#mixtape fic

[th3-ann0unc3r]

I need someone to talk about mixtape with 😖😖😖😖

my reddie brain rot is back 😖😖😖😖

[may--hawk]

Wot's...Uh the Deal (ineffable remix)

Let me in from the cold / turn my lead into gold

Aziraphale really goes in for alchemy in the twelfth century. Crowley finds Aziraphale holed up at the foothills of a mountain somewhere in Italy. It’s nice there. Soft warm breezes, cool nights, lots of balconies for pining lovers to throw letters down to other lovers. And there Aziraphale is, holed up in the top of a dusty, slightly-leaning tower.

At the very top. Crowley climbs, a dizzying spiral of stairs that winds him around and around and around. Heaven, if Rising is like this, he’ll pick Falling any day. The stairwell is dark and cold, except for when he passes a shaft of light coming in through small windows set crookedly in the stone walls, throwing bright hot light over the passage until it twists and turns again, plunging him back into darkness. The light lost to him.

Finally, finally, he gets to the top, pushing open the heavy oak door with a wheeze. Aziraphale’s bent over a steaming cauldron, his hair frizzed out by the fog rolling off it, his face flushed and dewy. He looks up, startled, and when he sees Crowley he can’t stop the smile that spreads out over his face. Like light streaming in a window. “Crowley!” he says. “I didn’t know you were in Italy.”

“Well, I am now,” Crowley says. “Court stuff. Intrigue. You know.” Because he doesn’t want to admit he just missed Aziraphale, is all. You get used to the only steady face you’ve seen for the last few thousand years, and then you find yourself wanting to know what he thinks about, say, the Magna Carta, or, or eels, for something.

He makes his way over to the couch, miracles no fewer than three stacks of crumbling manuscripts out of his way - the back of his neck crawls under Aziraphale’s stare - and drops down. “Do all those steps help you transform things?” He jerks his thumb at the door, then wriggles his fingers at Aziraphale’s pot, which is now boiling viciously.

“It’s for the atmosphere,” Aziraphale says severely. He looks like he’s going to put his heavily leather-gloved hands on his hips, then thinks better of it.

“Ah, yes, the atmosphere.”

“You, of all people, should know the power of a good atmosphere.”

“Boy, do I ever,” Crowley says. “What’re you making there?” He leans forward, as if he could see through the steam.

“Gold, naturally. Not that I really need or want it, of course, but it is de rigueur. Apparently, with just a few chemical processes - and some chants and sigils, which are, between you and me, entirely unnecessary, but I suppose it makes them feel better,” he says, “you’re supposed to be able to turn lead into gold. The basest into the most precious.”

“I dunno, lead’s pretty useful,” Crowley says. “S'good for - for - pipes, I guess. Makes wine sweeter. Stained glass, you love stained glass.”

Aziraphale sighs, mistily.

“Could use some stained glass in here,” Crowley says, twisting around. The sun is already low, cutting through the bottom of the small windows set haphazardly around the tower. The space is cluttered with the sort of detritus Aziraphale collects anywhere he goes - manuscripts and empty cups and plates and knickknacks, small little treasures he absorbs - as if having enough of them could help him really understand humans, could make him almost one of them.

“Mmm,” says Aziraphale. He leans over the cauldron now, poking at something with a nasty-looking pair of tongs. Come to think of it, the last time Crowley’d seen tongs like that, he’d been down in Hell for a performance review. “Really, I must ask for silence - I need to concentrate-”

“To say the right magic words?” Crowley asks, a little nastily, and when Aziraphale looks at him he mimes closing his mouth. Aziraphale glares at him, then peers back into the cauldron with a look of great concentration. He pokes at something. Then again. He reaches out for a beaker, groping at the table nearby, but he’s a little off. Crowley gestures, very slightly, and the beaker is surprised to find itself ten centimeters or so to the left. Aziraphale’s hand lands on it. “Ah, thank you, dear,” he says, into the cauldron. Crowley watches as Aziraphale pours the liquid in. The steam intensifies for a moment, spitting and hissing - Crowley raises an eyebrow - and then -

there’s a puff of foul-smelling smoke that makes them both cough and wave their hands. Crowley makes a little gesture and a window - which is not meant to open - opens, shivering in cold air across the room. “Better luck next time, angel,” he starts, but Aziraphale is digging around in the cauldron with a look of great excitement on his face. He’s practically quivering with it. “Crowley, look!” he says, and pulls something out of the cauldron with the tongs. He holds it, dripping, over his gloved hand.

Crowley squints in the gloom. Aziraphale steps towards him, passing through shadows and light; as Aziraphale steps past a window, the sunlight glints on the wet metal as he holds it out to Crowley, like it’s an altar offering.

Gold.

Aziraphale’s smile is so bright, brighter than the gold in his hand. So bright it hurts. A thin solution drips from the gold, from the tongs, from his glove, darkening the floor. It steams when it hits.

Crowley pushes up his dark glasses up to get a better look at the gold. Aziraphale turns it this way and that to reflect the light. “No cheating?” Crowley asks.

“I’m an angel, Crowley,” Aziraphale says.

“Yeah, well, I’ve played dominoes with Michael,” Crowley reminds him.

“Yes, well,” says Aziraphale.

“You’ll be the talk of the court,” Crowley says.

“Yes - I suppose so.” Something darkens Aziraphale’s face.

“But you didn’t do it for the fame, did you, angel?”

“Of course not.” He’s standing at the window now, half in sun, half in shadow. The sun highlights the soft underside of his chin, his lower lip as he bites it.

“Why, then? Just a new hobby? Something to while away the time?” Crowley knows how it is. Despite how wondrous all of this is, it gets stale, boring, living thousands of years in the same skin.

“No-” Aziraphale says, hesitantly. “I suppose I wanted to prove - well, that something base could be elevated into something better. Could be made anew.”

His eyes - sparkling gray in the sun - dart to Crowley’s, then away. And Crowley, he’s been around a long time, hasn’t he? He’s not stupid. Just base, apparently. “Congratulations,” says Crowley, a little bitterly. “It’s a miracle. Well done. I’m sure the commendation will be coming in no time.” He turns away and goes over to Aziraphale’s desk, picking over papers, pens, lumps of odd metal and piles of powders. A black feather which should have rotted long ago but hasn’t, preserved less by a miracle than by hope.

“I don’t think Heaven is really interested in that sort of thing,” says Aziraphale’s voice from behind him, soft and close. “It’s really more of a - personal project.”

“Doomed to fail,” Crowley says.

“Perhaps,” says Aziraphale. “But isn’t it still worth trying?”

Crowley turns around. Aziraphale’s eyes glint at him in the dark like a precious metal. There is something very earnest on his face that he is trying and not quite succeeding to hide.

Crowley says, “Here. Think I can transform this-” he pulls a coin out of his pocket - “into dinner?”

Aziraphale brightens immediately. “There is a rather nice tavern not five kilometers from here.”

“I know,” says Crowley. “I passed it. Couldn’t have stayed there, could you?”

“The atmosphere, Crowley.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Come on, angel. I’m thirsty. You should leave that here, though,” he says nodding at the gold that Aziraphale still clutches, as if he’s not quite ready to let it go. “Just in case it turns back into lead on the ride there, out of the proper atmosphere.”

“I suppose you’re right,” says Aziraphale, and lays it carefully on the windowsill. “To cool,” he says, but Crowley knows it’s really to catch the light. They climb back down the interminable stairwell, Crowley complaining the whole way, and even Aziraphale huffs and puffs a little behind him - “I don’t come down much, you know how I am when I get on a project,” he says. As they ride away, Crowley glances back. The sunlight catches something at one of the windows - an open one - at the very top of the tower, like the light itself has been collected by Aziraphale and stabilized. Like he’s made something impossible. Miraculous, even.

Read the rest of the mixtape on AO3.

[moonsreid2]

just remembered mixtape (the reddie fic) existed and now i cant breathe

[lavendertozier]

*cries to africa by toto*

[abi-cosmos]

Is this a good time to mention that I’m currently writing a mixtape series?

The first one should be posted soon, it’s on the last edits...and set in a hot tub, which I know sounds weird but I’m feeling experimental!

[may--hawk]

under the gun (ineffable remix)

Stupid on the streets of London / James Dean in the rain / Without her, it’s not the same

It’s in the middle of an utterly ridiculous car chase - like to see Bond try that over the M25, Crowley thinks - that Aziraphale appears, in between one breath and the next. It’s dark in the theater except for the screen, which flashes those wonderful lovely pictures of far-away-places that are really just bits of wood and canvas and dream. The faint creak of the seat next to Crowley, the sound of feathers folding and unfolding, whisper-soft, drowns out the muted human noises around him: rustling bags, coughs, low conversation. Out of the corner of Crowley’s eye, Aziraphale’s suit and hair catch his attention; Aziraphale is a shining white beacon in all that darkness. “Of all the movies you could interrupt,” Crowley says, without turning from the screen, “and you pick the new 007?”

Aziraphale blinks. Crowley can just see it, the long sweep of lashes. “I’m terribly sorry if the Second Coming is a tad inconvenient for you.”

Crowley turns in his seat, hand on the armrest, to look at him, finally. “Is it happening right this second?” he asks.

“No. Thank - well, someone, anyway. Me, I suppose.” Aziraphale throws a look, near-disapprobative, at the movie theater ceiling. The ceiling glints, tinned and embossed, a holdover from the old days. 1 Trouble in paradise, Crowley thinks.

“Well, then, it can wait,” Crowley says, and settles back into the on-screen chase, which has now migrated to a pair of boats. Crowley’s never had a boat. Maybe he should ought to, before boats don’t exist anymore. Boats have to have a name, though. What would he call it? The Angel, of course. Satan. Never mind. No boat. He gets seasick, anyway.

Aziraphale twitches beside him. Crowley looks at him, properly, then. He can just see Aziraphale’s halo and wings flirting with the edges of reality, bright white flutters that near-sear his eyes. “Turn your fucking phone off!” someone yells from behind them, mistaking Aziraphale’s glow for a luminous screen. Crowley snaps his fingers, and the human falls silent. Aziraphale presses his lips together, but says nothing. He leans on the armrest between them. His sleeve - which is an awful slippery fabric, feeling unpleasantly like Goodness, like Light - brushing Crowley’s fingers. Crowley jerks his hand away and Aziraphale’s face falls, then hardens.

“There’s not going to be any spy movies if you don’t help me!” Aziraphale hisses at Crowley.

“All the more reason to let me watch this in peace,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale sucks in a breath, affronted. “Yes, fine, I’ll help you,” Crowley says. “Obviously. In-” he checks his watch. “Two hours fifteen minutes.” As Aziraphale mouths two hours to himself - his lips don’t look at his lips Crowley thinks - Crowley says, “Just - go get some dinner. Or sit here and watch the movie. I don’t care.” He slouches down in the seat, kicks his long legs over the seat in front of him, and crosses his arms, settling in.

Aziraphale stays, this time.

The next time, it’s a horror movie. Hey, it’s All Hallow’s Eve, and what else is Crowley doing but waiting for the end of the world? Aziraphale’s working on something up in Heaven, getting information, codes, files. Crowley hasn’t seen him since the last movie, since they’d gone out to eat afterwards, or, well, had gone out to sit across from each other in a restaurant and look absolutely miserable (Aziraphale) or sneer at every passerby (Crowley.) Crowley’s slouched down in his cinema seat, alternating slurping loudly on his drink (whiskey in a super-sized soda cup) and rattling his ice, when there’s a ripple across his senses. A glow beside him, that soft warm eminence like a fire full of hot coals. The screen almost dulls in comparison. Aziraphale’s there, close, and the very proximity of him sends electricity zipping up and down Crowley’s spine. “Popcorn?” Crowley says, holding out the tub, which he had only gotten so he could drop it on the floor and grind it into the carpet throughout the movie.

Continue reading on AO3.

[may--hawk]

blood in the wine (ineffable remix)

(For @nonamejustlurking).

Summary: Jacob wrestles the Angel. Or, the story behind the Sayeth That To Mine Face Bible.

There’s beauty in your beast

There are four things that the Bible gets wrong about Jacob wrestling with the angel.

The first thing is that the angel in question is not: God, not a pre-formed Christ, not Gabriel or Michael or Uriel. The angel is, instead, a principality, guardian of the Eastern Gate, (former) owner of a flaming sword, white-haired, slightly plump, and rather irritable. This angel is Aziraphale. The second thing the Bible gets wrong is that the wrestling match is not: a metaphor for belief, a prophecy regarding a holy land, a fever dream, or even a divine edict of what meat to consume or not to consume.

The wrestling match is, in fact, nothing more than an ordinary bar-fight.

The third thing is that Jacob is a right prick. He’s well-known in the land of Peniel for his nasty tongue and crude remarks, as well as his habit of hanging around the tavern entirely too long when everyone knows he has two wives and eleven children to support at home. 1

Crowley’s also been in the tavern too long, but you won’t catch him with any dependents to support. Besides, he’s working. Fostering forment. Foment. Farming. Doing - something, anyway. Crowley’s just gotten through the best, the good, and the semi-tolerable vintages of date wine in the tavern’s supply, and is currently working his way through the truly awful. He’s starting to think that maybe he should head back to his tent and sleep it off for a few months, when Aziraphale shimmers into the bar, a great bright beacon of desert light. They haven’t seen each other since Egypt. Crowley waves him over, and, well, one thing turns into another, and they haunt a shady corner of the tavern, Aziraphale sitting primly, an empty cup placed before him, Crowley half-slouched on the table, telling him of a rather amusing trick he’d played on Abraham. “Crowley, really, that’s awful,” Aziraphale says, but he puts a hand up before his face to hide a smile, and his eyes sparkle, so Crowley considers it a win.

It’s all going swimmingly until Jacob gets back from seeing a man about a camel, crashes into Aziraphale, and, when Aziraphale turns to him to say, “I beg your pardon-” rather affronted, Jacob suggests, in a half-intelligible voice, some rather crude things about Aziraphale, Crowley, the company they kept, and what, perhaps, they could do when they left the bar.2 Crowley’s all for turning Jacob into a worm, even raising his hand beneath the bar, but Aziraphale stands up, putting a hand on Crowley’s arm as he does so - in warning, but with the appearance of steadying himself - and straightens his robes. “Very well, then,” he says. “I’m afraid you leave me no choice.”Aziraphale gestures to the door, where the desert is just visible beyond, and smiles sweetly.3 “After you,” he says.

Everyone gapes. The lute player in the corner snaps a string, the soft music coming to a discordant halt. Jacob squints at him, then says, as if not quite believing his eyes or ears, “You wanna take this outside?”

“Well we certainly can’t do it in here,” Aziraphale says, looking around. “Now can we?” He beams, and clasps his hands together, striding out the door. Crowley grabs his drink - which is rather surprised to find itself the finest vintage of next year’s date wine - and hurries out after the angel.

The fourth thing the Bible4 gets wrong about Jacob’s wrestling match with the angel is that the angel wins.

Continue reading (along with the footnotes, featuring the Sayeth That to Mine Face Bible) on AO3.

[lavendertozier]

11:42 pm 😭😭