batbeech
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The thing about stars was that people thought they were fixed. Even Anthony, who knew better, could sometimes fall into the romance of it: the sky as a pattern, the constellations as ancient furniture. But stars were never still. They burned, collapsed, and devoured themselves, making new elements in the furnace of their deaths. The steady ones only looked steady from far enough away.
Or:
Anthony mistakes Asa’s restraint as a lack of desire. Three months into their relationship, Anthony and Asa learn how to be honest with each other.
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absence makes the heart grow (hungry and neglectful) by batbeech
Fandoms: Hazbin Hotel (Cartoon)
14 Feb 2026
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Husk reaches into the couch cushions and pulls out the remote like a rabbit from a hat. He pushes the power button. Just like magic, Angel’s gasping cries cut off mid-sound, mercifully plunging the room into silence. Only it's not merciful. It’s a mechanical reminder that none of this is real. Turning the TV off is just another cheap illusion of control.
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Five times Husk watches Angel's films but totally not in that way! he's just a concerned friend!! +1 time where it is very much In That Way
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Names had a peculiar sort of power. Naming something formed its nature, in a way. There had been no angel of the eastern gate before the Almighty spoke the name “Aziraphale;” a fallen angel had not become a creeping serpent until he heard the name “Crawly.”
But nature also informed the connotations of a name. The thousands of cheated merchants, scandalized priests and scathingly-reviewed poets who had uttered the name “Crowley!” in anger throughout the years had given the name its dark and bitter taste.
Anthonys, however, remained relentlessly ordinary. Anthonys were greengrocers, maths teachers, nervous and lovestruck young men who wore glasses and could hardly speak to the objects of their affections.
If “Crowley” was ninety percent pure cacao, “Anthony” was at best milk chocolate.
Bookmarked by batbeech
30 Jun 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
“Oh, honestly,” Aziraphale sniffed, “you haven’t any sense of romance at all, you know that?”
That stung. He couldn’t know that it did, but it hurt all the same, a little stab of bitter irony straight to the heart.
“I’m not meant to,” he said flatly, and continued to trail after Aziraphale out into the London night.
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Aziraphale’s mouth burned. But not like hellfire burned, cruel and destructive, sizzling a hole through whatever it touched. This was that same terrible charge of ethereal electricity, conducted in the very fluid of Aziraphale’s being. Something that had seemed so outside of him, something of heaven, something that wasn’t part of the Aziraphale who had lived six thousand years here with Crowley on Earth, careful and petty and kind. And yet here heaven had been, all this time, just past his lips.
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Bookmarked by batbeech
19 Jun 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
“O Lord, see you here this angel of heaven that thou hast wrought, and see how he bows his head before the enemy, and taketh communion, in defiance of your Word; see how he comes to my bed when I call, and forgets his good duty— ”
“Stop,” said Aziraphale, sounding surprised, embarrassed, significantly more embarrassed than Crowley thought either of them were expecting, and Crowley paused with his mouth half-open. There were points of colour in Aziraphale’s cheeks, and Crowley thought, oh, Lord, let’s… think about that later. “Shh, don’t. Someone could hear.”
Crowley swallowed. “Hope they do,” he said. And then, to the flat, grey ceiling, “Hope you’re listening. D’you see what you’ve lost? Well, too late. Chose me, didn’t he? He’s mine now.”
He heard Aziraphale’s breath slide out in a little rush, and then felt Aziraphale’s hand touch his again. Crowley looked round as Aziraphale lifted his hand from the bed, turned the palm upward, and then pressed a careful, prickling kiss to its centre.
“So,” Crowley said to the ceiling, “Bye, then,” as Aziraphale said, softly, “Amen.” -
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I'll be your mirror; reflect what you are, in case you don't know.
Crowley drummed his fingers briefly against his mug, and then sat back a little in his chair. He gave Aziraphale a long, appraising glance, and then seemed to come to some decision. “Listen, angel,” he said, “let me pitch you something.”
Lulled by the familiar patter of Crowley’s voice as he was, Aziraphale still recognised this to be vaguely dangerous territory. He swallowed. “Go on,” he said.
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Bookmarked by batbeech
12 Jun 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
Oh my god? 6000 years of pining while fucking. Aziraphale is written so, so well.
"If Crowley was not a vessel made for love— something that would only slide off him, could find no purchase in his soul— then he could, at least, have pleasure. This was something Aziraphale could pour into him, something that he seemed designed to experience, his eyes alight with it at the slightest touch, and Aziraphale thought that must be better than nothing." *screams*
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The door gave way with a crack, and several large, armed men stepped into the room. They stared at Aziraphale for a long moment. A few glanced at each other, and one muttered something. The closest one drew his sword.
And then a familiar voice said, “Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale is a monk at Lindisfarne. Crowley is a Viking.
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Bookmarked by batbeech
10 Jun 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
Hot springs. Preening. Resigned and hopeful at the same time. Perhaps my fav Aziraphale ever written.
“Better not say that again.” Crowley jerked his chin up. “You’ve got to be careful, angel.”
Aziraphale nodded, watching Crowley go down the stairs and say something to the girl. He knew without being told how this would go. Crowley didn’t want to say goodbye, so Aziraphale would remain here until he left. Then he would take the girl and his books and go down to the shore, and convince a ship to take them back to Britain, where he would pick up a new life. As clean and simple as plucking a blood feather before it caused you to bleed to death.