths. It was only then that he realised that there was such a thing as too much: too much love, aggressive and selfish, blinding and devouring.
He was a star that trapped light, that swallowed darkness, that wrenched all he loved into himself, consuming, destroying, until he himself collapsed under the weight of his own gravity. Until he blew apart and brought everything else down with him. There was no saving him from himself, not unless one wanted to play a losing game. No light escapes a black hole, and nothing comes near it and leaves unscathed.
That's how it was. That's how it always would be.
. . .
The park, too, is how it always has been, even years later. The same expanse of lake, the night wind blowing soft ripples on the surface; the same pavements marked with a million footsteps; the same worn benches that Crowley sits on, with Aziraphale next to him.
There's a silent peace between them now that they're free from their respective sides, a security of being. But Crowley isn't… settled. All these years, he's carried himself as an amalgamation of parts with pieces missing, pieces that were destroyed and could never be replaced. When he rests, his parts fall against each other in jagged edges and loose fits, waiting for the inevitable collapse.
And although he holds onto that peace, to Aziraphale's presence, they can't be stuffed into and mend the cracks. All they can do is keep him upright. There's a breeze on his face, the sky painted a shade of deep blue, freckled with stars visible and unseen, young and long dead. He sits on the park bench, Aziraphale next to him, an angel and a broken man looking up at the stars.
I love you, Aziraphale says, easy as anything. Crowley loves him too. How could he not?
Are you sure? he asks.
Why wouldn't I be?
There's nothing left of me to love, he says, as a statement of fact. All I am is loss.
You haven't lost me, Aziraphale replies.
Did you know that black holes are invisible? They don't reflect light, or emit it. It's like trying to see in the darkest cave. There's nothing there. Crowley tilts his head up to the sky, where the only things they can see are stars. You can only tell where black holes are because of everything around them that they ruin.
He draws his knees to himself, and imagines sucking in all his stars, powerless to stop himself from annihilation. He imagines that the stars are Aziraphale.
Then he feels Aziraphale's fingers on his chin, gently turning his face towards him. I see you, Aziraphale says. I see you, and I love you.
That's how it always starts. And it always ends the same way.
It doesn't have to, this time.
It's not a choice I make, Crowley tells him, to ruin things. It just happens, over and over. It's only a matter of time.
Then I will gladly take all the time you give me, Aziraphale says quietly. Crowley looks away.
Aziraphale leans over and presses a soft kiss to his cheek, tender and aching. As he pulls away, Crowley gasps at the sensation, and there on his cheek is a singular, twinkling freckle.
it would be easier had i not know you then, the angel you were in both body and soul, creator and mirror of the universe.
for years i shouldered the burden of witness to the spattering of stars across your face as they burst into being. you called them gorgeous, i remember, and though i agreed i was looking only at you. but i knew even then that you and your stars were one and the same, and so i saw that you were gorgeous, and it was enough.
it would be easier had i not seen you then, but it is not an ease i want to bear: to have known you then is to know you completely now. and to know you completely is to love you completely. in your face then i saw all of creation as it had been; in your face now i see all that can be created.
i know there are marks on you, the type that are permanent, that rub you raw and leave you gasping. i know that all the marks you carry with you now are marks that you wish you never had, and that the marks you long for are long gone. i know that nothing i do could give them back to you, that some feelings, once lost, are lost forever.
but i can only hope that i can give you something new, a feeling that does not replace but understands. i can only hope that you consume me completely, draw me into you, and that when i stay, and stay, and stay, you realise that the strength of your love could never be a bad thing.
i can only hope that i can trace the streaks of light across your skin, kiss new constellations onto your cheeks, and that it would be enough.
transitional heart taxidermy by fearandhatred (21.6k words, 9/9 chapters)
i am so so happy to be releasing two bonus and final chapters for this fic:
chapter 8: what was... (deleted flashback scene)
"Is it always lonely for you, too?" Muriel asks, and Crowley's heart pangs at the memory, sitting across from an angel asking the same question with the same tone, small and unsure. Just to be able to ask the question. It's one he can answer, at least.
chapter 9: ...and what could have been (alternate ending)
Or maybe, just maybe, the world would decide to show its kindness, and when he's moved time itself there'll be carpet underneath his feet and the smell of old books around him on an unassuming post-Armageddon day; maybe his hand would be around a glass of wine, giving the angel a toast; maybe he would be smiling at Aziraphale on any and every other day in the past, and Aziraphale would be smiling back at him like he used to do, in a way only he could.
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i wanted to release a fic cover for this along with these chapters but i don't think i'll be doing that anymore, but it was still fun to dig these unreleased words out from the writing stage hehe. and now i can finally lay this fic to rest <3 thank you to all the people who have shown this fic love and supported me while writing it i love u all fr
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Summary:
Aziraphale comes back wrong. Crowley tries his damnedest to figure out what happened, until he doesn't.
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omg here it is FINALLY i know i said it would take 3 years but i lied i guess. i'm so excited to write and complete this actually. i got the idea when i first got into ethel and listened to preacher's daughter on repeat 300 times in a row so that should give you some idea as to what this fic will be like
that being said please mind the tags + don't like don't read ok love y'all any support is appreciated <3
hi i'm not dead <3 came across a post that reminded me of this wip that was supposed to be multi-chaptered but that i'll never finish so. here's the 1k words i've written for the first chapter. the plot is hanahaki with a twist
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the language of flowers
"He pointed out the spot where many a blue-belled flower grew, and there they met, and vowed to be constant unto death."
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Excerpts from The Demonic Code of Conduct, written in ink shortly after The Great War and subsequently misplaced, and thus unknown in its specifics to any demon.
Thou shalt not utter the name of the Lord, nor use the Devil's name in vain.
Thou shalt not commit honourable acts. To do so is to be unworthy of what its existence constitutes.
Thou shalt not love another sentient being. A demon that offers its heart to another in any shape or form, be it of its own kind or otherwise, shall have that other of which it loves turned upon it as punishment and take over it till its life's end, for the wages of sin is death.
John 1:1. In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was—
Life is poetic, Crawly muses, coiled up under the shade of a tree. The tree, to be specific. The one that would get the ball rolling, though he still has a while before the lady comes wandering around to this side of the garden.
Life is poetic. Life is poetry. He thinks this now because he feels the cool grass brushing against his scales, sharp but delicate, the bright and incomparable scent of dew, and he knows how they would taste on his tongue without ever having tasted them. He rests his head softly between some small blooming flowers and he knows that they mean.
Life is poetry, because everything has its own language and yet can never be separate from anything else. Whether Crawly has been cursed or blessed to know every language in the world he's not sure, but it all speaks to him. The written language, of course, that would come into fruition as strokes and lines that will somehow become words, the Word; the language of science, with the intricacies of atoms settling around and inside him, or exploding above, the inherent yet overwhelming knowledge of how it all works; the language of flowers, with all their meanings filling his nostrils and resting on his tongue like honey.
It could be a curse if he were human, maybe, with a mind not meant to hold this much information or to know what to do with it. But he's not human, and he'll live a long enough life to be able to digest it all—although he knows even now that some things are too great to comprehend, too intricate and ineffable to fathom. It's a blessing, he decides now. (Although in a thousand years he'll look up at the Tower of Babel, everyone around him speaking a hundred different tongues as God's idea of a plague, and he'll wonder if the universe has got curses and blessings all twisted around.)
He flops over onto his back—though it's not much of a flop, really, in this long form; it's rather like the unravelling of a scroll—and flicks out a tongue towards the flowers drooping right over his head. They're a vibrant yet deep shade of blue, not sharp enough to hurt, and they hang from arched stems like grapes from a vine.
Bluebells, he decides, and they look a little like they're twinkling right at him, light and pleasant chiming sounds like the laughter of stars. Besides, God only specifically told Adam to name the animals, so he supposes everything else is fair game.
There's a certain lightness in being surrounded by beauty and new creation, a particular surreal quality to the colourful loneliness of nature that he thinks he'll never get tired of, and he's feeling playful. Instead of moving just his eyes, he rolls full-body around in the grass to different clumps of flowers, and their names slip off his tongue like he's not actually naming them, but as if they're introducing themselves to him. In the Garden, there are no rules as to where or how nature grows; the plants and flowers all coexist, thrive off each other, and it's something he'll grow to miss.
A stalk of orange flowers with tapered and curled petals wave to him from their nest at the root of a tree. Hey you. Crawly flicks his tongue back at them. Hi, lilies. Their name dances off his tongue, delicate and happy.
A dark red flower smiles serenely at him from the underbrush. Rose, he greets, a name no less elegant for its simplicity.
He coils around the pink viscarias as they twirl and sway to their own wind, and sits in silence with the marigolds. All of the flowers, chrysanthemums and tulips, anemones and violets, petals tapered or round or bright or dull, are equal to him in beauty, for he finds that there is beauty to be found just in understanding. He doesn't have a favourite yet, but then again, he doesn't have to play favourites.
And so in the Garden of Eden, Crawly finds himself falling in love for the first time.
The woman comes along then, and tempting her is as easy as a conversation, an icebreaker. An apple, he hisses in her ear, and the way her tongue sounds the word out for the very first time couldn't be anything but divine.
After all has been said and done, Crawly gently plucks out a flower from its bush, and scales the wall like poison ivy to meet the angel, curious, always curious. And it turns out that there's more splendour to be found in the view from above, if less intimacy. While he had gotten to meet the flowers up close beforehand, delighting in their individuality amongst the acres of green grass, now they all seem to blend together in harmony, like one living, breathing being. An organism in itself, with its own systems and its own language.
Crawly shifts into his human form and presents the flower to the angel with a light magician's flourish. "I'm guessing you haven't had the privilege of being among the flowers yet," he says by way of introduction.
The angel looks down at the red petals Crawly is holding out to him, surprised. "I haven't indeed. And who is this lovely thing?"
Crawly's heart jumps at the question, unable to stop his face from splitting into a grin as the angel gently takes the flower from him. "It's a rose," he says. "She can mean whatever you want it to mean, right now."
And everything is everything is everything: nothing can exist without the other. There in that garden, and then on the wall and beyond, the meanings Crawly and Aziraphale breathe into the flora emerge and grow their roots over generations, and to the end of time.The angel looks up him, eyes shockingly blue and crinkling with delight, and Crawly thinks of the bluebells in the garden, leaning over him in shelter. Warm, steady, protective. Those are my favourite, he decides, and at the back of his throat, he thinks he knows how they taste.
