#every stretch of Aziraphales trousers across his thighs

[crawley-fell]

If I open a fic and either Aziraphale or Crowley are already completely insanely obsessed with each other from the first sentence then I'm in for the long haul

#'i fell in love with the angel in 2000 BC' great count me in #its like crack to me #my little codependents #and when they are all over each other physically??? every hint of crowleys collarbones #every stretch of Aziraphales trousers across his thighs #sign me the fuck up

[ineffable-endearments]

Sweet Surrender

(2178 words)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)

My contribution to the first volume of the wonderful “Flaming Like Anything” zine.

Check it out on AO3 or read more below!

In the countryside of the South Downs, nestled near Devil’s Dyke, there’s a tiny, strange little cottage.

From far away, sensitive humans might get the feeling something is alive and dreaming inside, even when it’s the middle of the night and all the lights are off and nobody has been seen there for a month or more.

These are subtle miracles keeping the place safe. It’s a sanctuary for a pair of supernatural beings who’ve developed an affinity for the Earth, including the occasional countryside retreat from the hustle and bustle of central London.

And on this particular afternoon, muted sunlight streams to the interior of the sitting room through sheer curtains. The angel, clad in his favorite cardigan, is reading a book on one end of the sofa, while the demon naps, sprawled out, an arm flung haphazardly across the angel’s lap.

Crowley

Crowley isn’t deep asleep, just taking the time to doze and enjoy the moment. He’s surfacing to consciousness, stretching as he luxuriates in the comfort of the cushions and the company, when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“You know, I think I’m in the mood,” Aziraphale murmurs, “for a taste of you.”

Crowley yawns. “Been reading dirty books again, have you?” He smirks as he lifts his head. This is a teasing little game they play ever since the first time he caught Aziraphale reading the humans’ smut.

“Hmm, yes, but not this one in particular.” Aziraphale puts his book aside and leans over for a kiss. “The one I finished earlier. I have been waiting for you to wake up,” he adds, brows arched suggestively.

“Well then,” Crowley purrs in his most devilish voice, “far be it from me to stand between you and your cravings.” He pauses before asking, “Bedroom?” and gets that knowing smile in response, Aziraphale’s eyes all alight with something between raw joy and mischief, a blue as soft as petals and deep as dusk.

“Bedroom,” Aziraphale agrees.

Crowley drags Aziraphale on top of him as he tips onto their mattress. He receives a soft full-body embrace with tantalizing friction, plus a drawn-out French kiss, which eventually becomes a trail of smaller kisses and licks down his neck.

Aziraphale helps Crowley out of his shirt and trousers, starting with the buttons - not necessary, but part of the ritual, and yet another excuse for them to grope each other through their clothes. They get hard in the middle of this task and spend rather more time than intended touching each other flirtatiously before they finally finish removing their outfits.

Crowley is grateful for the buildup, the seduction, the anticipation of the pleasure he knows will be coming next. Aziraphale neatly folds their clothes onto the dresser and presses their naked bodies together as he returns to bed, starting all over with another deep kiss on Crowley’s lips.

As always, he takes his time working his way down, eventually pressing kisses into the seldom-touched flesh on both sides where Crowley’s legs meet his body. He licks and sucks the tender skin with a relish Crowley isn’t sure he deserves. As if he can hear this thought, Aziraphale reaches up to caress the corner of Crowley’s hipbone.

“Hngh.” Crowley grins, soft, too embarrassingly enamored to use his words right now. He laces the fingers of both his hands in the flaxen curls of Aziraphale’s hair.

“So lovely, my dear,” Aziraphale whispers. He tilts his head forward to be better touched without taking away his mouth, for which Crowley is very grateful. Aziraphale licks and kisses Crowley’s bollocks with delicate regard, supports them with the warmth of his hand so he can suck at the base of his cock. As anticipation beads on Crowley, he musses Aziraphale’s short locks, gently, and smiles through a sigh.

With one more squeeze, Aziraphale moves his hand from Crowley’s hip in order to hold his cock up and lavish him with broad, wide tongue-strokes. Licking the drop of excitement from the top of Crowley’s length, Aziraphale hums and puts the very tip between his lips in a wet kiss, playing with sweetly torturous little swipes of his tongue.

“You taste,” Aziraphale murmurs, breath teasing-hot, every syllable an ember against his skin, “absolutely exquisite.”

“Thank you,” Crowley manages.

Bless it, Aziraphale chuckles. It’s nice (he’s beautiful), being this at ease, so Crowley lets himself be silly for the moment and doesn’t complain.

Aziraphale does not simply take him in all the way, as every one of Crowley’s nerves is craving. Instead, he licks the sweet spot just under his head, showers more kisses on it, swirls his tongue around it. He hums delightedly, the way he does when he’s sipped a particularly fine wine, and closes his eyes in concentration.

“Oh, come on, angel,” Crowley groans. Aziraphale flashes him another look, and even though his mouth (delicate, pink, how lovely) is highly preoccupied, Crowley can see the corners of a telltale smirk and a glint in his eyes. Oh, mercy, it’s a splendid madness; Crowley bites his lower lip, anticipation curling his toes, runs his fingers through that fluffy hair again.

At long last, Aziraphale takes Crowley’s cock all the way in, wrapping his hand around to fully engulf him all the way to the hilt, and makes another profoundly satisfied moan as he sucks to his fullest indulgence.

“Ahhh, fuck,” Crowley whispers, clawing at the bedsheets with the fingers that aren’t busy tousling his angel, tempted to throw his head back but refusing to look away from Aziraphale, from where this secret part of himself is being savored.

Aziraphale draws his mouth up and down along Crowley’s length, following with his hand, working thick and heavy strokes with his blessed tongue. He’s inspired with carnal fervor, too, pushing his hips into the bed as he relishes Crowley. Watching him thrust to the taste of sex drives Crowley almost as wild as his mouth itself does.

“Oh, angel. Look at you,” he breathes, chest heaving. Aziraphale’s hips roll to the same rhythm he’s availed to slide Crowley in and out of his mouth; his insatiable moan resonates in Crowley, and then he peers up with eyes as needy as the ocean’s undertow lapping at the shore.

At Crowley’s encouraging noises, Aziraphale quickens his pace. The sounds of his ministrations, hungry slurps and greedy groans and shuffling sheets, could be vulgar. They’re not. They’re the sounds of a sacrament, of two beings satiating themselves with the mutual unrestrained euphoria of getting to be this close together when they had once thought it impossible.

Crowley is going to come. Aziraphale plays up the moment, crooning and sighing his pleasure, continuing to grind on the bed as Crowley crests that wave and then falls throbbing into it. He grabs the sheets in one hand and lets his fingers clutch at Aziraphale’s hair with the other, biting his lip. And at last, he sighs from deep within, an “Ah, yesssss” hissing past his lips as the miracle of the human orgasm carries him to bliss. Aziraphale keeps playing, just a little, with his tongue, as Crowley fills his mouth.

The sight of Aziraphale swallowing his come and licking his red, swollen lips with a cheeky smile immediately makes Crowley want to give him the orgasm of the century.

Aziraphale

Aziraphale holds Crowley’s face in both hands, staring into those stunning eyes. He’s rather proud that they’ve gone full-serpent and haven’t returned to normal. As a matter of fact, this isn’t uncommon during sex, yet still, it’s always a thrill to see him so overcome.

Aziraphale threads his fingers in Crowley’s hair, just like Crowley had done for him, but this time face-to-face. He could wax poetic for a lifetime about burnished red hair and eyes with irises like the keyholes to the sun; he settles, for now, on pressing his lips delicately to Crowley’s. He is received with enthusiasm.

After a long moment, Crowley pauses, leaning his forehead on Aziraphale’s. “Insufferable, you are. Making me all soft like this.”

“Strictly speaking,” Aziraphale says, “I don’t know about that. If I remember correctly, a minute ago…”

“Oh,” Crowley huffs, kissing him again, “shut up.”

Aziraphale would like very much to respond with something like perhaps you should make me, but Crowley has in fact already done a delightful job of it.

Meanwhile, Crowley also has Aziraphale in a close embrace, one arm around his back and an enthusiastic hand on his rear. He obligingly slips his thigh into a position Aziraphale can rub himself against while they kiss, even encouraging a rhythm to his advances with a suggestive pull on his arse.

The thing about the human body is that it can indeed blur the line between the physical and metaphysical. Having Crowley all wrapped around him like this is an experience nothing short of transcendent. Still, Aziraphale’s desire aches hot and heavy between his legs. The truth of the matter is that he’ll be easy to take apart, and he wants, oh, how he wants to come apart like Crowley just did.

“Please, will you stroke me?” he whispers.

Crowley reaches between them, caressing Aziraphale’s flushed, desperate cock with a feather-light touch that draws forth another pang of desire. “You are really fucking ready, aren’t you?” he murmurs, kissing Aziraphale’s cheek.

“I suspect,” Aziraphale chuckles breathily, “you’ll make short work of me.”

“Hmm, can’t see what I’ve done. It’s all been you so far.”

He’s being nice and also a tease. Crowley knows full well how wonderful, how perfectly luscious, oral sex is for Aziraphale. It’s the combination of close intimacy he never thought he’d have, the universally satisfying slide of whichever parts Crowley has chosen against his lips, his tongue. It’s the ambrosial taste of Crowley’s tender heat…

“Oh,” Aziraphale practically whimpers. “You know how I enjoy having your pleasure in my mouth.”

“I know, I know. Whatever you’d like, angel.” Crowley kisses his temple. “I’ve got you.” A smile lights up his sharp features, a campfire illuminating the carved stone of a secret sanctuary.

Aziraphale presses impatiently into Crowley’s splayed fingers, kissing that graceful neck of his. In response, Crowley slips his hand deep between Aziraphale’s legs, fondling him and sighing into his hair. Aziraphale hums his approval, grinning, and finds himself reaching up to thread both of his hands in Crowley’s thick copper locks. Meanwhile, Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s cock and starts working his hand from base to head and back again.

For someone who’s always trying to sell how self-interested he is, Crowley is a beautifully thoughtful lover. He knows exactly how Aziraphale wants to be stroked, rather on the languid side but thorough every time from hilt to tip, with a grasp gentle and firm enough at once to feel like reverence. It overcomes Aziraphale in the best way and pulls a gasp from him, as if he were sinking directly from the cold air into a hot bath.

“Perfection. Please, please keep doing that, Crowley.”

Crowley maintains his steady pace, adds a smattering of kisses to Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder. He ignites a spark in Aziraphale’s belly by moaning as though he were the one being pleased again. Aziraphale finds himself clutching at Crowley, one hand still in his hair and the other around his back, rutting with slow, greedy thrusts into his gentle fist. Aziraphale bites his lip and allows his breaths to be punctuated by little whines, the sounds of sweet relief taking flight.

Crowley chuckles. “You really don’t enjoy anything halfway, do you?” In his voice is a gentleness that he reserves only for Aziraphale, a tone so soft and private it beckons something torrid from within, something that rouses to meet Crowley.

“No - certainly not...not anymore,” Aziraphale pants, gruff with delectation for the cock-massage Crowley is giving him. The thrill of Crowley’s teeth grazing against his neck finally pushes him up to the very edge. Unable to keep a faint grin from his lips, he tilts his head back and slides his eyes shut with a pleased groan. “Ooh, Crowley, I’m on my way…”

“Oh, angel. Look at you,” Crowley whispers. “Look how lovely you are.” His words take Aziraphale back to Crowley’s orgasm, the candid way he had hissed in pleasure, the throbbing of his cock in Aziraphale’s mouth. And like Crowley had at that moment, Aziraphale comes, thick waves spilling into Crowley’s hand.

Time seems to stand still when this happens, existence narrowed into the tiny space that contains the two of them. Once the tension is all drained away, Aziraphale sighs dreamily and opens his eyes, blinking himself back to reality.

Crowley is lifting his wet hand to his lips, waiting for Aziraphale’s attention. When their eyes meet, he starts licking fat drops of come off his palm with broad, curling tongue-strokes.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale laughs, still out of breath. “You can just miracle that away!”

“No way. The look on your face,” he nods at Aziraphale and arches his eyebrows suggestively as he takes another slurp, “is priceless.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes and smiles in sweet surrender.

#nsft #good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable partners #ineffable spouses

[shesthewindandsea]

if the lord dont forgive me, i’d still have my baby (and my babe would have me)

Summary: It's snowing tonight in Soho. The air is frigid and the ground is wet. Inside a bookshop, there's a demon experiencing the greatest crisis in known human history, but the angel sitting with him thinks he may be able to help.

Beginning Notes: So I’m starting to pick up on a pattern. Seems like whenever I wanna write something this bastard is always at the center of everything and really, what am I gonna do about that? Plug him apparently. @ineffablefool Go read this idiot’s stuff, it’s kind of good I guess I’m totally joking it’s all fantastic but yall should know that by now if you’re here. And!! @scribblemakes go look at all his art right now!!! It’s absolutely fantastic and beautiful and honestly freckled Crowley is one of my favorite things in the world which is why that’s basically what half this fic is about. The other half is just Aziraphale being chubby and getting kisses everywhere. This is literally the softest thing I have ever and will ever write in my entire existence. I have nowhere to go but down. 

Oh and the title is from a Hozier song, yeah we’re all really surprised I know. The song is called Work Song and I recommend you listen to this version just because it’s fantastic

-

Outside the doors of the bookshop, the evening air is still and quiet. Snow is falling silently from the clouds passing slowly in front of the moon. It’s quite a spectacle to all the children watching from their bedroom windows, eyelids heavy and blankets tucked up to their chins. All eyes, though laden with sleep, are ashine with a kind of innocent joy that can only come from a child. They’ll fall asleep thinking about a day off from school spent making snow angels and throwing snowballs and causing a general ruckus as they run in-between strangers on the sidewalk. They’ll certainly be disappointed when the morning comes and the world outside is barren of any snow, the lingering warmth in the stonework from the overcast sun that afternoon melting the snow once it touched the ground. Tears will, no doubt, be shed over the lack of highly anticipated snowman building material. This is, quite possibly, the biggest upset in known human history.

Inside the bookshop, however, a much different story is being told. The cold winter air pushes up from the floorboards, through the gap in the front doors, through the crack in a window frame. Even with the sharp cut of the frigid air filtering into the close quarters of the backroom, it didn’t have the chance to make the room any colder than Aziraphale willed it to be. The space heater glowing with a warm orange light in the corner may have also helped the process along and replaced the silence with a gentle hum and the occasional sputter.* 

*Aziraphale had initially started out with an ornate fireplace at the back of the room. He was rather proud of his craftsmanship and was excited to show off his recent update to Crowley once he arrived. That was, until his demon burst through the door with a slam and in a deranged panic, raving about the pungent smell of smoke and wallpaper burning, tears streaming down his cheeks and I couldn’t find you. Aziraphale wasn’t particularly attached to the fireplace, anyhow. A space heater will do the job just as well, dear, no need to fret.

Read on AO3!

 The air smells faintly of old parchment paper, book binding glue, and leather. The scent never seems to fade and Crowley suspects Aziraphale has something to do with that as well. Most humans find it somewhat distasteful and often find themselves making a rather startled face upon entering the shop followed immediately by an amusing and unattractive nose crinkle. 

That doesn’t always drive them away, though, and Crowley becomes further amused while Aziraphale would get rather frumpy, forming the most ridiculous and petulant pout he’d ever seen. The angel would make sure to use extra binding glue those days, making the smell all the more pungent. 

It makes Crowley want to kiss him. So sometimes, he does. He’ll lean over the front of Aziraphale’s workstation, tap the angel on the shoulder, and when he looks up, Crowley will try to snag a kiss from the angel’s lips. Occasionally, he’ll miss and land on his forehead or cheek, but nonetheless, Crowley is satisfied. 

Other times he’ll let Aziraphale brood loudly about the shop. He’ll put a little more force into his step and his double chin will become just a bit more pronounced as he tips his head down to keep his glare directed toward the floor. The emotions flicker across his face clearly displaying the war going on inside his angel’s brain, torn between politeness and some drastic steps that would “gently” encourage any potential customers quickly back out the door and onto the street.

You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here and all that. Thank you and have a nice day.

 Crowley would lean next to the till and watch, just basking in the presence of his grumpy angel. He used to pretend like he wasn’t watching. Like every minute he spent around Aziraphale wasn’t worth every second of secrecy and denial. His glasses did a lot of that work for him then. But now, things were different and Crowley didn’t want to waste a moment of their time together pretending anything. 

Moonlight lurks in the gaps of the shutters and gently attempts to creep across the floor hoping to reach the back of the old, lumpy settee. The moonlight hopes it can linger in the white curls of the angel currently residing there before the demon in his lap notices and gets jealous. Let it never be said that the moonlight is frightened of Crowley’s jealous indignation — though it will admit it’s become quite familiar with being on the receiving side of Crowley’s hissing and it knows well what it’s like to face the demon head on. 

The biggest upset in human history inside the bookshop? Well, it’s just that Crowley couldn’t press his face any closer into Aziraphale’s belly. Not without knitting their skin together, fusing cell by cell, permanently pressing his cheek into the grooves of each individual stretch mark kissing the angel’s stomach, thighs, arms.

 If only, he laments. If only he could remain here forever, his nose pushing into the available skin between Aziraphale’s waistband and where his shirt has come untucked, waistcoat and coat discarded long ago. 

If he could just bask until the end of time in the skin-on-skin contact, the soothing scrape of Aziraphale’s perfectly manicured nails gliding through his hair and along his scalp while the angel’s plush thighs pillow Crowley’s head and neck. He longs to kiss the plump flesh there hidden beneath Aziraphaple’s sensible trousers. In the pitch black of the room, save for the warm glow of the heater and the errant beam of moonlight stretching towards them, (as if he wouldn’t notice it) he can’t imagine moving a single muscle for the next century..

 If only.

Rather than linger on this particular tragedy, Crowley focuses his energy on appreciating exactly what he has in front of him right now, which is to say, absolute perfection. Even knowing he really has nowhere left to go, Crowley pushes his nose into the fat of Aziraphale’s stomach, groaning at the all warmth and love stored there. His arms snake tighter around his angel, squeezing. His fingers just barely brush each other behind Aziraphale’s back, forcing him to sit forward just a bit. 

Aziraphale makes a noise that Crowley thinks is supposed to be something like annoyance and scolding, but it ends up sounding more fond to him than anything else.

“Really now, dear. Your nose is poking me and it’s quite unpleasant. You’re going to have to release me.” In response, Crowley chooses not to move a single inch and grumbles something low into Aziraphale’s tummy. The angel can’t help but shake with laughter at the sensation. Crowley’s face curls up in an impossibly doting grin and though Aziraphale can’t see the full extent of Crowley’s adoration, he can feel it pressed into his body and somewhere low in his rib cage where he is positively thrumming with unadulterated affection.

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale speaks around his smile. One hand remains in Crowley’s hair while the other skirts over his shoulders and under the collar of his shirt to rest his palm on Crowley’s bare back. He can feel the curve of Crowley’s spine and the way he moves with each inhale and exhale. He can feel Crowley’s heartbeat in his hands.

 The demon pulls back just enough to speak.

“I said,” Crowley drawls, “‘S impossible. Can’t move.” Each word comes out a hot puff of air against Aziraphale’s skin and it sends a shiver through his entire body.

“Is that so?”

“Mm. It is. Wouldn’t lie to you, would I, angel?”

“Ah, well,” Aziraphale teases, “wily and cunning serpent that you are, I never know when to trust you.”

“Shall I prove it to you then? I’m more than willing.” Crowley rolls away from Aziraphale’s soft middle just enough to stare up at the angel. His eyes glow like fireflies in the dim light and Aziraphale can imagine being swallowed by them, losing himself there for as long as it takes Crowley to blink. The hand in Crowley’s hair trails down the side of his face, caressing a sharp cheekbone and soothing his thumb over wrinkles in the corner of Crowley’s eye.

“You’re so beautiful,” Aziraphale whispers suddenly. He didn’t mean to say them, those words, but before he could stop and think, they were rushing up his throat, dancing across his tongue, sung from his lips like a prayer. Well, maybe not a prayer. Perhaps more like a song.

That happens sometimes, where he just can’t help himself. Crowley really is the most beautiful being Aziraphale has ever had the fortune to happen upon. And the words just come so naturally. The need to show Crowley how much he loves him, how much he positively adores him, fills him up like a helium balloon. 

The guilt consumes him, sometimes, when Crowley isn’t looking, when he isn’t around to remind him. All that wasted time and all the hurt he had caused. He knew and yet everything felt so hopeless. It felt like vines weaving throughout the gaps in his rib cage, his heart and lungs constricted, struggling to beat and inflate. 

 And then Crowley would be there, standing in front of Aziraphale with hands on shoulders, grounding him, asking if he was alright. Or he’d look up from across the room, abandoning whatever he was distracted with and meet Aziraphale’s eyes. Crowley would always just know from the look in his angel’s eyes, from the tight lines he held in his face. 

And then Crowley would just look at him and Aziraphale would look back. And oh the poetry he could wax about everything he sees in Crowley’s eyes. His brilliant, splendid eyes saying the most brilliant and splendid things. I see you and I understand and I love you and perhaps, most importantly, I forgave you a long time ago. It’s okay. You never have to ask.

Crowley’s giving him that look right now, saying all the right things without saying them. His lips twist up in a soft smile that lights up his entire face and Aziraphale feels like he’s about to float away with all the love in his chest lifting him up.

 Crowley rolls back onto his side, his face cupped by Aziraphale’s hand as it tenderly traces the edge of his mark. It stays there even as he turns toward Aziraphale’s round, soft belly and pushes the untucked clothing further up Aziraphale’s body. It rests precariously on the shelf of his stomach, exposing him to the musty air of the bookshop and Crowley’s sweeping gaze. His eyes are glazed over, half-lidded leaving Aziraphale waiting with bated breath.

Crowley has made it very clear to Aziraphale how much he appreciates the soft roundness of his angel’s corporation. Always kissing the swell of his cheeks and the folds in his neck, grabbing at his sides and hips. Aziraphale really hadn’t felt any inclinations either which way about the size and shape of his corporation over the last six thousand years or so; though, he had become rather sentimental after having it for so long. The same way one grows attached to a well-loved sweater. But being on the receiving end of all of Crowley’s reverent touches and constant praise certainly helped all those feelings along. And if it made Aziraphale feel more wanted and desirable, well no harm no foul.

Crowley releases his hold from around Aziraphale for a moment to grab hold of the hand covering his face, lacing their fingers together and slotting his bony fingers between the spaces of Aziraphale’s chubbier ones. His lips ghost over the generous give of the angel’s gut, starting from underside up the gentle slope until he reaches the edge of Aziraphale’s rucked up shirt. Then he makes his way across and then diagonal and eventually just anywhere he feels deserves more attention, slowly applying more pressure, lingering longer over each stretch of skin.

“You’re beautiful too, angel, so bloody beautiful. Wish you could see you the way I do,” he hums into Aziraphale’s tummy and sides and chest like he’s trying to tattoo the words there and Aziraphale is so overwhelmed by the brushing of lips against his bare skin that he can’t stop the long groan that escapes him. The urge to tug Crowley up, lose his hands in the long messy curls and just kiss every single freckle painted on the demon’s cheeks and forehead, wrists and knuckles, shoulders and back is overpowering.

“Oh, my darling. My dear sweet boy. My love.” Aziraphale could go on for ages. He’d call Crowley every endearment he’d ever read, heard and wasted time thinking up until he was red in the face. Until the galaxy was swallowed by darkness and the stars went supernova and the universe imploded. Until there was absolutely no question about the depth of Aziraphale’s love for him. 

He would if he could, if he thought that they didn’t have time. He’d spend every moment making sure Crowley knew what he felt before they ran out. But that’s not the case. They have forever, infinity times infinity, and so he has the opportunity to take Crowley’s hand and led him into it. He doesn’t need to push him in and hope he knows how to swim. 

Maybe he would try anyway if he felt he had any control over the irresistible need, the want, to pull Crowley’s lithe, lean body flush with his own. But as it turns out, Aziraphale is easily tempted and when it comes to his demon, he truly doesn’t have that control. He very quickly finds himself hauling Crowley up off his lap and pressing their bodies so close together that they could create a vacuum. 

Their lips slot together and if the whole world didn’t already fall away every second they were together, it would now. All the tiny variations — the nuances of each individual moment, of every individual kiss — spark across the connected skin like neurons firing through the brain. Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s knees knocking into his hips on either side. He can feel Crowley’s eyelashes brushing against the skin just under his eyes. He feels that long skinny nose that poked him in the stomach earlier smushed against his cheek and he hears the sure rhythm of Crowley’s heady breathing echoing in his head. 

Both pairs of hands wander — touching and testing patches of naked skin and soothing over wrinkled shirts, clutching handfuls of curls — and lips are soon to follow. Aziraphale keeps the promise he made to himself and thoroughly enjoys pecking at the hundreds of constellations of freckles he’s left behind, his kisses. Each spot overlaid becomes a shade darker, shines brighter against the white background. When he’s gone over every one he can reach, he begins to create new ones — one under Crowley’s chin, in the center of his cupid’s bow, just to the right of his Adam’s Apple — and they bloom like flowers, petals pushing apart and ready to greet the sun.

Crowley waits for Aziraphale to finish indulging himself while happily occupying himself with the skin connecting his angel’s neck to his shoulder — kissing, nipping, soothing over the marks with his tongue, rinse and repeat — by working around and under the collar of his shirt. His hands skirt up outside of his angel’s thighs and creep over his hips in of search the abundant flesh waiting for him at his angel’s waist. Once he feels the lack of clothing separating his hands from Aziraphale, he latches on, squeezing in random intervals. There’s just something so satisfying about the way it crowds his spread palms and fills the emptiness between his fingers. Something that makes him think, Mine. This is finally mine. 

“Had your fill of me yet, angel?” Crowley teases lightly as Aziraphale finally sits back and looks Crowley in the eyes. His hands rub up and down Crowley’s back under his shirt.

“Not in a million years, my love.” Aziraphale places a final kiss on the tip of Crowley’s nose. The demon’s face scrunches up a bit in an attempt to cover up an utterly besotted grin, but he can’t quite manage. 

“Got a reputation to uphold, you know.” Crowley says very seriously before wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and laying his head against his shoulder.

“I do know. Quite important, this reputation business. Perhaps we ought to refrain from such activities in the future. For the sake of your reputation, of course.” The audible smirk in Aziraphale’s tone is unbearable.

“Bastard. Don’t even joke about that,” Crowley growls, worming his way around his angel’s shirt to carve out his own section of bare shoulder, smacking it with a kiss which makes Aziraphale giggle at the sound and sensation.

“Well, then. I think we ought to head up to bed, don’t you? We’ve done quite enough sitting in the dark. I think I’d rather enjoy a bit of light reading.” Before Crowley can come up with a response, Aziraphale is standing up from the couch and lifting Crowley with him. He decides a contented hum and lazily wrapping his legs around his angel’s hips will do nicely instead.

Aziraphale’s socked feet make a muted thumping noise as he ascends the stairs to the flat above the shop. Soon enough, Aziraphale is using Crowley’s back to push the bedroom door open causing the demon to murmur some mild irritation and vague threat. He’s quite comfortable resting up against Aziraphale as he’s carried around though, much too comfortable to raise a real fuss.

That is, until he’s tossed onto their bed like a sack of potatoes, something like a oof! pushed out of him. He’s left cold on top of the covers while Aziraphale pretends to putter around the room, far too smug for his own good. 

And so Crowley remains there, cold and uncovered, purely out of spite. 

After changing into his pajamas, (a hideous set of mis-matching tartan, or so Crowley seemed inclined to voice on multiple occasions. Aziraphale finds them both stylish and comfortable) Aziraphale stands at the edge of the bed, tutting at Crowley’s behavior. 

“Come now, Crowley. Get changed and budge over.” Crowley fixes him with a glare that lasts all of five seconds before he’s snapping his fingers — clothes changed and eyeliner removed — and rolls over to his side of the bed. He pulls down the covers on his side, flopping down onto his pillow, hair a fiery blaze behind him. Aziraphale does likewise and scoots into his spot, wiggling around to get comfortable. Crowley watches on with unfiltered glee.

He continues to watch his angel closely as he clicks on the lamp beside him and peels back the cover of some hundred-year-old Dickinson collection, his reading glasses having appeared on the bridge of his nose at one point or another. Eventually, Aziraphale looks over at Crowley, feeling his eyes on him.

“Yes, dear?”

“I love you,” he blurts out. “I love you with all your moldy books and useless glasses and your ridiculous lovely body. I love all of it.” Aziraphale smiles brilliantly and the room is suddenly much brighter. Crowley could swear celestial light is leaking from Aziraphale’s pores and shining from behind his eyes.

“And I love you with your reckless driving and your useless glasses and your pointy nose, knees and toes, elbows and ankles. I love every last piece of you, mitting.” (This was one of those phrases that Aziraphale had sat on for quite a while before he finally had a chance to put it to use.)

Aziraphale lifts an arm for Crowley and he’s immediately curled up against the angel’s side, arms stretching across the long expansive of the angel’s belly while leaving space for the book to balance against Aziraphale’s chest. Legs twist together hidden beneath the blankets and toes wriggle about in cozy socks. Crowley rubs his leg up against Aziraphale’s, pushing up the pant legs of both their pajama bottoms.

It’s not long before Crowley falls asleep still tucked under Aziraphale’s arm and eventually, the angel decides it would be best to get some sleep himself. He places the book on top of his nightstand, not bothering to mark the page, and miracles the lights out. Gingerly, he moves his arm out from around Crowley and instead, manages to sneak his palm under Crowley’s head while the other arm pulls Crowley in closer, tucking his head beneath Aziraphale’s chin. He allows himself a brief moment of appreciation, brushing his fingertips over the flat plane of Crowley back.

“Until the morning,” he whispers into Crowley’s hair. He finally starts to drift off while watching the shadow of each snowflake tumble across the top of the duvet.

The now silent world within the bookshop remains so until daybreak, the night’s snow a puddle on the sidewalk and the flakes’ shadows replaced with a combination of orange, red, and gold light.

Until a red-headed demon slowly wakes in the early morning light to the soft, vulnerable skin of an angel’s throat pressing into his cheek. He’ll lay there for a long time, basking in the morning light and the happiness he feels in that moment with the knowledge that he’ll have that feeling many, many times in the distant, and not so distant, future.

Then he’ll clamber out of bed, trying not to wake the sleeping angel, to start making breakfast in a dusty, outdated kitchen. 

Until the angel will wake to find a vacant spot next to him, still warm. He too will get up from bed, though with far more coordination and less flailing of limbs. He’ll enter the kitchen and wrap his arms around the demon’s waist and inquire as to just what it is the demon is making.

“Nothing good with this kitchen, angel. Some bloody hedonist you are. Can’t even maintain a proper kitchen to make your own food.”

“Now, now, if you’re going to be that way, maybe I’ll just go to dinner without you tonight.” The demon will grumble and mumble but refrains from any further comment. The angel will force the demon to turn his head and offer a kiss as payment for the meal that will no doubt turn out very delicious. He accepts, of course.

Until that night when it starts snowing as the two walk home from dinner, the temperature dropping to temperatures much too cold for a fussy angel and his serpent. So the night ends much the same way it did previously: with the soft glow of the space heater in the corner where there once was a fireplace and curious moonbeams scampering across the floor. 

It ends with an angel and a demon so absolutely besides themselves with kindness and hope and love that they forgot what the cold feels like.

#holy shit its almost four im so tired #this was supposed to be short what the hell #also for real go look at freckled crowley by scribblemakes that version of crowley will forever be drilled into me #and you all know how much i love ineffablefool hes the fuckin best dont get me started or ill be here all night #if youre not reading his stuff already i dont know what youre doing honestly #anyway yeah im gonna go to bed ill reblog this whenever i wake up #good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #ineffable partners #chubby aziraphale #crowley has freckles #ineffable husbands fanfic

[mevima]

Ineffable Inktober: Day 25: Fantasy

Ineffable Writing Inktober, NSFW Edition.

(Extra warning in this one for rape roleplay, although it is explicitly consensual, and monstrous elements similar to what we often see in demonic Crowley.)

The room was dark when Aziraphale awoke. He must have dozed off reading, which was quite unlike him, and let the sun go down. Shaking his head, he retrieved the book from where it had fallen at his side – thankfully unharmed – and had begun to climb out of bed when a faint hiss stopped him.

Aziraphale's brow creased in a frown. "Crowley, is that you?"

The shadows flickered in answer, a bulky shape red-rimmed from the raucous lights of Soho outside the bedroom window. Aziraphale carefully set his book aside where it would be safe, and shifted to be in a more defensible position. "Now, whoever you are, I am not one to be trifled with – "

He cut off. He couldn't do anything but cut himself off when the intruder was suddenly on his bed, dipping the mattress, a dark silhouetted presence with hulking, leathery wings that arched over its head. It hissed again, and Aziraphale let out a startled gasp.

"Sssssweet angel," came a sibilant croon, the creature tilting its head, creeping forward but still in shadow. There was something familiar about that voice, something Aziraphale recognized... oh.

Aziraphale relaxed all at once. So this was how they were playing it. They'd enacted little fantasies like this before, but nothing so elaborate yet; for a moment, Aziraphale had quite forgotten they'd even discussed it. Crowley must have seen the opportunity in his ill-timed nap.

With a deep breath, Aziraphale set himself into his role. Crowley was quite intimidating like this, so it wasn't all that hard to look frightened-yet-determined as Crowley crawled closer, into the scant light falling from the windows. Black scales bloomed across his face, his eyes had gone fully yellow, and a thin, inhuman tongue flicked out across his sharpened teeth. Aziraphale let himself shiver, clutching defensively at his nightshirt.

Crowley smiled at him, too wide and wicked to be human. "Now you sssee me, now you're ssscared," he purred. He glanced down, though, looking Aziraphale over, a little crinkle in his expression betraying his concern. Are you playing? Is this right?

Aziraphale raised one hand in a little wave, gave a tiny nod. I'm playing along, sweetness. We're fine.

The hint of concern vanished, replaced by a salacious focus that made Aziraphale's breath quicken. "Found you, angel. Wandering my lair... foolish, foolisssh angel." Crowley nuzzled against the side of Aziraphale's exposed foot, scales cool and smooth, but moved on before Aziraphale could do more than jump.

He ran both hands up the outside of either leg, underneath the loose pajama bottoms, and Aziraphale took in a sudden breath when dangerously sharp claws tickled his skin. "D-don't you dare, foul demon," he said imperiously, over-dramatically. Oh, he was never very good at this part. "I won't allow it!"

Crowley answered by yanking outwards, ripping the trousers at the seams. Aziraphale yelped. Crowley grinned. "Ssssstop me, then."

Aziraphale's hands clutched at the blankets beneath him as Crowley ripped his pajama bottoms to shreds, slowly and deliberately, until the fabric lay around them both. His jaw set, Aziraphale trembled, but offered no resistance. At the last, Crowley chuckled, low and sultry. "You want thisss, don't you? You wandered into my lair on purpossse."

When Aziraphale opened his mouth to deny it, Crowley pressed the heel of his hand against the soft mound between Aziraphale's thighs, still covered by a soft pair of underwear, and the words turned into a gasp. "Yesssss," Crowley moaned, sounding like he meant it. "Why would you make an Effort at all if you didn't want to be debauched?"

Again, Aziraphale went to say something, anything in response, and cried out instead when Crowley leaned down and bit him. It wasn't violent, nor particularly hard, but the shock of it had Aziraphale gaping down at him, speechless. Then Crowley shifted, pulled, and destroyed the underwear as well with a sharp tearing sound.

Breathing hard, eyes wide, Aziraphale finally managed to squeak out, "Don't!" – but that was part of their rule, part of the game: if he meant it, he had to say something special, and he didn't mean it, not at all. Good Lord, the things Crowley was doing to his insides with this, twisting him up with the threat of danger in a way that left him dripping on the blankets.

Crowley saw it, too. That long, forked tongue laved over his thin lips, and then he lunged.

Seeing the demonic tongue Crowley had chosen to wear was nothing compared to feeling it. Incredibly long, the base of it pressed against Aziraphale's clit while the tip flicked at his entrance, getting a taste. Crowley growled hungrily, and Aziraphale whimpered, biting back a disappointed cry when Crowley moved on far too quickly.

Faster than he could blink, Crowley had him pinned by the wrists, sinuous body flush against his own, a serpentine weight between his thighs. Those cold scales slid against Aziraphale's neck as Crowley nuzzled at him, taunting, "Yesss, you want thisss. You're ssso wet, sssweet thing, filthy little angel." Talons nicked Aziraphale's wrists, teeth scraped at his neck, and he shuddered.

"Lucky, lucky you," Crowley continued, and now he was rutting against the angel, hissing in pleasure as his hips worked. Aziraphale was suddenly aware of the sheer size he had chosen, and swallowed hard, a tinge of real fear working at the edge of him – but then, Crowley wouldn't let it go that far, wouldn't truly hurt him, he had to have trust. Still...

"It won't fit," Aziraphale moaned, twisting away weakly. "Oh, don't!"

Crowley laughed, a dark, mocking sound. "Oh, it will. Yesss, lucky you found me and not another – I take my meals sssweet, ecstasy inssstead of agony. Nnngh, delissscious thing, you will ssscream for me."

Every roll of Crowley's hips had his cock sliding between Aziraphale's lips now, slick and slippery with his juices. The head of it caught on his clit, dragged at him, making him tremble with the building heat; Aziraphale couldn't keep himself from wrapping his legs around Crowley's narrow hips, uncaring if it was too out of character. Crowley's groan against his collarbone was gratifying, and Aziraphale arched up with a needy little whimper.

Unholy strength still held Aziraphale pinned to the bed, and the shift in angle gave Crowley new access. Aziraphale gasped when Crowley moved deliberately, and that too-thick cock slipped down to nudge against his hole. Slick and ready as he was, the size of it frightened him, and Aziraphale chewed his lip nervously.

Measure by tiny measure, Crowley pressed in, an impossible stretch that had Aziraphale gasping ineffectually, legs falling loosely apart so he could concentrate on enduring it. And more than enduring, he realized suddenly, as the gentle, rhythmic motion of Crowley's hips became more than his fragile body could bear and he found himself convulsing, tightening, coming when Crowley was barely inside.

The demon cursed above him, holding himself frozen in place as Aziraphale loudly rode out his peak, until Aziraphale's head fell back with one last whimper, and his body relaxed.

"Delicious," Crowley whispered in his ear, the sibilance mostly gone. "You're going to do that again for me."

There was a hint of a question to it, and Aziraphale nodded eagerly. Crowley allowed him to tug his hands free, and Aziraphale wound his arms around Crowley's neck. His voice was stronger than he felt it ought to be when he said, "How dare you profane my angelic body, you foul fiend!"

Crowley growled. When he pressed forward again, shattering pleasure ripped through Aziraphale's overstimulated nerves, and his arms tightened as he cried out helplessly. "Ssscream, angel," Crowley encouraged him, and rocked in further.

Aziraphale did.

#IneffableInktober #good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #monster fucking #my fic #lemon #very lemony this time #rape roleplay #size kink #lots of fun shit in here #have fun you guys

[summerofspock]

*slams my fists on the table* give me azcrow pwp fic now it I’ll die

well my dear. here it is.

**

Ever since the thwarted apocalypse there had been a shift in Crowley’s relationship with Aziraphale. He can’t quite put his finger on it but if he had to explain he would use the following series of examples.

Before, Crowley was almost always the one to reach out; tempt to lunch here, bribe with a bottle of wine there. But now, Aziraphale calls him every other day or so and they get dinner or go to the theater or they end up back at Aziraphale’s bookshop chattering about the same old nonsense. It’s gotten to the point where it’s almost…domestic.

And it’s giving Crowley the willies.

Not that he hasn’t been desperate for something exactly like this for years (alright, millennia), but he has no idea why.

Is it Aziraphale saying, ah yes we can finally be proper friends? Or is it something more like, now that I don’t have a heavenly assignment, I’ve gotten rather bored?

By mutual agreement, they slowed down on the use of their powers, not wanting to draw attention from Above or Below for the time being, and Crowley supposed it had made things a little dull. He isn’t going speeding through downtown London or popping over to Germany for those chocolates Aziraphale likes. Instead he’s stuck in London limited by typical human transportation and trying to find new ways to entertain himself that aren’t demonic in nature.

Though he still tosses in a little mischief just for fun. He isn’t about to give it up entirely.

And while he understands boredom acutely, he’s entirely unprepared to walk into Aziraphale’s bookshop on a Tuesday and hear the telltale sound of sex echoing from the backroom. Passionate moans and grunts and the slap of skin.

He stumbles and knocks over a pile of books.

Drawn like a moth to a very disastrous flame, he feels himself pulled across the bookshop to stand in the door to Aziraphale’s office only to find the angel sitting at his desk and staring at his computer screen in consternation. A busty blonde is gasping as an ugly muscled man pushes in and—

Startling at Crowley’s sudden presence, Aziraphale looks over at him and immediately brightens. “Crowley! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The only thing that Crowley can manage is “What are you doing?”

Read on Ao3

He sounds unbearably stupid even to his own ears but whatever burst of embarrassment he should feel doesn’t register over the continued noises coming from the computer.

“Ah,” Aziraphale says wiggling in his seat and only then does Crowley notice the spread of magazines and books in front of him. Playboy, the Kama Sutra, what look to be honest-to-satan print outs, all of naked people in compromising positions. “Do you know what pornography is?” Aziraphale asks and then shakes his head as if he’s being silly. “Of course you do. I’m an angel and I know, of course a demon does.”

Crowley was passingly familiar with pornography even though it was an entirely human invention.

Ah-ah-ah, yeah, fuck, just like that.

Crowley covers his face with his hands and grits out, “Can you turn that off?”

With a click of the mouse, the room falls into silence.

“Would you like to explain why you’re watching pornography? In your bookshop? During business hours?”

Aziraphale flaps his hand, typically dismissive of any criticisms of his abysmal business practices. “Did you know I’ve been on this earth for nearly 6 millennia and have never engaged in intercourse before?“

Crowley grinds his teeth and feels his cheeks heat. What is he supposed to say to that?

“I realized that now, since we’re more or less living as humans, there’s so much left to try. I already like the food and the drink but I’ve found myself curious about this sex business. Have you tried it?”

With every passing second Crowley feels like the floor is collapsing deeper and deeper as he tries to find his footing in this horrifying conversation. “Once or twice,” he says, it’s only sort of a lie because he tried it by himself a few times but stopped because he thought Aziraphale would somehow know about the images that played in Crowley’s head when he masturbated. Soft angel hips and curling blond hair.

“Was it good? It seems to bring humans an awful lot of pleasure.”

“‘S alright,” he manages, shrugging his shoulders and Aziraphale scowls.

“That’s what you say about cheesecake. Sometimes I think you’re no judge of things.”

“I don’t know, angel. What do you want me to say?”

Aziraphale huffs. “Well alright, then I suppose I’ll have to try it out myself.”

The abject horror that Crowley feels at the mere of idea of anyone besides him touching Aziraphale, being close to Aziraphale, hearing those noises like ah-ah-ah—

“With a human?” Crowley asks incredulously instead of anything more incriminating.

Aziraphale’s scowl deepens. “Of course not. That’s far too risky. I’m already in hot water with Heaven and fornicating with humans is extremely frowned upon.”

Crowley snorts in acknowledgment and tries to piece together what that could possibly mean. If not humans then

“I was actually hoping you’d be interested in trying it out,” Aziraphale says, some of his frustration giving way to that bright twinkling expression he gets at the prospect of trying something new. Though it’s usually reserved for trying the newest restaurant on the block. “Especially if you’ve already done it. You can show me the ropes, so to speak.”

Something slithers up Crowley’s spine and he has the distinct fear that he might lose control of himself and become a very snake-shaped puddle. He takes a deep breath and says, “Alright.”

Which is the exact opposite of what he meant to say.

Aziraphale claps his hands and grows somehow brighter. “How delightful!” he says and then stands, taking Crowley’s hand  oh god have Crowley’s hands always sweat like this, very inconvenient and dragging him upstairs.

“Right now?” Crowley squeaks and Aziraphale looks back at him amused.

“What? It’s not like we have other plans. Assignments to get to or what have you.”

Which is how they end up on Aziraphale’s bed, clearly rarely used, a small thing with a tartan duvet that barely surprises Crowley at this point.

And while Crowley thought he knew what to expect, he still almost jumps out of his skin when Aziraphale’s fingers come up to his waistcoat and start tugging at the buttons. “What are you doing?” Crowley asks sharply and Aziraphale fixes him with one of his patented long suffering looks.

“Undressing you. Did you think we were going to do this fully clothed? Seems like it would be much less interesting.”

Crowley swallows and tries to relax as Aziraphale slides off his coat and then his vest, leaving him only in his gray shirt and jeans and feeling hopelessly hot about the collar.

Aziraphale pulls back and looks at him expectantly. When Crowley just stares at him, he huffs and starts undoing his bow tie. The motion, swift and practiced, draws Crowley back into himself and unbidden his hands go to Aziraphale’s own waistcoat, opening it slowly.

Crowley falls into the memories of thinking about exactly this moment. Tugging off Aziraphale’s clothes, putting his mouth on Aziraphale’s neck, rolling the soft folds of the angel’s body in has hands. Warm and delicious and perfect.

Aziraphale smiles at him and Crowley could almost categorize it as a smirk but before he can the expression is replaced by one of intense focus, pink tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he tries to unbutton Crowley’s pants. The scrape of his fingers against the part of his body that Crowley so rarely thinks about causes a spark in his belly, shocking and hot before Aziraphale pulls his hands away in frustration. “Can you take those ridiculous things off?”

Crowley laughs, surprised at himself for being able to make such a normal sound while this unbelievable thing is happening, but he does what he knows best and obeys Aziraphale’s request.

After he’s shimmied out of his jeans, Aziraphale gives him an appraising look. “I’m surprised we haven’t seen each naked before. Or have we?” he asks, suddenly distracted as he looks down at the duvet.

“This is hardly the time, Aziraphale,” Crowley grates out, starting to feel a bit uncomfortable in just a t-shirt while Aziraphale is still dressed in is pressed shirt and trousers.

“Right,” Aziraphale says, returning his attention to Crowley and settling his hands on the demon’s thighs.

Trying to focus, Crowley undoes Aziraphale’s shirt and gives a little frustrated groan when he encounters an undershirt. “How many layers are you wearing?” he asks.

“Not all of us go about without underpants on.”

Crowley grunts, indignant, but not indignant enough to respond as he undoes Aziraphale’s belt and in a fit of inspiration, pushes him back onto the pillows to pull off his trousers and underwear.

Aziraphale’s legs are dusted in dark blonde hair, thicker about the shins and thinning as Crowley skates his gaze up to Aziraphale’s hips where the roll of his stomach settles over his pelvis looking as good as Crowley had always dreamed.

“Take off your shirt,” Aziraphale demands, breaking the moment.

“Only if you do too,” he says back before sitting on his heels to tug off his last article of clothing.

When he looks back down, he sees Aziraphale stretched out in nothing but his socks — of course his socks — looking very comfortable indeed and very unfortunately flaccid.

Crowley is not in the same situation and his cheeks burn at the thought that he’s so turned on and Aziraphale is just there, looking at him.

Aziraphale sits up against the headboard and reaches up a hand to take off Crowley’s glasses. “Seems a bit weird for you to keep them on,” he explains even as Crowley looks away.

He can feel Aziraphale’s gaze on him, assessing and cataloging or whatever that blasted angel brain is doing.

Patting the bed beside him, Aziraphale says, “Lay down, my dear. Let me look at you.”

Hesitantly, Crowley stretches out on the side of the bed closest to the wall, feeling very exposed, his erection pressing up against his stomach.

It’s been a very long time since Crowley has had an erection. Perhaps a century. And that had been one of those times when he’d tried on the whole masturbation thing for a moment so this is entirely uncharted water.

“How very fascinating,” Aziraphale breathes as he runs the back of his knuckles over Crowley’s clavicle, down his sternum where they come to a stop just below his ribs. It makes Crowley’s heart skitter in his chest and he’s not sure if he hates it or loves it. Which is really the story of his demonic existence at this point.

“Can I touch your penis?” Aziraphale asks frankly which absolutely shatters the romantic image Crowley had been building up in his mind until that moment.

“Please don’t say penis,” he says, closing his eyes with an irritated groan.

Aziraphale looks affronted. “What would you prefer? Dick? Member? Cock?”

And now the rest of Crowley’s face feels like its burning. “Please no.”

“Well how are we going to do this if you won’t let me use words for your primary sex organ?”

And now it’s getting worse. Crowley resists the urge to cover his face. “How about you do what you want and I’ll stop you if I don’t like it.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “Fine but you better say something.”

And perhaps Aziraphale had the right of it because without warning he wraps his hand around Crowley’s cock and the demon nearly shoots of the bed in surprise. “Really, Crowley, calm down. You’re acting like I’m trying to murder you.”

Forcing himself to breathe normally, Crowley lays back down and tries to relax as Aziraphale runs his hand up and then down, twisting slightly at the base and making Crowley’s toes curl.

“Did you like that?’ Aziraphale asks in a low voice, a quiet breath in his ear, and Crowley nods, certain he’ll make a fool of himself if he speaks.

Aziraphale hums against his neck, body curled against Crowley’s side as he continues to move his hand for a few moments before abruptly pulling away. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

And then Crowley is forced to watch the swing of Aziraphale’s pert little arse as he walks out of the bedroom. His cock pulses hopefully.

Returning after only a few moments with a bottle in his hand, Aziraphale holds it up with a toothy grin. “Lube!”

Crowley falls back against the pillows and can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him. “How long have you been planning this?”

Aziraphale falls into a stance that Crowley knows well: his I’m about to tell a needlessly detailed story, please listen stance. “Well, I decided on Saturday to start researching the intercourse process. Positions, angles, types of genitalia and partner configuration. And when I wasn’t sure if I would be able to obtain a partner, I purchased lubricant with the intention of pursuing self-stimulation. However!” he says happily, “I realized on Sunday that you were an ideal partner. So here we are.”

While ideal partner is not exactly the most romantic declaration in context, it still makes Crowley’s heart flutter. “Very scientific of you,” Crowley deadpans and his sarcasm is missed by the angel who does a little happy wiggle on his way back to the bed.

After Aziraphale settles back down next to him, contemplating the bottle of lube, Crowley’s attention is drawn back to his still soft penis, nestled against his thigh and looking no more interested than it had 10 minutes ago.

Knowing that Aziraphale is about to go a bit wild — as he tends to do when excited — Crowley pushes his through his anxiety and lays a hand on Aziraphale’s hip which fits so well in his hand and is so warm that Crowley thinks he might drown in the surge of want that crashes into him.

“Angel,” he says. It’s a bit rough around the edges but he manages.

Looking up from the instructions label, Aziraphale meets his eyes and his brow furrows. “Yes, my dear?”

“Do you, er, need anything?” Crowley asks with a meaningful glance between them.

Aziraphale looks down and says, “Oh! I suppose I didn’t even think about that. I got a bit excited.”

Aziraphale stares at himself for a moment and then asks, “Well…how does it work? You seem to be doing just fine.”

Is he really about to have a conversation about the birds and the bees with an angel? Who he has been in love with for centuries?

“Erm, are you not…are you not, er, interested?”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale asks, looking at him blankly.

Crowley closes his eyes, both embarrassed and full of dread. How nice it is to have to ask your friend if they’re physically attracted to you. “You have to want me. Be aroused? Attracted? Ringing any bells?”

“Well, you are very attractive,” Aziraphale says it’s obvious. “At least I’ve always thought so. And I feel like — looking at you is sort of like looking at the menu at the Ritz. A lot of options. All delicious.”

Crowley can’t stand the disgustingly sappy squirming thing his stomach is doing but he pushes through, “Where do you want to start?”

Aziraphale pulls back and one hand goes to Crowley’s upper arm, the tips of his fingers brushing his skin, as he looks over Crowley’s body once more. The strange feeling of exposure is still there but it’s also warm and arousing and now Crowley knows Aziraphale likes looking.

“Here,” Aziraphale says before leaning in and brushing his mouth over Crowley’s collarbone, the angel’s hand tightening around his elbow as he sucks in a breath through his nose.

Crowley stays still as Aziraphale nuzzles his way down his chest, pausing to kiss each new patch of hair, his nipples, the divot of his sternum, the underside of ribs — which tickles but he bites his lip so Aziraphale will never find out about that particularly embarrassing tidbit.

“Mmm, I was right. You are delicious,” Aziraphale murmurs, mouth still pressed against Crowley’s chest.

Crowley can only manage a strangled sound, the spring coiling inside him threatening release before he grasps Aziraphale and rolls the angel onto his back. “Your turn.”

Aziraphale pouts a little but it fades into a gasp when Crowley succumbs to the long buried urge to bite the place where Aziraphale’s neck meets his jaw. He licks over the light stubble, the acrid taste of aftershave mingling with something warm like cinnamon and brandy. Kicking one of Aziraphale’s legs out, he clambers over him, slotting his knee between the angel’s legs to align their bodies. When their chests press together, Crowley’s reptilian instincts scream warm, soft, sleep and the comfort of it suffuses him for a moment before the realization that it’s Aziraphale under him and the hands on his back are digging into his shoulder blades silently asking for more. And, well, he can’t say no to that.

Sinking down Aziraphale’s body, he conjures up all the images he ever played behind his eyes whenever he had experimented with his sexuality before. It had always been blonde hair, pink cheeks, breathy laughs and that sunshine warm feeling that Crowley can’t shake for days after seeing Aziraphale.

It’s no starting place, those impressions, so he tosses them aside and does what feels right.

Settled firmly between Aziraphale’s parted legs, Crowley tries to think objectively. It’s a miserable enterprise given the way the angel is looking at him, soft eyes and parted lips and oh—

Crowley runs his nails down Aziraphale’s shin and comes into contact with the rough fabric of his socks. Rolling his eyes he says, “I can’t believe about to do this,” and then tugs off one brown sock and then the other before tossing them to the ground.

Slithering all the way to the end of the bed he gives Aziraphale a dark look and says, “I am never taking off your socks again. Your responsibility from here on out.”

“Noted,” Aziraphale says and it sounds breathless and isn’t that something.

Crowley curls his left arm around Aziraphale’s leg and folds over him, kissing his ankle and then his shin, dragging his lips over the soft hair and delicate skin. With each inch Aziraphale’s breaths grow unsteadier and Crowley reaches up his right hand to grasp at Aziraphale’s hip as much as to feel him as steady him.

He flicks his tongue over Aziraphale’s kneecap and is rewarded with a little hiss. Glancing up at Aziraphale from he is, laying on his belly between the angel’s legs, Crowley sees him, a hand fisted in the blankets and the other tossed over his face. It’s astounding and Crowley has to remind himself to focus on the task at hand.

He nibbles his way up Aziraphale’s inner thigh to his now thankfully half—hard cock and licks the crevice between where the angel’s thigh meets his pelvis, the dark blonde hair scraping over his tongue before he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of Aziraphale’s hip.

He feels fingers sink into his hair as another gasp echoes in his ears and if he was hard before he doesn’t think he had an understanding of how turned on someone could be until Aziraphale’s nails scrape over his scalp and he whimpers against the angel’s stomach.

“Is this—” he begins.

“Don’t you dare stop,” Aziraphale demands not letting him finish his half formed thought.

That’s enough instruction for Crowley who loses himself between Aziraphale’s legs, their comforting enclosure making him feel safe and warm as he kisses and bites at the soft folds of Aziraphale’s stomach, playing to the rhythm of the angel’s noises of pleasure until the desire to taste him becomes too much and Crowley sinks down and takes his half hard cock into his mouth.

The noise Aziraphale makes is something akin to a kettle whistling and if they were in any other situation Crowley would be laughing hysterically, instead he closes his eyes and wills his heart into submission. This is — this is more intimacy than he ever expected.

He’d resolved himself to something like an eternity of friendship. Aziraphale was so important. The most important. Something not worth risking just to indulge his own desires for closeness. The intimacy of dinner and conversation over wine was enough to make Crowley think he could last several more millennia before suggesting anything else.

Anything like this.

So he takes that feeling of gratitude (and yes, joy) and pours it into his actions, savoring the way Aziraphale’s cock hardens slowly in his mouth, the salty ocean taste of his precome when he grows hard enough, the weight of him in Crowley’s hand as he works it in time with his tongue.

But most of all Crowley lives in the moments between Aziraphale’s breaths and moans, feeling powerful and as close to loved as he thinks he’ll ever feel.

The fingers tighten in his hair and when Aziraphale says, “Crowley” in a desperate, naked voice, the demon thinks he might black out from sheer want.

What he doesn’t expect his to find himself unceremoniously tossed on his back and straddled by a very red in the face angel who presses his warm, oh so warm, palm into the dip of Crowley’s chest and says, “I want to penetrate you but it is absolutely acceptable if you would prefer to continue in this fashion.”

It’s ridiculous and arousing and so Aziraphale that Crowley can barely respond. The angel cocks his head and licks his lips, casting his hips forward so his erection grazes Crowley’s and fuck. “Yeah, alright. Yes. Please,” Crowley says and it sounds desperate and pathetic but his higher processing is completely shot so it doesn’t matter in the slightest.

Something giddy lights up the angel’s face before he lunges across the bed and grabs the lube. “After I decided I wanted to have sex with you, I read about this a lot. Anal penetration is quite interesting. Do you have a prostate?”

The words are a lot to parse in his hazy and aroused state, but Crowley tries his best. “Erm, I don’t—”

“Well, they’re human bodies regardless if we’re in them or not. So it seems likely,” Aziraphale says as he squirts some liquid onto the fingers of his right hand.

In a mirror of Crowley’s actions moments (hours?) ago, Aziraphale grasps at Crowley’s knee and hooks it over his shoulder as he comes down on his belly between Crowley’s legs.

At first he expects a sort of cold hard press but instead something hot and insistent flutters against the part of himself he had never explored during his brief forays into masturbation.

Aziraphale makes a little grunting sound and lifts his head, lips bright red and slick with spit. “Is this alright, my dear? I read that analingus is the best way to prepare for penetration.”

Crowley’s head falls back against the pillows and before he can say something scathing about analingus the tongue is back and doing remarkable things, causing sparks of pleasure to light behind his eyes and his leg muscles to twitch peculiarly. It is foreign and he feels vulnerable but so, so good.

Aziraphale pulls away and kisses his inner thigh. “This may be a bit cold,” he warns before that insistent press Crowley had expected and then Aziraphale’s fingers are inside him and its strange but it’s also Aziraphale and that swelling intimacy from before is back but even better and Crowley keens as his back arches and his legs shake.

“Oh I like that,” Aziraphale says from between his legs, his head bowed as he looks down at his work, the curly mop of his blond hair cascading over his forehead.

The next few minutes pass in a blur of sensations and emotions that Crowley can’t bear articulating.

The only words he manages to think are: yes, this.

Insistent hands on his hips rouse him and he looks at Aziraphale, feeling somehow like he can’t breathe.

“According to my research, penetration is easiest if you turn over and get on your knees—”

Crowley growls. “If you say anything else about your bloody research, I’ll brain you with your own lube. Now get inside me.”

Aziraphale looks a bit flustered but nods and dips his head to kiss the line of Crowley’s hip.

“Of course, my dear. No need to get tetchy.”

The press of Aziraphale’s fingers is nothing like the press of his cock and for a moment Crowley wishes he’d taken him up on that offer of any easier position, but then something gives and Crowley just feels full. When he opens his eyes at the new sensation, he sees the angel above him, a look of pure concentration on his face as he fists one hand into the pillow beside Crowley’s head and the other curls about his bent knee.

He hears Aziraphale groan. “Fuck.”

And then Aziraphale pulls back — and oh that’s a bit weird — but when he slams back inside Crowley sees stars and he can’t help but echo the angel’s sentiment.

“Fuck,”

“Good?” Aziraphale asks in a tone of voice Crowley doesn’t think he’s ever heard before, low and tight and…

He does his best to keep his eyes open, watch as Aziraphale moves against him, cataloging each pull and push of his hips to remember later in case this never happens again. But, despite his efforts, he finds himself becoming a mess of scrabbling hands and embarrassing noises and a tight coiling need.

Crowley is as surprised as Aziraphale — if his sharp intake of breath is anything to go by — when the coil releases and his nerves cry out at once, pleasure so acute he thinks it might be the only true benefit of this human body.

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale says, sounding overwhelmed as he drops his head to Crowley’s shoulder and continues to move his hips, first faster and then erratically before he also comes apart.

The angel collapses for a moment, sinking on top of him, and Crowley relishes the warm, comforting weight.

Aziraphale kisses his chest briefly before slipping away and Crowley feels abruptly empty and cold with a keen fear curling in his belly.

Looking like he’d washed his face, Aziraphale returns and hands him a warm wet cloth before settling next to him the small bed.

Crowley refuses to look at him as he wipes down his belly and takes his own leave to clean himself up in the bathroom. Do humans really do this every time they have sex?

Aziraphale is lying in bed, now clad only in his boxers and undershirt, smiling like a loon and Crowley freezes in the doorway.

“That was delightful, don’t you think?” Aziraphale says, tossing a spare shirt he has cradled against his chest at Crowley who holds it out, realizing it is one of Aziraphale’s and not his own.

He pulls the shirt over his head and it settles at the top of his thighs. It smells just like Aziraphale, that cinnamon brandy smell.

“Erm, it was alright.”

Aziraphale scoffs and scoots to the far side of the twin bed before patting the space he just vacated. “Typical demon. Why can’t you just enjoy things?”

Crowley sits on the edge of the bed, wary, but is tugged down against the pillow by an insistent Aziraphale, nattering the while. “I particularly liked when you took my penis in your mouth. What is that called? Fellatio? That felt very good. Not that the rest wasn’t equally spectacular —”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley interrupts.

“Yes?” Aziraphale asks, wide eyed as Crowley rolls over to face him.

“Shut up.”

Aziraphale gives him an offended look. “Well, I don’t see how we’ll improve if we don’t review what parts we liked best.”

That pronouncement settles around Crowley and he has to stop himself from pulling away in disbelief. Instead he asks, “What? We’re doing that again?”

Aziraphale looks disappointed but still manages to sound bright when he says, “Not if you don’t want to of course. However I enjoyed myself and I suppose I thought you did too.”

“I did,” Crowley rushes to reassure him.

“Oh fantastic. It’s settled then. There’s so much to try!” Aziraphale says and then kisses him squarely on the mouth.

Crowley stares at him when he pulls back and then Aziraphale’s eyes widen.

“Kissing!” he cries, all excitement. “That’s what we should do next! Perhaps tomorrow?”

Bewildered, Crowley doesn’t complain when Aziraphale lays on his back and pulls Crowley against his side.

“Tomorrow sounds good,” Crowley says, closing his eyes.

#bllbabaggins #pwp #use wisdom in clicking through

[stillseekwill]

Acts of Service

Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley

Rating: Mature (may change in future chapters, depending on how brave I get)

Word Count: 3718

Summary:  After receiving direct instruction from God, village reverend Aziraphale leaves his countryside congregation to serve the underserved and in-need at an urban church in London, a transition made all the more complicated by the mysterious and handsome Crowley, who always seems to appear when Aziraphale least expects him.

Tags: slowest of slow burns, alternate universe, “vicar and the bad boy”

Read on AO3

Aziraphale sat down heavily on the empty bench seat on the Underground. He placed his shopping bag on the floor between his feet and exhaled. Leaning back on the bench, he shut his eyes lightly. He was exhausted. Since coming back to London he felt he had scarcely a moment to breath. Perhaps though, that was for the best. He didn’t want to give himself a chance to start cultivating regrets.

He had loved his quiet life in Cornwall. His congregation had been dedicated, but dwindling over the past several years. If Aziraphale hadn’t initiated the move, he was certain it would have come along anyway, and the church would have been shuttered. But it wasn’t the smaller number of congregants sitting in the pews before him Sunday after Sunday that had spurred him west. It was God.

God had spoken to him, as He had done twenty-five years ago when Aziraphale was young, when he had gotten the call to ministry. God had spurred him forward into this life, and there was nothing else he could have done. He could only be God’s servant. And so it had been three months ago, locking the front doors to St. Peter’s Church on a late Sunday afternoon in July, sun warming his back, that God had spoken to him and explained what he must do.

If Aziraphale had to explain it, he would say that it wasn’t like listening to someone speak, it was just knowing, but the knowing hadn’t come from him. The knowing was divine. Aziraphale knew without a shadow of a doubt that he had to leave the comfort of his small village, his neighbours he had known for nearly two decades, the streets he could have navigated blind, and go to London. He was to serve those who needed a kind hand, word, heart the most.

Aziraphale loved his loyal pensioners who showed up week after week, who brought him their baking and extended endless invitations to their tables, but they were not who needed him. They would be fine, and eventually they would merge with another church in the next village over, or if things got particularly dire, in town.

“Do not think,” Aziraphale had started, looking out at his congregation, “- do not think that I do not love you.” His voice had faltered as he caught 90-year-old Mary Dayton in the front pew with tears in her eyes. “But it is time for me to serve elsewhere.”

And here he was. On the underground with a bag full of cleaning supplies for his new home, St. Sebastian’s in Newham. The church had ostensibly had a vicar before Aziraphale but you couldn’t tell by the amount of filth that lined every surface of the sanctuary. The bishop had stressed to Aziraphale that St. Sebastian’s was not a “regular Sunday service and bake sale kind of church” but instead one that focused on serving the local community, whether or not they called the church home. This meant hot meals for the homeless, out of the cold programs in the colder months, and actively seeking out opportunities to do more.

Rocking gently as the train hurtled down the track, Aziraphale sighed. In his most secret heart, he was not excited for this assignment. He had become very accustomed to what he had. Life in Cornwall had not been challenging, nor was it uncomfortable. But it wasn’t like he had a choice. God had sent him here, and he was merely a servant.

Aziraphale opened his eyes and was startled to see a man across from him where moments before there had been no one. He hadn’t heard him sit down or pass him, he had been so lost in his own thoughts.

Aziraphale’s breath hitched slightly as his eyes drifted over the man’s form. Everything about the man was sleek. Dressed all in black, with sharp elegant angles. He was tall, and reaching out his arms across the back of the bench, took up space with an ease that Aziraphale was unfamiliar with. His hair was a dramatic shade of red, and strangely, for being on the train after ten at night, he was wearing sunglasses. There was something about the man that made Aziraphale’s heart rise towards his throat. He was struck by a strong sense of familiarity. Did he know this man?

The man’s face turned slightly towards Aziraphale and he gasped shallowly and looked at his lap, rubbing his palms down his thighs. He hoped the man hadn’t caught him openly staring. He gripped the fabric of his trousers and released it. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the man was known to him. Releasing the fabric, he swallowed, and allowed his eyes to drift up to the man’s face.

The problem with sunglasses was you could never actually tell where someone was looking, or if they were looking anywhere at all. The man’s face was turned towards Aziraphale, but he made no move that indicated he noticed the other man glancing his way. Aziraphale allowed his eyes to drift again, taking in the man’s long legs in dark jeans that stretched out into the aisle. His feet, in stylish black laced boots, were mere inches from Aziraphale’s feet in well-worn brown oxfords. Aziraphale’s eyes traveled up the man’s body and lingered on his chest, the lines and ridges visible under his tight black T-shirt. It was then the man cleared his throat.

The man’s face, which had moments ago seemed to not register anything happening around him, now displayed a thin smirk. He had seen.

Aziraphale felt his face flush violently as his gaze immediately returned to his lap. How deeply, deeply embarrassing. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to look at someone like that. To catalogue their details with such intense focus, with reverence. The pleasure of it, to look upon another person without expectation, he had forgotten how it felt after so long in a small and familiar place. He had lost himself however briefly, and now this man though he was a lech, or a pervert.

It was then the train announced his stop. Aziraphale grabbed the shopping bag between his feet and muttered “Thank God” to himself as he stood. It did feel like divine intervention, to get off the train then. As he stood by the door waiting to exit, he could feel the man’s eyes burning holes in his back. He daren’t look and check. At a minimum, he was sure his face was still red with mortification. The train slid to a stop, the doors opened, and Aziraphale nearly launched himself through them, walking as quickly as he could without seeming conspicuous. He also doubted he could have ran as far and fast as he wanted if he tried. Best to avoid adding insult to injury.

As he reached the station exit he exhaled. He was not far from the church now. He would drop the supplies off, walk to his spartan flat, and wallow in humiliation for the remainder of the evening. As he opened the door to leave he instinctively checked behind him. Aziraphale always held the door for others.

Taking long strides across the station foyer, was the man from the train. Still smiling slightly, but not acknowledging Aziraphale further. Feeling almost lightheaded, Aziraphale stared at the ground, but dutifully held the door. It almost felt as if it were the least he could do, after his episode.

The man in dark glasses passed by him, mere centimetres between them. Aziraphale could swear he felt heat coming from the man, emanating from his very core. Or maybe he was just blushing again. Exiting and pulling out a package of cigarettes from his jacket, the man turned his head back to Aziraphale. “Cheers, mate.” He said, placing a cigarette between his lips and lighting it in a smooth single motion.

Aziraphale made a noise in response. Was it a hum? No, more than that. A voiced, but wordless acknowledgment, that was higher pitched than he’d have preferred. Good Lord, he was pathetic.

He watched the man’s back as he walked away, mercifully in the opposite direction of St. Sebastian’s. The light from his cigarette occasionally flickered into view, and then the man turned a corner and out of sight.

Letting out the breath he had been holding for what felt like several minutes, Aziraphale started his walk to the church. It was dark now, and autumn had settled over the city. He had always loved the autumn, for if nothing else it meant Advent would soon be upon him, and that was his favourite time of year. (He knew it was supposed to be Easter, as every vicar claimed theirs was, but he liked Advent and he knew God was fine with it.) But autumn in the city was not autumn in Cornwall. He felt unsettled, in part he knew due to the gawking he had just been caught out on, but he just wasn’t sure how he felt about the city yet. He had grown up on the city’s outskirts, but that felt so long ago now. Everything in London was new and unfamiliar and busy, and so, so loud. It was a city full of distractions, some more significant than others, and he knew that meant his job here would be more difficult than ever.

Aziraphale turned down a side street and saw the small, urban church of St. Sebastian’s emerge ahead of him, cast yellow by the dirty streetlights. The sidewalks were deserted. He felt himself unclench. The church wasn’t much, but it was a church. He would stay for awhile, he decided. He would pray, meditate. Try to ground himself. Try to commune with God. He would never see that man again. Not in a city this size. He just needed to refocus, and to move on.

He climbed the few stairs to the front door the church and pulled his keys from his jacket pocket. He stared at his key chain for a moment. When did he get so many keys? He used to have one for his home, and one for St. Peter’s. Now he had two for his flat, one for the front door to St. Sebastian’s, the back door, his office, the petty cash box, and the list went on. Had he any foresight whatso-ever he would have marked them in some way because in this dark light it was imposs-

“What’s in the bag?”

Aziraphale froze at the unfamiliar voice. It was aggressive, testy. He closed his hands around his keys and turned, to see two men at the bottom of the steps. Not men, really. Aziraphale nearly laughed. They were boys. Fifteen years old, maybe. Fourteen was more likely. They had beanies pulled over their ears, and glared at him in a way he understood was supposed to be intimidating. He smiled at the boys, hoping they would see him as reassuring, friendly, and held the bag out. “Good evening, boys. What’s in the bag is washing up liquid, household cleaners. Nothing terribly exciting, I’m afraid.”

The boys seemed momentarily lost for words. The taller one in the front looked back at his shorter companion, who shrugged, unsure. The tall one looked back to Aziraphale. Aziraphale watched the boy think, and as he watched the boy smiled menacingly and puffed out his chest. “What about your fucking wallet? What’s in that?”

“Nothing for you.” Aziraphale replied, his smile dropping. This was not the way he had wanted this to play out. “You should go home.”

The boy was bold now and he reached his hand into his pocket, producing a small knife. He encroached on Aziraphale, backing him against the large wooden church doors. Aziraphale had lost his sensible train of thought now. He didn’t truly think the boy would hurt him, would he? He was so young. This close Aziraphale could really see how young he really was. “Don’t…” he started. Don’t what? He couldn’t think of how to finish the sentence.

“Just give me your wallet, you fat fu-”

“Excuse me? Hi! Hello!” Both Aziraphale and the boy snapped their attention to the male voice down the street. A man stood about fifty feet down, silhouetted by the porch light behind him.

“Fuck off!” Yelled the boy clutching the knife.

“Yeah, fuck off!” Yelled the second one, but with no bravado backing it.

The man approached, slowly, almost leisurely, as if Aziraphale and the boy were having a casual chat and the boy hadn’t just clearly threatened to cut him for the scant forty quid in his wallet. “No, I don’t think I will, thanks.” The man moved into the light of the nearest streetlamp, and it was only then that Aziraphale realized it was the man from the train. He leapt from feeling relieved, to deeply anxious, to more embarrassed than he could remember feeling in recent memory.

“All right lads. How about you leave this gentleman be and you run along home to your mum. Probably wondering where you are. Don’t you think?” There was a sinister underpinning to the man’s voice, even though he had delivered the suggestion smiling. He still wore the dark glasses from before. Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes, yet he knew somehow they were hard.

The boys looked to one another, suddenly scared. Suddenly very scared. The tall boy turned and walked down the stairs, and the two of them together began to back away. “Yeah. All right. Sorry.”

The man walked closer to Aziraphale and the church as the boys slowly backed away. “Don’t say sorry to me.” He gestured with his head towards Aziraphale, the intention unspoken.

The tall boy turned his face to Aziraphale, his eyes wide with anxiety. “We’re sorry.”

“That’s okay.” Aziraphale said automatically. And then he thought. “I forgive you.”

The red haired man next to him scoffed, but not meanly. “Better man than I would be,” he said almost to himself, looking at the ground in front of him. He then returned his gaze to the boys. “Get out of here. Go home. Don’t come here again.”

Nodding, the boys turned and launched into a full out run. Aziraphale and the man watched in silence as the boys cantered away, and eventually turned a corner. They stood for a moment after the boys disappeared in quiet, not looking to one another.

“I’m… I don’t… thank you.” Aziraphale couldn’t figure out what to say, how to say it. He held his arm in front of him and opened his hand. He had been clutching the keys all this time. The imprint of the teeth left jagged red ridges across the soft flesh at the base of his thumb.

“Don’t worry about it.” The man turned towards him now, and Aziraphale forced himself to look up into the man’s face. As he did, the man smiled broadly, displaying white, straight teeth. “You must be new to the neighbourhood.” He voice was kind, but there was something layered beneath is. Was it teasing? If it was, it wasn’t the kind meant to injure.

Aziraphale gave a self-deprecating chuckle. He shoved his keys back into his pocket and ran his hand through his short, white blond hair. “Is it very obvious?” He found it hard to look at the man for more than a second at a time. He had now embarrassed himself twice over, and he could barely stand it. He didn’t think the man had saved his life per se, but he had gotten him out of a sticky situation. He had to be grateful, but what he wanted at this exact moment, was to sink into the concrete and to never be seen by any living person ever again.

“Yeah,” the man replied, smiling and scrunching up his nose in a way Aziraphale would describe as cute. “Pretty much. Always have to keep your eyes open here at night. Not a really bad spot, but you’ve got to keep your head out of the clouds.”

“Duly noted,” Aziraphale replied quickly, hoping the faint light from the street lamp wasn’t revealing his flushed cheeks. “You should go. I’m sorry to have-”

The man extended his hand and interrupted Aziraphale’s stuttering. “Crowley.”

Aziraphale rubbed his hand on the leg of his trousers quickly, hoping it wasn’t sweaty, and took Crowley’s hand. He wasn’t sure he had succeeded, but Crowley’s hand was dry and cool, not hot like Aziraphale had anticipated. His long fingers wrapped around Aziraphale’s hand tightly, and he was briefly lost for words.

“And you are?” Crowley asked, the smile never leaving his face. Aziraphale shook his head and looked up from their clasped hands.

“Oh, dear, I am sorry. Aziraphale. I’m Aziraphale. I’m the new reverend, here.” He gestured toward the church with his free hand, still holding the bag of cleaning supplies.

“A man of God. You do have a bit of an aura, don’t you? Noticed it back on the train.”

With that, Aziraphale wanted to cover his face in shame. Why couldn’t he have just pretended that that hadn’t happened. Instead, he released his hand from Crowley’s grip and attempted to bid farewell. “I am so very thankful, Mr. Crowley, for your intervention. I’ll be fine now. Good night.” He turned towards the door and grasped for the keys in his pocket, finally getting a hold of them. He could feel Crowley watching him just feet away, as he found the one for the church door and slid it into the lock.

Before he could open it, Crowley’s hand came from behind him and held the door closed. “How about we do this?” He started, his tone matter of fact, and not one that welcomed argument. “You do whatever you need to do in there, and I’ll wait for you and get you home once you’ve finished.”

Aziraphale swallowed, casting his eyes to the side to look at the man’s wrist, taut against the door, slim and pale and dusted with hair where it emerged from his black leather jacket. He couldn’t think of an excuse, and inside himself, in the most honest part, he knew he didn’t want to find one. “Yes, that’s fine.”

Crowley pulled back from the door wordlessly, and Aziraphale opened it and placed the bag gingerly just inside. He would deal with it in the morning. As he closed the door and turned the lock, Crowley spoke from behind him. “That’s all?”

“Yes,” he replied, pulling his key out. “That’s all.” He turned to face Crowley who looked up at him expectantly. “Oh, um, I’m not far from here. Just down on Walton Road.”

Crowley extended his arm in the direction of the street. “Lead the way,” he offered, eyebrows raised high above his dark glasses.

The two men walked in silence. Aziraphale wracked his mind for things to say, but nothing emerged that wouldn’t serve to humiliate him further. He was hyper aware of the taller man next to him, who moved through space with such enviable ease. Crowley appeared so very comfortable in the dark, unbothered. Aziraphale snuck glances in Crowley’s direction, then coughed in embarrassment the final time when Crowley was looking straight back.

As they reached the terrace of the squat, brick row house that contained his flat, Aziraphle couldn’t determine if he was disappointed or relieved. Perhaps it was both. He turned to Crowley looking at the man’s feet, the stylish boots he had first observed on the train. “Thank you, Mr. Crowley. You have been exceptionally kind.”

“Anything for the good Reverend.” Crowley responded.

Aziraphale hazarded a look up, and Crowley gazed down on him, smiling so slightly it was barely there. Goodness, he was tall. Maybe six inches taller than Aziraphale.

“Do you have a phone?”

Aziraphale shook his head so slightly, as to discard his previous thoughts. “Pardon me?”

“A mobile. A phone.”

Aziraphale reached into his back pocket to produce an older model smartphone. Immediately, before Aziraphale could react or protest, Crowley had taken the phone, and started opening apps.

“You don’t lock your phone! Confident man.”

Aziraphale stood dumbfounded, hand outstretched and unmoving from the position it had been when Crowley took his mobile. Before he could speak, Crowley had put the phone back in his hand. The screen showed a new contact.

“You shouldn’t have to worry anymore. About the church. Getting around. But if something comes up and you need -” He paused, looking right into Aziraphale’s eyes, “- assistance. You can text me. Call me. Whatever.”

Aziraphale’s fingers closed around the phone. “I should hope that won’t be necessary. But thank you again.” He didn’t know if he could bear to see Crowley again. The offer felt genuine, but he didn’t want to be seen as needing this virtual stranger. This incredibly handsome stranger who made him hot in the pit of his stomach.

“Right. Goodnight then.” Crowley waited a beat, then turned on his heel and walked back in the direction of the High Street.

Aziraphale made to turn for his door when he realized he had one question he needed answered. “Mr. Crowley,” he called just loud enough to maybe be heard, not wanting to disturb the neighbours. Crowley turned immediately, almost as if he had expected Aziraphale to call for him. “Did you know those boys? They seemed to know you.” They had known him, and they had been scared.

“Yeah, they knew me. I didn’t know them.” He smiled down towards the ground and looked up, over the sunglasses. If Aziraphale had been closer, he might have caught the colour of his eyes. “Sleep tight, Aziraphale.”

Crowley turned again and continued his walk into the night. Aziraphale stared after him, feeling as if that response had muddied things rather than provided a modicum of clarity. He sighed, and wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly aware of the crisp chill in the air. He turned towards the door to the house and let himself in. He needed to pray. He needed to speak to God. He needed to cast Crowley out of his mind if he ever wanted to sleep. He thanked the heavens that in all likelihood he would never see Crowley again.

He saw Crowley next the following week

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfic #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #alternate universe #idk I'm just very into the idea of Aziraphale as a vicar and slightly out of his depth #and I like crowley leaving him unmoored #only have the first chapter posted but I'm keeping at it