Anathema's Coming To Tadfield

yep, I did some digital paint of fluffy zira ^^

It’s a lovestory ♥️

There’s a way Aziraphale looks sometimes. Crowley has known that look since the very beginning, since the garden. It’s a look he wears when he finds himself a little unmoored, when he finds himself a little directionless. It’s a look he wears when he begins to doubt himself.

He’s wearing it now, sitting across from Crowley, half-drunk on Chateau d’Yquem, paused midway through a ramble on books adapted into films. He blinks at Crowley once, twice; his brow furrows. 

“Angel?” Crowley asks, sitting up. “S’wrong?”

“Do you know,” Aziraphale says, quite wonderingly, “I think I’m an idiot.” 

Crowley can’t help it - he laughs, snorting through his nose. “You’re not,” he says. “You’re the cleverest–the cleverest clever to ever clever.”

“See, that, right there!” Aziraphale says, pointing at Crowley. “That’s it! That’s why I am idiot.”

Crowley laughs harder. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“You!” Aziraphale half-shouts. “You’re in love with me!”

There’s a ringing silence in the bookshop as Crowley’s laugh cuts out. They stare at one another. 

“Fuck’s sake, angel,” Crowley says quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sober up.”

There’s a soft shimmer of a miracle being performed, and then they’re still both looking at each other in the silence. Aziraphale’s hands twist and curl together. 

“I’m sorry,” he offers, cringing at himself. “I don’t know–I didn’t know.” 

Crowley heaves himself up off the sofa, gathering up his jacket. “Nothing for you to be sorry for,” he says amicably. “I’ll just, er, see myself out, I think, call it an early night.”

“Wait–” Aziraphale’s hand catches in his elbow, and Crowley can feel him stepping up close behind him, though he doesn’t turn to look. “Wait,” he repeats. His voice is soft, like unbearably tender. Crowley closes his eyes against it. “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t tell you,” Crowley says, as calmly as he can. He can feel himself shaking under Aziraphale’s hand, just like one of his plants. “It wasn’t supposed to–it’s not a big deal, angel.”

“It is a big deal,” Aziraphale tells him softly. “Look at me.”

I’m sorry, Aziraphale will say. I didn’t know, he’ll say. It’d be better if you didn’t, he’ll say. Couldn’t you just - miracle it away?

Crowley looks, though. Aziraphale asked him to. Of course he looks. 

There’s a way Aziraphale looks sometimes. It’s a look Crowley’s known since the very beginning, since the garden. It’s a look he wears when he offers a wing to shelter under in a storm. It’s a look he wears when he holds out a hand before the end of the world. It’s a look that looks a lot like love. 

“Leave it,” Crowley says. It’s a demand because he can’t bear for it to be plea. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says again. “I didn’t know. I thought it was just–I thought it was just me.” There’s a wobbly sort of grin spreading across his face. “I thought it was just me, reflecting back. I’m such an idiot.” 

Crowley stares at him. Doesn’t flinch away when Aziraphale touches his cheek. “You mean to say, you–?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “How could I not?” 

And it’s true. It’s true because Crowley would feel it, if it were a lie. It’s true because Crowley would see it, if it were a lie. 

It’s true because Aziraphale would never lie to him about love.

“Oh my God,” Crowley says, for the first time in six thousand years. “We’re both bloody idiots.”

It doesn’t matter, not right now. Right now, Aziraphale is kissing him, and Crowley has already spent too much time not kissing him back to worry about it any longer.

I just said, “I’m cold.”

Hey, I did art for Chapter 3 of It never hurts to keep looking for sunshine and forgot to post it! Two weeks ago guys, so I hope you already have read it, but if not, please consider to change your mind and read it. Now. A little less fluffy chapter, but I can’t spoiler ;) Look at fussy angel and Warlock the hellspawn - he walks in his father shoes, don’t you think? And @elfontheshelves is going to post next chapater on this Friday! Yay!

I did it! I didn’t believe it (and in myself), but I did second DTIYS and I have an odd feeling that Aziraphale looks a little dead, but he is not! He’s just exhausted. Little bit of stardust, old gods and two lovers, because I can’t draw anything else. Big thanks to @ran196242 for an amazing piece. You make astounding job and I absolutely love your artstyle and comics! Hurry up to read them, guys!!

funny times that I want to spam all around about my feelings like on old facebook, but people, I’m so happy for waiting 4 years and now I’m not on facebook anymore, so where can I spill it?

..yeah, done with Episode 2

I just saw Episode 1 and I AM SCREASDFGHJKL

These guys deserve their picnic.

as much as it hurt me, i don't want to change a thing

tip jar

If They Only Knew

If they only knew

How to keep you safe like I kept you

How to speak the words they never used

I wish they only knew

There were three truths that Aziraphale had been taught about demons. Of course, there were far more than three, but seeing as Heaven strived to be concise while maintaining its penchant for symbolism, the list had been broken down into three main concerns.

1.     Demons will do all that they can to spread evil. Demons will destroy all that is good.

2.     Demons do not trust one another. Therefore, you cannot trust a demon.

3.     Demons cannot love.

There was not a pamphlet that had been distributed to the Heavenly Host. These were truths that had been conveyed through countless conversations, side-eyes, implications, subtle jabs, and consistent proclamations of specially selected scripture.

There were truths about angels too. There were truths about angels, but there were also truths about Aziraphale.

There seemed to be an ever-present divide between Aziraphale and the rest of the angels. Where the rest of the Heavenly Host had the ability to carry out their duties based upon adherence to logic and reasoning, Aziraphale was aware that he often allowed his emotions to overtake his better judgement. The angels had made that clear to him. On occasions in which Aziraphale would hazard questions and concerns in Heaven, soaked to the bone with frigid flood waters, ears ringing with cries from The Crucifixion, the angels had been able to carry on, driven by purpose and written resolve. They had assured him. They had known what was best.

In mending his mind, he would use a scrap of his heart, trying not to focus on the ache it left behind.

Aziraphale learned to rely on logic, to fall back on these truths when he felt his heart rush forward. When he felt questions, griefs, desires well up inside of himself, all he could do was step back and address them objectively, lest he do something rash.

For there were truths about angels, and truths about Aziraphale. And if Aziraphale no longer fit these gospels, then what made him any more different than a demon?

There was one problem. Aziraphale had used these pillars of logic to try and hold himself together, using the knowledge of his superiors to remind himself of his place. Of Crowley’s place.

But these angels had never felt hope at seeing a demon in a jail cell. They had never sat close enough to his raucous laughter to notice that he had crow’s feet by golden eyes. They had never heard a broken voice, shaking with something other than the cold, asking over and over for the safety of children.

And as often as Aziraphale reminded himself that Crowley was a demon, there was the growing feeling that he was also a friend. But friendship was a dangerous thing. So Aziraphale did what he could – he reasoned. He built his companionship with Crowley upon the pillars of these truths, and when he felt the all too familiar desire to grow ever closer, he would rip stitching from his heart to sew his mind together again. The fractured pillars were sealed with cement.

But tonight. Tonight, there had been a bombshell. Metaphorically, there had been two.

“These are just a bunch of half-witted Nazis.”

Number 1.

“It’d take a real miracle for my friend and I to survive it.”

Number 2.

“Little demonic miracle of my own.”

Number 3.

“Lift home?”

The pillars collapsed. The last threads of Aziraphale’s heart were torn away. But rather than bleeding out, it was as if a barrier had been removed. These threads had not been sutures, but rather tethers and bindings. After so many years, this fragile thing was finally released.

And love crept forward tentatively.

Keep reading

I think I did a hell of work this year! I was pretty surprised that I really drew at least one piece every month :D and also how much my style has changed and how many different technics I tried. It feels good and there is still a lot of to learn!

Thanks to everyone who inspired me, encouraged me and helped me to draw these silly bois again and again. I never thought I could do this and I hope next year will be as productive as previous.