emrs327
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Aziraphale blushes. He is well aware of how he appears; how he wears Greece like a good dress, how perfectly he can slot himself into the standards of beauty and attraction. Pale skin with light hair, and a full figure to match. How soft his features are, even more so with days spent in baths and braiding flowers into girls’ hair. He has both accepted and denied his share of propositions, from nearly every human brave enough to ask, and when it comes to the comforting presence of an angel, that's about everyone.
But Crowley is able to see even beyond that–at the light that leaks from Aziraphale's body, too radiant to be contained any longer. It is not that his heavenly presence has expanded–no, Crowley loathes the thought of Heaven having anything to do with this–but it is that the very core of him, made of baby's breath and rainbows and whatever else an angel contains, has been fed to to a nearly gluttonous degree.
Aziraphale smells of nectar and dyed wool; of nights spent buried in ecstasy and days passed spinning poetry from sweet lips.
In which Aziraphale is tending to Sappho in Ancient Greece when Crowley decides to stop by (right on time) and they have fun in ways only celestial beings can.
Bookmarked by emrs327
18 May 2026
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Jon and Daisy discuss one of his questionable choices.
***
“Anyway, I meant more – why that finger for the one to chop off? Pinkie’s way easier access, and easier to get through. Wouldn’t even need the knife. Could probably twist it off to show you now if you’re not convinced; assume you’re a visual learner, after all.”
Jon winces.
“No no, that’s quite alright, thank you. Surely that’d be kinaesthetic anyway, if you were giving a hands-on demonstration. No, I just figured…” he picks at a hangnail and shrugs again, sheepish this time. “I don’t know. Not especially likely to be using the ring finger for its intended purpose, am I?”
She frowns, and returns her gaze to his –
Left hand, ring finger.
And fucking hell, that’s -
“Ohhhh, that’s the mopiest thing you’ve ever said…”
Bookmarked by emrs327
17 May 2026
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Just a normal day at the institute. Martin hadn’t been working there for long- a few months maybe- and Martin sort of, maybe, perhaps even developed a teensy tiny crush on his grumpy boss. It was official: Martin’s taste in men sucked. And yet. And yet.
Bookmarked by emrs327
12 May 2026
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It’s Melanie who finds the tape.
"Statement of Fiona Law, regarding the death of Angus Stacey, her subsequent release from the role of Archival Assistant, and her decision to continue regardless."
It is wedged between a fissure in a groaning filing cabinet and the tiled edge of an ancient fireplace. To access it, she has to peel back a bit of woodworm-ridden panelling and flick it out with a pen. It clatters to her feet and she almost crushes it underfoot because even though she no longer has the phantom resonance of a gunshot in her veins, it sings to her a song of slaughter.
She laughs, humourlessly, just once, and the gleeful roar of a gallows crowd echoes.
***
AU in which everyone finds out early that the death of the Archivist would lead to freedom. The decisions that are made in the aftermath.
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Bookmarked by emrs327
11 May 2026
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The long and short of it is, Martin’s usually in for eight these days.
He, as usual, lumbers his yawning way into the breakroom, and today is unfortunately one of the approximate three-out-of-five working days that he forgets about the sticky-out-bit on the doorframe. He bashes his hip on it, snaps a choice word and digs his squashed Tesco croissant out of his bag, then dumps the bag beside the offending door. He flips off the sticky-out-bit, and faces the room, and –
Nearly jumps out of his skin.
Because Jonathan Sims is dead asleep on the beaten-up sofa.
***
A sleepy Jon, a chat that explains some things, and a memory.
Bookmarked by emrs327
11 May 2026