Still working on the "No Seriously, If Crowley and Aziraphale Ever Did Have Sex, They'd Have So Many Weird Conversations About It First" fic
"You already have a penis?" Aziraphale demanded, his hands on his hips. "Since when?"
Crowley tried to recall. "Turn of the nineteenth, I think?" he ventured. There'd been a fountain, and a lot of wine, and Jane challenging him to see which of them could hit the fish statue in the middle.* Afterwards he'd kept it — it was fun, being able to take a piss if you felt like it. Not to mention you could stir up a lot of trouble in public toilets if you were in a mood.**
"Really?" Aziraphale looked halfway between surprised and intrigued. "Don't you find it a bit — floppy?"
"Eh, a bit," Crowley admitted. "But they do amazing things with underpants these days."
Aziraphale laughed, the startled hiccough he gave sometimes when he wasn't quite ready to be out of his sulk. It was one of Crowley's favorite noises. "Very well," he said, adjusting his waistcoat. "Let's have a look."
"What? No," said Crowley. He'd been looking forward to showing off his cock at some point, but Aziraphale was eyeing him like the Queen about to inspect the troops.
"Why not?" Aziraphale whinged, his lower lip puckering dangerously near a pout. "We're going to have to take our clothes off when we have sex. Unless — actually, I think that's on the list of kinks, you know, sex with your clothes on, but it seems terribly awkward, not to mention you'd have to get everything cleaned afterward. Although I do have a rather good 'dry cleaner,'" he made the inverted commas with his fingers and everything, "Who's an absolute miracle worker." He paused. "Well, not a real one. At any rate, come along." And he gestured at Crowley's crotch.
Crowley, who'd had millennia of practice with Aziraphale's careening monologues, was still halfway through unbuckling his belt before his brain caught up. "I'm not pulling my cock out in the middle of your bookshop," he said — with absolutely perfect timing, since Muriel chose that moment to come bustling in.
They stood frozen for a moment, blinking at both of them as they clutched at the doorframe. "I think I, erm, heard a… noise?" They smiled, and backed out slowly. "I should go. And check, on the noise, because noises are sometimes indicators of—" Whatever else they were saying was lost with the slamming of the door.
"Small mercies," Aziraphale huffed, and wriggled his fingers; the sign on the door flipped to "CLOSED" and the door locked with a pointed flourish. "Now then!"
*Neither of them had, and it had nearly gotten them arrested, all the moreso since they'd been in Spain at the time.
**With or without an anus.
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Working title is "Aziraphale is going to get a good grade in sex, something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve"
"So!" Aziraphale said, plopping himself down in the chair opposite. "Urophilia."
Crowley glowered at him from behind the safety of his third-best sunglasses and his mug.* He hadn't slept last night — he rarely wanted to, these days — yet it was somehow still too early for this. "No," he attempted.
"I know we neither of us go in for the more, er, granular human bodily functions," said Aziraphale, without even the slightest hint of listening. Crowley took a certain amount of comfort in the fact that he still found this annoying as — well, his former employer's residence. He'd worried, in a vague sort of way, that if Aziraphale came back and they worked things out, became a proper us, that he'd start thinking everything Aziraphale did was wonderful. But even true love had its limits, thank — well, his other former employer's residence. "Did I ever tell you, I tried defecating once? Terribly awkward business, I had to make an anus and everything. But Cicero was very obliging in teaching me about the stick."**
Conversations with Aziraphale tended to fall into one of three categories. Either he was humming away in his default cheeriness, in which case he'd burble happily along with whatever Crowley said for hours on end; or he was in a pet about something, in which case he'd be drier than the desert outside Eden and Crowley'd be lucky to escape without injury to his pride or person. Or he was like this, in which case Crowley's participation was purely decorative.
Still, they were getting some stares. Nina hadn't started tutting yet, but she would do soon. "I'm not pissing on you," he said, firm. "And vice versa."
"Oh, all right," Aziraphale huffed, pulling out his spectacles and wrapping the temple tips fussily around his ears. He peered down at the magazine he'd apparently brought with him; even from here, Crowley could see some illustrations. They were… illustrative.
"What," he said with the conviction that he would regret it, "Is that?"
"It's 'Kinks and Fetishes: An A to Z Guide,'" Aziraphale said, handing it over with all the glee of a dog showing off a rotted tennis ball it had found in the back garden. "I've been doing more research, you see. Apparently, there's all sorts of sex we could be getting up to. I truly had no idea there were so many—" he waved his other hand around vaguely. "Configurations."
"Does Glamour have a print edition anymore?" Crowley asked, thumbing through the pages. There were a lot of illustrations.
"Not as such," Aziraphale admitted. "But Muriel found it for me on the World Wide Web—"
"Don't call it that," Crowley sighed.
"—and you know how I dislike reading off of those… screens," he continued, making a moue of distaste. "So I made my own proof copy, as it were."
Under "Tentacles," there was a stern reminder that you shouldn't have sex with octopuses.*** "Angel," he started, then paused. "Vicarphilia?"
"I thought it was something to do with priests and things, but apparently not," Aziraphale said, leaning over the table to point out the next one. "What about whipping?"
"No fetishes that I could've done professionally," Crowley decided firmly, shutting the magazine. He waved it away, out to the Tadfield Library where Anathama would probably find it and laugh for a week, then try at least a half-dozen of them out on poor Newt.
* Nina had set one aside for him after a while, since he didn't mind the permanent stains that had developed along the inside. "Pretty sure those are scorchmarks, actually," she'd complained. "On the outside. What did you do to it?"
** Roman public toilets were aptly named — men would gather to have a bowel movement and a chat, cleaning themselves off with a sponge on the end of a length of wood. Hence the phrase, "Getting the wrong end of the stick," something decidedly less pleasant when taken out of its metaphor.
*** Accompanied by a picture of a young woman doing exactly that.
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in that interview earlier today with radio times (eugh), david really said crowley wouldn’t ever admit his feelings and doesn't like displaying affection.. while that may be true, crowley sure does an awful job at hiding it LMAO. i mean i know david was probably having to tip-toe around spoilers but it’s still funny to me
mr. anthony j. “i hate displaying affection” crowley
like ok. i’ll believe that when you stop performing acts of service and rescuing your angel in every instance he needs it :)
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Ya know how so far the entire good omens cannon has been:
Aziraphale: You came :)
Crowley: You called.
I'd love for season 3 relationship healing to start with something along the lines of-
Crowley: ...you're here?
Azirphale: I never should have left.
Because Crowley wouldn't call, any hope of getting answers died with God. Crowley is vulnerable, emotional and distracted and for the first time truly pessimistic. Crowley couldn't imagine calling for help, especially from Aziraphale who left because he wouldn't listen (at least from Crowley's perspective, they werent really communicating well with each other). But if it became Crowley as a damsel in distress, trapped or hurt or tricked... Azriaphale would not be able to look away. Aziraphale would put himself at risk in a heartbeat, because at the very least he knows Crowley doesn't deserve punishment. He know Crowley is kind and clever in how he uses that kindness. Aziraphale would stand between Crowley and his immediate doom and most likely offer the smallest indirectly spoken apology. And after they are alone (or at least in a safer environment with few witnesses) an argument ensues, dust will settle for greater causes' sake, tensions will raise again, the dams will break, and then we can get somewhere into healthier communication.
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