Sohmygodness - Be Curious

― Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights

fluff devolved into "crechure Crow mode and his fails" but what can you do~ (also forgive the wonkiness, i didn't pencil sketch before hand 😂)

stop everything, this is bitty doing research for his thesis

there’s more lmao, unhinged bitty energy

‘Rear Window’ by Jordi Huisman

The Adventures of Prince Achmen. 1926. German. The oldest surviving animated film in history.

"Stop, Aziraphale, stop," Crowley whispered above him. The voice that was always so sharp, so sure, trembled as Aziraphale dropped to his knees, hands on the demon's sinewy thighs.

The angel pulled back, ceasing the gentle kisses he'd been peppering down the demon's front. Immediately he was hit by the waves of deep shame rolling off Crowley; his demon, his best friend, the being he cared more for than first editions, delicately iced tennis cakes, Veuve Clicquot at the Ritz.

"My dearest one," Aziraphale startled, "what is it? I'm so sorry, have I done something wrong?"

"We have to stop, if we don't-" Crowley sobbed, "... We can't do this- you can't be with me- you'll fall. You can't fall for me. Please, angel."

In an instant Aziraphale knew. Those were not Crowley’s words, they were his own. Not expressed directly, but implied through years of his righteous prejudice. Reminders that he was not an angel, he was not holy, he was not the same as Aziraphale.  

The angel also knew that if they were to be together he needed to tear at their shared wound. He would reach in and pull at his own weakness and cowardice until it was torn from its warm resting place above Aziraphale’s heart where it slept, leaking the thick toxic doubt that they were drowning in.

Crowley had been strong, hanging in by his polished black nails to the thought that maybe he could be loved. And now that his unattainable hope was within reach he was willing to choke the breath from the poor creature because the thought of his dream bearing its sharpened teeth and hurting his angel was too much.

Aziraphale rose and tugged the demon closer, encouraging him to open his soul to the angel, just for a moment. Only long enough to get to the ledge together.

“It is not a sin to love, my darling,” he stated, but his voice trembled. “I’ve been falling for you since the moment I opened my wings, and furthermore-...”

Aziraphale took a deep breath as he neared the edge where Crowley was already standing. He had been standing there since the beginning, waiting patiently for Aziraphale.

“... I am so sorry that I've made you feel as if you weren’t worth falling for.”

Crowley let out a desperate broken sob of relief and they stepped off together.

This night, I say the name of the knife that wounds me still:

your hand almost gentle on the hilt; desire sliding neat

between my ribs, skin bruising soft as the rot-sweet peach.

I am reaching now for the pit of my heart, I am praying to you again.

I surrender my grieving made offering, I hail the winter

giving graceless way to spring—beg forgiveness by that awful

reverence, which I offer both what I love and what I fear.

Ode to Goncharov (1973), Yves Olade