#And Aziraphale can’t look at him for centuries without hearing the ghost of that awful wet crunching noise

[ivyontheholodeck]

You know what I haven’t seen nearly enough of in fanfic? Aziraphale witnessing Crowley’s Fall, at the very beginning.

We know Aziraphale knew Crowley before and after, but imagine the horror of watching as your comrade is cast down from your home. Imagine flinching at his impact against the earth below, the crunch of bone and the smell of burning feathers.

After all, S1E6 demonstrated that both Heaven and Hell are fans of public execution.

[patricianandclerk]

Driven To Distraction

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“Angel,” Crowley said, appearing against the bookshelf and leaning on it, striking a charming pose. He’d made sure to brace the bookshelves when he’d set them up, so they couldn’t fall down one way or the other – he recalled a library in Venice, in… What was it, ’75, maybe ’77, of the 18th century? The shelves in that library had really toppled like dominos, and Aziraphale hadn’t spoken to him for a decade after that, although it had been funny.

These shelves were not at risk: they were pinned to the floor with steel braces, with ribbing running between them and caging them against the ceiling, just in case.

Aziraphale didn’t look up.

“Angel,” Crowley said again, a little more loudly this time.

Aziraphale didn’t look up, didn’t so much as stir or show a sign of hearing him. He was absolutely engrossed in some thick philosophy text, one Crowley had never read himself and had no desire to.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, “I would love to draw your attention to the fact that I am wearing nothing but a lace thong.” This was true. It was black, and tight, and he had picked it up in town before driving back, had delighted the whole drive in the idea of coming home and getting Aziraphale to take him to bed.

He hadn’t accounted for Aziraphale being in one of his moods, where he focused so entirely on a book the world could explode around him, and didn’t take in anything else at all. “That’s nice, dear,” the angel muttered tonelessly, obviously not hearing him. He turned a page.

“Angel, make love to me,” Crowley said, slowly walking forward, his bare feet padding soundlessly on the wooden boards until they met the rug in Aziraphale’s reading nook, and Aziraphale didn’t look at him, didn’t even blink as his gaze flickering over the page. “Angel, won’t you take me? Won’t you know me? Won’t you— Oh, for Go— for someone’s sake, Aziraphale, would you listen to me?”

“Yes, dear,” Aziraphale said blandly. He turned another page.

Crowley gritted his teeth, and he leaned forward, sliding his hands onto Aziraphale’s knees and leaning forward, his fingers drawing over Aziraphale’s thighs, his fingers pressing down on the fat, pillowy flesh beneath the cream-coloured fabric of his trousers, his heart leaping at how warm he was, how soft—

Aziraphale leaned back slightly in his seat, and Crowley’s heart jumped in his chest, but he was just slightly adjusting his position.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said plaintively.

Nothing.

Crowley clambered into the angel’s lap, slinking forward with an inhumanly flexible spine and putting his head underneath Aziraphale’s arms where they came around to grasp at the book, sliding his naked body up against the soft, yellow wool of Aziraphale’s knitted vest, feeling Aziraphale’s belly, his chest, his thighs underneath Crowley’s own.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered, putting his hands up against Aziraphale’s cheeks and winding them through the soft, downy white-blond of his hair. It was awful hair, Crowley had always thought. It suited Aziraphale, that much was true, but it always had a sickly air to it – curly in a limp sort of way, like pondweed hung up to dry. It felt nice, though. It was soft, and pleasant, and he loved the way it fell over his fingers and his palms. “Aziraphale, I’m aching for you,” Crowley purred, grinding his hips against Aziraphale’s belly, letting his tongue flicker over the shell of his ear. “I want you to make love to me, Aziraphale. I want you to have me, to know me: I want for us to bind ourselves as one soul, to intermingle our essences irrevocably, to become one being altogether, drowned in love. Let my soul alongside yours, marry us together in our own little ceremony, angel, let me love you, won’t you love me?”

Aziraphale’s elbow shifted against Crowley’s back as he altered his hold, just slightly, on the book.

Crowley changed tact.

“Aziraphale,” he said, dragging his teeth over the angel’s pulse point, grasping at his hair, gripping it tight in his hand. “Aziraphale, I need you to fuck me. I’ll die without you inside me, angel: I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t walk at the end of it, I want to feel your cock in me, fuck me fit to bursting, angel. I want to feel your come dripping down my thighs and your mouth on my neck, want you to ruin me, rip me to shreds and leave me a mess once you’re done with me.”

Aziraphale turned a page.

Crowley leaned his head to the side, blocking Aziraphale’s view of his book, and Aziraphale’s left hand moved so fast it made Crowley’s head spin. He grabbed Crowley by the back of his neck, dragging him hard to the side and out of his way of his book, and Crowley let out a surprised noise, his brow furrowing.

“Angel,” he said plaintively.

It was a big book, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to have a problem with that: his plump hands were stronger than they looked, and he turned the page easily with one thumb, letting it lean back against his fingers, the other hand resting against Crowley’s neck.

“Aziraphale, please,” Crowley said, and he started leaning to the side again, but Aziraphale’s hand slammed down hard against his arse, making a loud smack that rang out in the room, echoing off the bookshelves. Crowley whimpered, burying his face in Aziraphale’s neck and grabbing at his shoulders, and Aziraphale’s hand grasped at the curve of Crowley’s arse, squeezing tightly. Crowley’s arse wasn’t nearly so good as Aziraphale’s, not by half: even if he tried to make his body a little softer, it favoured the natural muscle and thickness of a serpentine body. Aziraphale’s body was good. It was wonderful, thick, you could sink in it, and Crowley loved to fuck him, loved to grab handfuls of him—

Aziraphale did like Crowley’s arse, Crowley knew that, but still, but still.

With all the arse in the world, of course, there was no distracting Aziraphale when he was reading. Even as he massaged Crowley’s arse, his fingers dragging hard over the light padding over thick muscle, his chin was settled on Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley could see his eyes moving as he took in line after line of font-7 text.

“Angel—”

Aziraphale’s middle finger slid beneath the thin string at the back of the thong, and tugged, making it drag tight against him, and Crowley choked out a noise against the side of Aziraphale’s neck. He was wet, he was open: he’d made himself ready, had anticipated Aziraphale reading some slim volume of verse that he’d happily set aside, not—

Not this.

“Aziraphale—”

Aziraphale didn’t blink, didn’t look away from his book, but he hooked his finger past the rim of Crowley’s arsehole, pressed hard on the muscle there and made Crowley’s arousal twist in his belly. It was— It was sexy, actually. He liked it, when Aziraphale was condescending and pretended he didn’t care, when he talked down to Crowley and put on his “I know best, my dear,” tone, acted like Crowley was some pretty little idiot he could do whatever he liked to, but this, this was—

He wasn’t even paying attention to him, was sliding his finger into Crowley’s arse and not even looking up from his book, like he didn’t even care, and Crowley’s cock was hard in the lace fabric of the stupid little thong, pressed right up against the swell of Aziraphale’s belly.

Aziraphale put another finger forward, pressing down hard against Crowley’s prostate, and Crowley yelped, his hips jumping: his cock thrust against the soft curve of Aziraphale’s gut, the lace a tantalising play against his prick, his cockhead, and he was wet, he wanted—

“Fuck me,” Crowley begged, his hips shifting forward, grinding against Aziraphale as Aziraphale scissored his fingers, stretching him wider, and Crowley hissed, his thighs spreading right apart. “Aziraphale, angel, please, let me just get your cock out, let me—”

Aziraphale pressed down harder, too hard, too hard, and Crowley heaved in a desperate gasp, his head tipping back as fireworks burst behind his eyes, and his fingers were tipped with claws as he grabbed at Aziraphale’s shoulders, his hips lurching. It was too intense, dragging right into the core of him, and Aziraphale just wouldn’t stopped, rubbed his fingers in a slow and deliberate circle as lightning crackled through him, and he choked, keened—

Came.

His cock was pulsing, ruining the skimpy little thong, his bollocks drawn up tight, and Aziraphale didn’t stop, working away on autopilot: he was fucking Crowley with his fingers, letting Crowley ride his way through it, and then past it.

“Angel,” Crowley mumbled, as Aziraphale shifted his wrist, twisting his fingers, and he heard the turn of a page. “Aziraphale, you can stop, you can stop—”

He didn’t stop.

And Crowley could have stopped him, could have climbed down, but—

But it was sexy.

♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔

Crowley stirred, later on, as Aziraphale took him up in his arms, carrying him gently, bundled up against his chest. He’d taken off the thong, and washed Crowley off with a cloth: the sticky slickness was gone from his cock and his arse, although his thighs ached, his stomach ached, his arse ached.

“You fell asleep,” Aziraphale murmured, pursing his lips together and looking forward instead of down at Crowley. He was smug.

“I fainted, you mean,” Crowley complained, without real rancour. “From exhaustion.”

“Dissolute and wanton thing,” Aziraphale scolded. Crowley shivered: his cock gave the ghost of a twitch of interest. Aziraphale laid him down on the bed, and he settled down on the bed beside him, his clothes disappearing with a little swish of power, and Crowley was on top of him immediately, nuzzling the soft hair on Aziraphale’s chest, grasping eagerly at his belly.

He wasn’t any less tired.

He meant to grumble and complain, meant to say it was nasty and unfair, meant to say that he would very much like for Aziraphale to do that again, possibly forever.

He didn’t do that.

He fell asleep.