effable ineffability

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Small kisses littered across the other’s face.

A small, fleeting kiss - which is immediately followed by a passionate, hungry kiss.

A breathy demand: “Kiss me” - and what the other person does to respond.

An accidental brush of lips followed by a pause and going back for another, on purpose.

Throwing their arms around the other person’s neck, hugging them close before kissing them passionately on the lips.

Wild, breathless kisses brought on by a heartfelt gift.

French kisses where they trace every tooth with their tongues as though trying to memorize them.

Laying a gentle kiss to the back of the other’s hand.

A kiss that lasts so long, they are sharing each other’s breaths.

A hello/good-bye kiss that is given without thinking - where neither person thinks twice about it.

Morning kisses that are exchanged before either person opens their eyes, kissing blindly until their lips meet in a blissful encounter.

Sneaking away to a hidden corner to share a secretive kiss.

Butterfly kisses against the other’s cheeks.

A kiss so desperate that the two wind around each other, refusing to let go until they are finished.

A fierce kiss that ends with a bite on the lip, soothing it with a lick.

One person pouting, only to have it removed by a kiss from the other person.

Tucking their hands beneath the other person’s shirt, just to watch them break the kiss and gasp in surprise at the sensation of cold/warm hands on their skin.

Teasing kisses where one person blows air into the other’s mouth and runs away.

One person stopping a kiss to ask “Do you want to do this?”, only to have the other person answer with a deeper, more passionate kiss.

Kissing in a stairwell, giving them an artificial height difference.

A chaste kiss given to each other because they are in mixed company.

A kiss that is leading to more, but is interrupted by a third party.

A kiss that tastes of the food/dessert they are eating.

Deep kisses where they have their hands tangled in each other’s hair to pull them closer.

Wet kisses after finding refuge from the rain.

Brushing a kiss along the shell of the other person’s ear.

Kisses exchanged while one person sits on the other’s lap.

One person tracing the other’s lips with a fingertip until they can’t resist any longer, tilting their chin towards them for a kiss.

Staring at each other’s lips for a moment before moving closer, as if drawn together by some unseen force.

Weak, sweaty kisses because it’s unbearably hot.

Pulling away from a kiss, whispering words of love against each other’s lips.

A kiss so passionate, so perfect - that after they part, neither person can open their eyes for a few moments afterwards.

An unexpected kiss that shocks the one receiving it.

Kisses that start on their fingers and run up their arm, eventually ending on their lips.

An awkward kiss given after a first date.

Starting with eskimo kisses before moving on to soft kisses.

Cleaning the other person’s lips with a lick and a kiss.

Whispering “I love you” before a chaste, delicate kiss.

Kissing tears from the other’s face.

A gentle kiss that quickly descends into passion, with little regard for what’s going on around them.

Kisses shared under an umbrella.

Distracting kisses from someone that are meant to stop the other person from finishing their work, and give them kisses instead.

A kiss pressed to the top of the head.

Tentative kisses given in the dark.

Kisses exchanged as they move around, hitting the edges of tables or nearly tripping over things on the floor before making it to the sofa, or bed.

A lingering kiss before a long trip apart.

A kiss paired with a tight hug, knocking the breath out of the person being hugged.

One person has to bend down in order to kiss their partner, who is standing on their tip-toes to reach their partner’s.

Short and sweet kiss after meeting up for a date.

14 stress plants™ whose dirt has absorbed so much anxiety it would send anyone who touched it to hospital

1 lectern from exact geographical location of angelic rescue, retrieved when no one was looking as bomb sirens were malfunctioning for some reason

1 table that has inspired zero (0) fantasies of being plowed vigorously upon it by any angels at all 

1 throne, only incidentally covered in carved winged creatures, which was there when occupant moved in

1 bed, 6000-year-old white feather decoupaged onto headboard at owner’s request

1 pair of Vantablack sheets, obtained without the permission of artist with whom current owner is in bitter longtime dispute 

1 television/1 not television, depending on the time of day

1 sculpture depicting recreational masculine sport, for fitness inspiration

0 lights

1 sketch by artist with lustful designs, whose attention needed to be diverted for very important infernal reasons

1 safe containing 1 thermos of holy water, which has remained in safe for 50 years and has never been taken out occasionally and cried over

1 copy of Extremely Big Book of Astronomy, with “Holiday with Angel?” scribbled and then crossed out and then scribbled again five times in margins of section on Alpha Centauri

1 pair of snakeskin Louboutins

5 bags of cat food for Gorgo, the neighborhood cat whose cuddling and purrs are very annoying

The Birth of the Bibliophile (a repaint of The Birth of Venus by Sandro Botticelli)

(hey aziraphallist, what’s the softest thing you can imagine writing? 

oh, well, funny you should ask–)

Aizraphale doesn’t mean to do it, and Crowley is unconscious when it happens. That’s just how things work with them.

They’re in the bookshop, a handful of days into the world’s new beginning. The waning heat of August lingers in the air, infusing everything with warm light and a sense that change is coming.

Aziraphale has never particularly liked change. He holds on to things, grasps them too tightly; it’s why he has a bookshop that doesn’t sell books, why he wears clothes he’s curated over the decades and not ones conjured from the aether. It’s not angelic, to hold on to things the way he does, but he’d rather have sushi and old books and dinners at the Ritz than a holy war, any day.

On this particular day Aziraphale is finishing up the week’s accounting while Crowley spreads out on the sofa, snoozing indolently, his feet thrown over one arm. The sun streaming in through the dusty windows caresses his face, throwing his cheekbones into ever starker relief; he looks like nothing so much as a particularly lazy cat. The sight fills Aziraphale with a companionable sort of sloth and some other nebulous, soft thing, curling around the soul of him and setting up house; really he knows it’s been squatting there for decades at least, and Aziraphale is only now getting around to putting a name on the paperwork.

Kintsugi - I was broken. But you collected my pieces and repaired me with gold.

New, and a bit alarming

Who’d have ever thought that this could be?

True, that he’s no Prince Charming

But there’s something in him that I simply didn’t see

No, literally.

At the start of the most famous rainfall in history, Aziraphale felt someone grab his wrist right before he boarded the ark.

He looked back to find Crawly making quite the sight with his long hair nearly black in its drenched state and water rivulets highlighting his sharp features.  “Crawly!” he said in surprise, shouting to be heard over the downpour. “You look…” Stunning. Gorgeous. Breathtaking. “…Wet.” He bit his tongue and mentally cursed at himself.

Crawly’s lips quirked up in the barest hint of a smile, amusement dancing in his clever eyes.

Aziraphale spared a nervous glance over his shoulder. They were nearly out of time. The rain was already coming down in buckets, and any moment now it would start flooding. His feet itched to take him up the plank and on board the ship to safety, but there was something in the way Crawly was looking at him that made him stay put.

“Noah’s grandchildren,” Crawly said.

Aziraphale blinked. Whatever he had been expecting Crawly to say, it certainly wasn’t that. “What about them?”

“There’s a bit more of them than I remember.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. Crawly was right. Between them all, Noah’s children had adopted nearly three dozen kids of their own in the last twenty-four hours. “She just said Noah’s family,” Aziraphale said defensively with a brief glance heavenward. “She didn’t say they had to be blood related.”

Instead of mocking him, as Aziraphale had half-expected, Crawly smiled, and Aziraphale’s heart, which had been still just a moment before, began beating rapidly. He had seen Crawly smile before, on the wall. But that smile had been one of delight, whereas this was one of pure adoration.

“Would it be weird if I said I love you?” Crawly asked, catching Aziraphale completely off-guard.

“…Yes,” Aziraphale said flatly.

“Oh.” Crawly’s grin didn’t falter. “I love you,” he said with a shrug.

Aziraphale looked down at the water which was now up to his ankles. “Can we discuss this on the ark?”

Crawly shook his head. “I should be going,” he said. “Just thought I should tell you, though.”

This time it was Aziraphale’s turn to catch Crawly by the wrist as he turned to leave. “Crawly,” he said sternly, trying his hardest not to ruin the effect by smiling. “I love you, too.” Crawly’s grin grew impossibly wider. “Now, would you please get on the ark?”

“It’s us, here,” Crowley chokes out.

Aziraphale closes his eyes and presses a soft kiss on the demon’s temple.

“Only us,” he confirms, steady hands holding the other man-shaped being, fingers on the back of his neck, half buried in auburn hair. Crowley shudders and almost goes limp in his arms.

“My dear, just come here, please.”

Crowley sighs, the tension in his spine visibly releasing. He moves to straddle the angel properly, tucking his knees tight in between Aziraphale’s plush thighs and the armrests of the chair. His arms find their rightful places around the angel’s neck and he presses his face against a light-blue collar.

Aziraphale hums his approval and slips an arm around the demon, holding him flush against his chest. His other hand stays on Crowley’s neck – a warm, reassuring weight where the demon’s corporation is the most vulnerable.

“We are on our own side, my darling,” Aziraphale murmurs into Crowley’s hair, pressing a kiss there. “No one’s side but our own. Thank you for making me realise that. Thank you for not giving up on me. You’re everything to me and I don’t plan on ever changing that.”

Bonus:

i’m working through some serious art block, so where can you go wrong with funky glasses~

It was only a matter of time before he noticed those, Crowley.

The bed, despite Crowley’s habit of sleeping, is incredibly uncomfortable because the only bed that fit with the “posh wanker who lives here is more fixated on style than function” aesthetic was one that made you feel like you’re sleeping on a bag of rocks.  So, when they finally try to make use of the thing, they can’t get comfortable.  When Crowley’s on top, Aziraphale’s back hurts.  When Aziraphale tries to take Crowley from behind, it’s murder on his knees.  When Crowley lays between Aziraphale’s legs and takes him in his mouth, his elbows start screaming in protest.  

“I thought you enjoyed sleeping,” Aziraphale grouses.  “Why is this bed so beastly uncomfortable?”

“Shut up and get in, angel,” Crowley snaps back, grumpy from his bruised elbows.

When they finally find a semblance of mild discomfort and proceed, Aziraphale is distracted by the fact that the plants appear to be watching them.  It’s like having twenty quiet, unblinking cats staring at you when you’re trying to do the do, only the plants are radiating a weird combination of fear and loathing.  When Crowley reaches for Aziraphale, the angel balks.  

“What is it?” Crowley asks.

“It’s…”  Aziraphale nods toward a particularly malevolent-looking ficus.  “They’re watching us, my dear.”

“Ignore them,” Crowley says, angling for a kiss.

And, to Aziraphale’s credit, he tries.  But when the plants start rustling in a manner that sounds suspiciously like jeering, he can’t make himself continue.

The throne is, despite Aziraphale’s many fantasies, not conducive to fucking.  It’s too tall and too narrow at the base to have a decent center of gravity.  To be fair, Crowley and Aziraphale are both too distracted to notice the way it rocks when the angel climbs, naked and wanting, into the demon’s lap and begins riding him.  They’re both too preoccupied to notice until it’s far too late - until the throne is at a forty-five degree angle and toppling to the floor.  

They’re both rather put off the throne after that.  

Crowley’s kitchen is also out.  When, one morning, Aziraphale fancies himself a romantic and starts making breakfast on the hob, Crowley shuffles in and the sight of the angel in an apron with his sleeves rolled up damn-near undoes him. He saunters close and slithers his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, sneaking his fingers under the hem of his shirt while he mouths the hinge of his jaw.  Aziraphale chuckles and makes a token protest, but when Crowley begins sucking on his neck, his laughter turns to a breathy moan.  He turns to kiss Crowley properly, and when his knees threaten to buckle, he reaches a hand back against the stove to steady himself.

Crowley’s stove is a posh affair, with an electric hob.  The sort with a perfectly smooth top, the burners indicated by drawn-on circles.  Aziraphale’s hand unwittingly lands smack on the center of a circle and he rears back with a shriek.

Cooking for your darling is terribly romantic.  Scraping your darling’s palm off the hob is not.  

The revolving door to the throne room is the last straw.  When Aziraphale and Crowley are snogging and grasping and Crowley is licking into Aziraphale’s mouth and Aziraphale is shaking with need, they decide to try a vertical surface.  By the time they actually arrive at said surface, they are a trifle distracted with the mechanics of shedding their clothes, of Crowley lifting Aziraphale, of Aziraphale’s legs locking around his waist.  By the time things are actually underway, Aziraphale doesn’t quibble about the hard, cool surface against his bare back– but when it begins to shift, he lets out a squawk of surprise.  Before he can warn Crowley, before he can perform a hasty miracle, the revolving door at his back is swinging wide open and the two are careening to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

“Right!” Aziraphale gasps, when Crowley has extricated himself with a wince.  “Right, that does it.”

He snaps his fingers and the two are sitting in the back room of the bookshop without a stitch of clothing between them.  The shop is closed, of course, but Aziraphale slams the door of the back room for good measure before hauling Crowley over to the sofa.  The plush, incredibly cozy sofa, thank you very much.  Crowley gasps as his naked back hits the cushions and if his erection had flagged between the door incident and being dropped without ceremony into the bookshop, it’s not flagging anymore.

“You,” Aziraphale says, straddling him, “are no longer a free demon.  Am I being perfectly clear?”

“Yes,” Crowley says, grinning as his hands settle on Aziraphale’s plush thighs.

“Very good,” Aziraphale says, and leans down to kiss him.  After long minutes of roaming hands and reckless mouths, they part and the angel adds, “You will sort out your flat, my dear.  I simply cannot be comfortable without a suitable bed.”

“Yes.”  Crowley’s breath hitches as Aziraphale positions himself and sinks down.  “Yes, yes.”

“And you will exile the plants to the parlor,” Aziraphale adds as he begins to move.

“Yes, of course, angel–”

“And the throne.  Bolt it to the floor.  I would have you in it.”

“Go–Sa– fuck, Aziraphale…”

“And the hob…”

“Done.  Fuck, faster, please–”

Aziraphale moves his hips faster, clinging to coherence as it threatens to slip through his fingers.  “And that ridiculous door must–must go.  If… hah, if I’m going to have you inside me, I would prefer that… oh… that we not be disturbed.”

“’Course,” Crowley says, then groans, his entire body going rigid.  “Angel–!”