ajcrowlor



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  1. Rec *

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    Language:
    English
    Words:
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    30 Jun 2026

  2. Rec 62

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    Aziraphale and Crowley have drifted into congenial retirement in the South Downs together. They're closer than they have ever been—until Crowley is violently taken from Aziraphale.

    They say you don't know what you've got until it's gone.

    Language:
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    22 Jun 2026

  3. Rec *

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    "Now we're retired?" Aziraphale raised his head from his desk, where he had been carefully reapplying the false end-bands of a particularly foxed copy of Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens. It was just like Crowley to arrive in the middle of a delicate piece of work and carry on as if they were already halfway through a conversation. "My dear boy, I'm not retired. I couldn't possibly retire. I have far much to do. For a start, my tax return is due soon."

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    An angel and a demon edging closer together, not admitting what they want, and hoping for the best.

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    English
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    22 Jun 2026

  4. Rec 73

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    "May I kiss you?" leads to complicated negotiations and vandalised Bibles, because nothing is ever simple with these two.

    * * *

    “What are you afraid of?” he asked again, patiently.

    “I’m venomous, you know.”

    “Then don’t bite me.”

    Crowley carefully looked everywhere but at him. “Might not be able to help myself.”

    “I trust you,” Aziraphale said, patting Crowley’s knee encouragingly. It was bony under the expensive mulberry silk and wool blend trousers, or what would have been expensive trousers if Crowley bothered to actually buy them. The boniness tipped the scales even further towards ‘endearing’, and for some inexplicable reason added a solid weight of ‘arousing’ as well.

    Series
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    22 Jun 2026

  5. Rec 93

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    The first time they kiss, it's in the middle of the fourteenth bloody century, and Aziraphale is the one who kisses Crowley.

    Kissing him abruptly, against the wall of the tavern, in a stinking alleyway, all seeking lips and eager hands pulling his shoulders close even while a thick warm body is pushing him backwards, as if Aziraphale doesn't know which direction to steer him. Crowley, boneless, tries to be and do all things at once, whatever the angel needs of him, snaking his arms around Aziraphale's neck and crowding forwards even as he's pulling him back. It's clumsy and desperate and their lips crush and teeth clash, Crowley's sensitive nostrils are full of beer and stinking water and rotting food and sweet, sweet angel, and it's like nothing Crowley has ever imagined.

    Language:
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    22 Jun 2026