batbeech



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  1. Public Bookmark *

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    Summary

    He isn’t going to spill his guts to this woman surrounded by guinea pig merchandise, he absolutely is not— but then he remembers the world is ending tomorrow, so, what the hell.

    “I just want him to choose me,” Crowley says. “For once, I want him to fucking choose me, over… over…” His mind reaches frantically for a human-appropriate metaphor to couch his whole impossible situation in, and eventually finds one.

    “...over God.”

    ***

    (Crowley and Fleabag share a moment, in the middle of their stories.)

    Language:
    English
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    1/1
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    04 Aug 2026

    Bookmarker's Notes

    I think about this one a lot <3

  2. Public Bookmark 17

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    “I’m not asking you to join me, Catra. I just want your word - no more killing.” Tentatively, Adora stretches a cautious hand through the metal bars for her to shake.

    No, Catra wants to say, no, I will never promise you that. Don’t you get it? I would kill you right here if I had something to do it with.

    But it’s late. The storm is finally calming. The guards will come in the morning.

    or:

    catra inadvertently saves adora's life and then ends up in a bright moon prison cell with her legs bandaged from the alliance's weapons and a leaky ceiling dripping dirty water onto her tangled hair. a nontraditional heart-to-heart follows.

    Language:
    English
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    3,680
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    1/1
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    186
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    04 Aug 2026

  3. Public Bookmark *

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    Names had a peculiar sort of power. Naming something formed its nature, in a way. There had been no angel of the eastern gate before the Almighty spoke the name “Aziraphale;” a fallen angel had not become a creeping serpent until he heard the name “Crawly.”

    But nature also informed the connotations of a name. The thousands of cheated merchants, scandalized priests and scathingly-reviewed poets who had uttered the name “Crowley!” in anger throughout the years had given the name its dark and bitter taste.

    Anthonys, however, remained relentlessly ordinary. Anthonys were greengrocers, maths teachers, nervous and lovestruck young men who wore glasses and could hardly speak to the objects of their affections.

    If “Crowley” was ninety percent pure cacao, “Anthony” was at best milk chocolate.

    Language:
    English
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    6,054
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    1/1
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    30 Jun 2026

    Bookmarker's Notes

    “Oh, honestly,” Aziraphale sniffed, “you haven’t any sense of romance at all, you know that?”

    That stung. He couldn’t know that it did, but it hurt all the same, a little stab of bitter irony straight to the heart.

    “I’m not meant to,” he said flatly, and continued to trail after Aziraphale out into the London night.

  4. Public Bookmark *

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    Aziraphale’s mouth burned. But not like hellfire burned, cruel and destructive, sizzling a hole through whatever it touched. This was that same terrible charge of ethereal electricity, conducted in the very fluid of Aziraphale’s being. Something that had seemed so outside of him, something of heaven, something that wasn’t part of the Aziraphale who had lived six thousand years here with Crowley on Earth, careful and petty and kind. And yet here heaven had been, all this time, just past his lips.

    Language:
    English
    Words:
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    1/1
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    19 Jun 2026

    Bookmarker's Notes

    “O Lord, see you here this angel of heaven that thou hast wrought, and see how he bows his head before the enemy, and taketh communion, in defiance of your Word; see how he comes to my bed when I call, and forgets his good duty— ”
    “Stop,” said Aziraphale, sounding surprised, embarrassed, significantly more embarrassed than Crowley thought either of them were expecting, and Crowley paused with his mouth half-open. There were points of colour in Aziraphale’s cheeks, and Crowley thought, oh, Lord, let’s… think about that later. “Shh, don’t. Someone could hear.”
    Crowley swallowed. “Hope they do,” he said. And then, to the flat, grey ceiling, “Hope you’re listening. D’you see what you’ve lost? Well, too late. Chose me, didn’t he? He’s mine now.”
    He heard Aziraphale’s breath slide out in a little rush, and then felt Aziraphale’s hand touch his again. Crowley looked round as Aziraphale lifted his hand from the bed, turned the palm upward, and then pressed a careful, prickling kiss to its centre.
    “So,” Crowley said to the ceiling, “Bye, then,” as Aziraphale said, softly, “Amen.”

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    I'll be your mirror; reflect what you are, in case you don't know.

    Crowley drummed his fingers briefly against his mug, and then sat back a little in his chair. He gave Aziraphale a long, appraising glance, and then seemed to come to some decision. “Listen, angel,” he said, “let me pitch you something.”

    Lulled by the familiar patter of Crowley’s voice as he was, Aziraphale still recognised this to be vaguely dangerous territory. He swallowed. “Go on,” he said.

    Language:
    English
    Words:
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    12 Jun 2026

    Bookmarker's Notes

    Oh my god? 6000 years of pining while fucking. Aziraphale is written so, so well.

    "If Crowley was not a vessel made for love— something that would only slide off him, could find no purchase in his soul— then he could, at least, have pleasure. This was something Aziraphale could pour into him, something that he seemed designed to experience, his eyes alight with it at the slightest touch, and Aziraphale thought that must be better than nothing." *screams*

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