confoundthemighty: (Soft.)
Crowley’s long, beautiful fingers are filthy; there’s black grit under his nails, and Satan only knows what sort of unidentifiable stains along the ragged sleeve of his tunic. But he’s touching Aziraphale, even if he’s also trembling.

Aziraphale has survived dark moments on less hope than this.

He’s suddenly aware of his own breathing slowing, of his human corporation calming itself down. I can still do something for him, he thinks, and the thought spreads warmth through his chest with his next inhale.

Aziraphale strokes Crowley’s palm with his thumb.

“Come be drunk with me, then,” he replies, quiet and fond. “Out of the sun. Just the two of us.”
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musebox for Ashfae's minions

May 2025

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