The sky breathed in high above the too-full seas as the stars watched. They flickered, they sang, they whispered follow us, follow us, follow us as wind battered a ragged sail and the water lapped at a makeshift raft.

Crowley-Crawley-The Tempter of Sin stared up at them with their cloak whipping around their ankles and the rain drenching their long, crimson hair. Divinity had been spilled across the earth like pomegranates, like apples, like figs and wine and blood. It would be washed away from ground and the red would live on only in memory.

Crowley breathed in. Breathed out.

Who is the monster? They wondered. The creator or the created? Those who choose verse those who don’t?

The stars laughed, high above, untouched and watching as creation stirred in the tight hold of a painter wishing to wash their canvas clean.

Do you sympathize with a painter for destroying the canvas? Or choose to mourn the creation that never had the chance to be finished?

@grim-revolution is my main and @lightning-of-farosh is my loz writing blog that i’m currently using!

there’s nothing quite like making a potc au at 10:38 at night

i said this once a long time ago on a different blog during a different time in my life, but i think, tonight, is a good night for it to be said once more:

kindness is an action, not an emotion. you can choose to be kind, you can choose who you gift that kindness to. you can fuel it with anger, you can fuel it with rage, you can fuel it with joy and sorrow and love. it can be awe-inspiring, it can be simple, but i think, in the world we live in, to choose kindness, above all else, is the most radical thing of all. 

lazy mornings

The fire had become oceanic embers—rising in a tide of orange and yellows around blacked, whitened wood. Dawn-light was reaching over the side of the mountain, painting the mirror surface of the lake with honeyed lines of pink and gold that bled like ink into navy, gently erasing the stars.

A breeze murmured across the trees, dodging around warm bodies, not daring to try and break apart the warmth of skin against skin. It stole gasps from lips, rustled thin, green needles, and tugged at the edge of the blanket. Whispered words embroidered love between hearts, wrapped around trembling fingers, snuck between shaking knees.

Water lapped at small stones, sneaking between cracks and fading just as fast as the hungry earth swallowed it. A cry sent a bird rising into the air, wings fluttering across the gold-streaked sky.

Lips brushed across a damp forehead, praise braiding itself between damp hair, smiling at the faint lines of a halo bleeding into reality.

Oh My God

a request done for @gingerhaole to this song

Shadows flashed across the wall, created by a lamp whose shade had been knocked off when it had landed on the floor. Wood groaned, echoing the small, almost daring complaints as papers and books tumbled to the floor.

Nails dug into the desk. Lips pressed against flushed skin. The world spun and spun and spun—

And dropped and rose and fell and Oh my God!

Aziraphale panted and held on to whatever he could touch; Crowley, wood, a pen that dropped from his fingers to the floor as soon as he had grabbed it.

He watched the subtle dips and curves of Crowley’s face grow and shrink with shadow-lines. Watched as dark, boyish-cut hair bounced over a forehead. Watched lips curl, baring white almost-fanged teeth be bared in a serpent smile.

Another gasp. Another moan. Aziraphale’s eyes rolled back. A slow lull dragged out his trembling until it felt like it would hold its lungs for an eternity.

Fingers dug into his thighs, the touch arching up through his veins until they tangled with the arteries of his heart. They pulled like he was guitar waiting to be strung and everything thrummed into the pulse of drums. Hips and thighs and toes curling, curling, curling—

“Crowley!”

two hours of jazz

for @crowleys--angel because she knows what she did

Jazz music drifted through the floorboards and the walls. The rise and fall of a saxophone singing in tandem with carefully guided hips. Aziraphale admired the way thumbs pushed into bone, the way dark blueberry lace heaved towards her lips with each gasping inhale. She traced constellations through the black polka dot stars, grinned at the small red bow just below skin, tempted to draw a line up Crowley’s sternum with her tongue.

Aziraphale may have been an angel, but, in that moment, she looked upon a demon and believed that good things existed in the world.

Believed, even more so, that Crowley was one of them.

The band paused and Aziraphale held hips tight, stopping them from moving.

“No, no,” Crowley leaned forward, arms wrapped around Aziraphale’s shoulders, careful not to press her face into white fabric less she smear crimson lipstick and charcoal eye shadow across it. Her hips gave a little jerk, trying to find more of the silicone just barely inside.

Aziraphale hummed, eyes half lidded. The drums began again and she pressed a kiss against Crowley’s cheek. “You know the rules,” she murmured.

Nails dug into her shoulder blades, right across where her wings would have been.

The saxophone joined the drums.

Crowley breathed out a soft moan of relief, eyes fluttering closed as she sunk down once more.

aftercare

The bathroom light would have been too bright, too exposing, so Crowley left it off and settled with the faint silver glow of the moon and the dim, trailing fingers of jack-o-lantern flickering rising from the streets. It painted the walls in shades of orange and white, danced across his cheeks like a tango at dawn.

Aziraphale was asleep in the bedroom, wrapped up in sheets and pyjamas. Crowley glanced through the door way at him, scrubbing soap between his fingers before he caught his own gaze in the mirror.

Lines that had long been etched into his skin had been smeared into almost smoothness like graphite lines in a sketchbook. Hair stuck up, tangled and rising from where it had been dragged, back and forth, across silk sheets. He wanted to trap it there, keep it like that, almost like a mark of everything that had happened the night before.

Rinsing away the soap, Crowley leaned forward, hands still wet, and touched his lips, taking in the way their corners tilted ever so slightly upwards without him realizing it. Even his eyes looked different. Not as in the pupils had suddenly widened or had lost their serpentine-look, but something else. Not as monstrous. Not as cruel.

He wondered for a while, examining them, before shrugging and heading back to the bed, crawling back under the sheets.

Aziraphale sighed and hummed, wrapped a heavy arm around Crowley’s waist and tugged him close. He was warm and soft and wonderful—all baked fluff and gentled whisking.

Sighing, Crowley tucked his nose into soft curls tousled with sleep and closed his no-longer-monstrous eyes.

(It would take a while for him to realize that his eyes hadn’t really changed; just his view of them.)

saretton replied to your post “I feeling a little down cause i went through a couple of gomens fic...”

yes! yes good! see, even if you think it’s above your skill level, just trying is good! all these famous authors didn’t become that way over night. it took work, it took practice, it took so much learning. you’re not going to perfect writing a horror novel in a week; it’s just not done! give yourself space to learn! 

and it’ll be frustrating at times but that’s okay! cause you’re learning and learning will be frustrating at times. just don’t give up! have fun with it! use words you think are cool, find things in your word you can print out and put on your wall.

red

for @crowleys--angel who deserves it because sometimes people suck and they don’t deserve her

Fingers brushed over fragile gold chains, trailing over a slowly rising sternum. Aziraphale hummed, playing with the blood-red beads at the end, smiling as his nails accidentally dragged up small little gasps. His eyes traced over the small incline between up to the gold hoop attached to a silk collar. It matched mussed, tangled dark hair, standing out against Crowley’s freckled kissed skin.

“Look at you,” he murmured, grinning as painted nails dug into his wrist, holding his hand still, “all spread out beneath me.”

Red stained Crowley’s lips, black smeared across skin, turning yellow into something like the petals of sunflowers and bee sting of lemonade. Aziraphale leaned up to kiss her, unable to stop the pleased hum in the back of his throat at the feeling of buttons across bare skin.

“You did so well tonight, my dear,” he said, ignoring the taste of lipstick that lingered between them to whisper across her skin. “So, so well.”

Fingers moved, slowly, kindly, pushing in and drawing out soft little breaths. Hips canted up in a gentle, rising roll that crashed like a wave. Bony knees trembled and turned in almost trapping his arm before they relaxed.

Crowley’s red dress had been left behind somewhere else in the hotel room, crumbled into a pool of silk and lace. His bow-tie had probably joined it after nails had plucked so easily at the knot. They would reminders for the morning, treasures of the night that had come and gone.

Aziraphale pressed his lips beneath a jaw, felt a false pulse that shuddered and roared. “One more time,” he breathed, pleading against her skin, wanting to watch, to feel, to give. “Just once more, my dear. That’s it.”

Breath hitched, serpent eyes grew unfocused, looking past him towards the dim lights hanging from the ceiling. Crowley came undone, breaking like a storm.

Aziraphale smiled.

sometimes i explode with love for @crowleys--angel and it cannot be contained with words