Destiel

Google Ambient Chaos if you ever need background noises for writing! It's a customizable soundscape website.

Anon, when I first saw this ask, I thought it was going to be one of those mixers of nice, traditional sounds, like rain or a coffeeshop. And it is! And there's lofi hiphop, my favorite sound to write to! Which means this is legitimately an excellent tool for writers, and I love you for introducing it to me.

But I also want to say. There are some choices here. That I need to point out. Because they're either fantastic or questionable, and I can't decide.

Things like . . .

Couple arguing.

Medieval battle.

Beehive, where you can write to a fuckton of bees.

Crime scene.

And actually the perfect soundscape for NaNoWriMo.

(It's here, for those curious.)

Just an experiment. Reblog if you actually give a fuck about male victims of domestic violence and rape.

Of fucking course

What sick bastard doesn’t

ok fix-it time hilary you can do this i believe in you

prompt is a classic one--Aziraphale runs after Crowley after the "i forgive you" "don't bother" exchange OR the kiss does magically work like Crowley hoped

no i am not using english grammar and spelling today my feelings are too strong

Aha. Well, I wrote this fic yesterday, but it... might not entirely qualify as fix-it. My bad. To make it up, I offer you this: technically not either of the suggested scenarios, but still something to salve the pain, set at the end of Season 3 or thereabouts.

The late afternoon light is still and weighty: golden, heavy, purposeful, the sort of light that takes up space, that polishes floorboards and sets dust motes drifting, settles on the backs of furniture and the pages of books like a sleeping cat. The sort of light that fills the room almost tangibly, that stripes the bed and spills off it to the floor like too much olive oil poured into an amphora, back in the hot white heat of the Holy Land. Since he is, of course, a being of pure light, Aziraphale can feel it in his sinews, in the core of his soul, but it almost seems... wrong. Not the light itself, but that he's still allowed to touch it. He doesn't know if he's Fallen or not, or if such trite distinctions even matter. He only knows this. Them. Now.

Aware that it is incumbent upon him to start the conversation, he clears his throat and looks at Crowley, sprawled out on the bed with a fair show of his old insouciance, but Aziraphale can sense the fragility behind the flippant smile. Crowley's black-clad legs are jauntily crossed, his shoes kicked off, his hair a particularly vibrant red against the little-used, age-yellowed lace of the pillow cover; this bed, after all, doesn't get much use in the traditional sense. Aziraphale's preferred human vice is food, not sleep, though he knows Crowley is very good at it and might have to teach him a thing or two about that, about rest. He craves it, but he doesn't know where to begin. That seems applicable to any number of things right now, but he has to start somewhere, he supposes. He just doesn't know.

"Er," Aziraphale says at last, to Crowley's increasingly-strained expectant expression. "My dear, I... I am..."

He bites his tongue. He's rarely been in this position before, knowing that he's the one who needs desperately to ask for forgiveness -- real forgiveness -- and not at all certain that it will actually be granted. It's always seemed so slick, so easy, something to toss off as easily and unthinkingly as the humans say bless you when someone sneezes, and carrying about the same spiritual or emotional depth. Aziraphale feels mortifyingly ashamed of it, of himself. He shuffles his feet, twisting the hem of his waistcoat between his fingers. At last, to the carpet, he says, "I'm so very, very sorry. I've been an absolutely dreadful ninny, and I don't... I don't know if you can forgive me, but..."

"Angel." Crowley's voice is rough. "Bloody look at me, would you?"

Half-fearing to be dissolved by infernal hellfire on the spot, but knowing that he deserves it, Aziraphale looks up.

It's hard to read Crowley's expression, even more than usual. The glasses are off, but his slitted amber eyes are opaque, careful, wary, not quite sure what this is or what's going to come of it. The dead-silent moments that follow, as he weighs up his options, are among the very worst of Aziraphale's entire unending life. Then Crowley fractionally shifts his weight, opening up a spot on the bed next to him, a silent invitation. He doesn't say anything. Using their words tends to backfire tremendously, even if they need to get used to it. He just looks. He just waits.

After all this time, after everything, Aziraphale finally doesn't hesitate. In fact, he almost trips over himself as he blunders across the floor, falls onto the squeaking old mattress, and clambers into Crowley's arms. Crowley wraps them both around him with fierce, ferocious, furious strength, pulling Aziraphale down next to him, Aziraphale's softer, rounder corporal form fitting neatly into the hard lines and lean angles of Crowley's. Aziraphale rests his head on the bare triangle of throat where Crowley's shirt is unbuttoned, burrows his face into the sharp cleanness of Crowley's collarbone, and becomes belatedly, embarrassingly aware that he's crying. It seems beneath the dignity of a (possibly-ex?) Principality, but he doesn't think he can stop. He just wants to lie here and clutch onto Crowley for literally dear life, to mourn for all the time they've missed, for the simple, unbearable, shocking, agonizing, perfectly exquisite pleasure of holding his love close. "I'm so sorry," he says again, struggling not to let his voice crack too extravagantly. "Dreadful ninny. Absolutely dreadful."

"You were doing what you thought was right. What you needed to do to stop the Apocalypse, just... differently." Crowley's voice turns distant, his fingers absently stroking Aziraphale's hair. It feels strange and shocking and quite, quite lovely. "Can't really tell you off for that, can I? After all, I'm a demon. What do I know about doing good?"

"Hush," Aziraphale says, primly and a little watery. "Now you know that's not true."

Crowley lifts his head and regards Aziraphale for a long moment. He doesn't answer, just thinks about it. "All right," he allows, at deliberate length. "Maybe a little. I'm still very mad at you, though."

"I do understand." Aziraphale nestles again, and Crowley doesn't stop him. "But perhaps, even if I have no real right to ask it, you can... you might... one day think about... f-forgiving me?"

His voice trembles and squeaks. It takes all the courage in him, even more than when he stood up to the full hosts of Heaven and told them no, no more, not ever again, but he looks Crowley in the eye. He tries not to look too expectant, or too arrogant. He waits.

Crowley, for his part, looks mildly flabbergasted. He makes one of those incoherent nnngh noises that he resorts to whenever he finds himself at a loss for words, and shakes his head. "Idiot," he says, very softly. "Of course I bloody forgive you. Of course. Now if you -- "

He doesn't get to finish his sentence. That's because Aziraphale likewise screws up every drop of courage, takes hold of Crowley's collar, and lowers his head, terrified that he's about to muck it up. But Crowley just looks at him like he's luminous, like the light is still in him and he is the light itself, and tips his head just that bit, in order to settle their lips together.

The kiss is long and slow, soft and sweet. Crowley's hand flutters up to rest in the wild white tufts of Aziraphale's hair, and Aziraphale -- somewhat in terrified awe at his own daring -- nibbles experimentally on Crowley's lip. He's quite bad at it, but neither of them care, or can think about anything else, or do anything but heave short sharp breaths, half-laughs, muffled sobs. When they finally pull apart, Aziraphale says anxiously, "I hope it wasn't very awful?"

"Oh." Crowley's eyes are half-lidded, and in the sunlight, he too looks as if he is burning like a beacon, brighter than his favorite stars. The affection in his voice is greater than the wings of heaven or the reaches of hell, the heights of the sky or the depths of the sea, and his smile outshines them all. "Absolutely terrible."

4 for Crowley/Aziraphale?

:D :D :D

4: neck kisses

---

He's still giddy with it, all these weeks later. All of it. Earth, safe. Freedom won. Bookshop still standing.

Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, stirring awake beside him of a morning. Aziraphale soft and bleary over his tea as they wake up together. Aziraphale dusting and writing in his diary (there are hearts around every instance of Crowley's name in the recent entries, he's checked) and shooing the occasional customer before they can develop the impression that he actually sells books and peering through the window at Nina and Maggie, finally, tentatively getting their act together. Makes perfect sense, now that they've got a good example to follow.

Aziraphale existing. Just like he always has. Still fluffy-haired and soft and a perfect warm ray of angelic sunshine. In the same space as Crowley. In the same universe. He's so lucky. He's so lucky they're here and he doesn't care what it took to arrive. It was all worth it.

He's on his feet before he really decides to get up, striding across the bookshop, slotting himself seamlessly into Aziraphale's space.

"Crowley?" he asks. But it's not a squeak now, like it would have been once. There's curiosity in the curve of that question, and anticipation, too.

Crowley bends, just a little, and presses a kiss just above his miraculously neat collar.

Aziraphale giggles. Giggles.

He's so good. Everything about him. Crowley loves him so much.

"What was that for?" Aziraphale asks, a blush rising to his cherubic cheeks.

"That was for you," Crowley says, hooking his chin over Aziraphale's shoulder, draping himself over him. "For existing."

"I've existed a very long time," Aziraphale says.

"You have, haven't you?" Crowley smiles, and then turns his head to brush another kiss over Aziraphale's neck. "I'd better start catching up."

I am not hydrated enough to cry right now...

ooh also!! i've got a couple fic recs!! not necessarily that similar to the girlfriend experience but! in spirit of that they're all rated E (and all destiel obviously) nsgdhs anyway from what i've gathered our taste in fics is fairly similar and i really enjoyed these (i wrote some short descriptions!):

regarding castiel - the episode regarding dean but cas is there

the last resort - case fic at a hotel, d&c pretend to be married but they find out it's a hotel where usually single men come to just have one night stands

hungimpala67 - dean starts an onlyfans nsfdh really that's it. half outsider pov

talkin' bear mountain picnic - case fic where a town is under a truth spell

i hope you haven't read these yet lol i tried to pick less popular/newer ones. also i hope the links work nsfshs🐞

omg thank youuuu!!!! <3333

Bippity boppity boly

You are now poly

Bippity boppity bay

You are now gay

yo I just got this cool expansion pack called social anxiety

Hello, it's been a long time coming now and I can finally post this ~

Here's my art masterpost for the 2023 round of the @spnangelbang!

I was matched with the wonderful author, @kineticpassion.

Please check out their story on AO3 here.

What's better than one fallen angel? Well two, in the same vessel. Surely, there's never enough Casifer content! I promise you the fic will leave you with feel-good Destiel and your heart melting a bit!

"No! It wouldn't be funny at all."