#anthony no hip bones crowley

[steamclouds]

I don't even know anymore honestly

[the-ineffable-demon-crowley]

What Demons Do

You somehow wind up attending a Halloween party clad in a cheap angel costume thanks to your friend Anathema. Cue the demon Crowley, who’s ready to corrupt anything in white.

↝Pairing: Anthony J. Crowley x reader

↝Warnings: Dirty talk, fingering (f receiving), praise kink, multiple orgasms, rough-ish sex, unprotected sex (wrap it up loves), light overstimulation, pet names (emphasis on angel and love [lol]), Crowley’s got a thick cock

↝Length: 4k

↝Cross-posted to ao3 here

It was a nice day. There had been many nice days; rather 8,462 of them since you came upon the earth. There had also been bad days, but that was just simple statistics. You hadn’t yet decided what sort of day it would be when your friend Anathema greeted you with a mischievous smile, and a flash of brightly coloured orange paper.

“Happy Halloween.” She smiled, placing the flyer onto the table in front of you, then spinning it around so you could read it.

“Not anymore, it isn’t.” You murmured, placing your coffee aside to glance down at the paper. Your eyes scanned over the text, the words ‘halloween’, ‘party’ and ‘ghoulish’ positively jumping out at you. You raised your eyes to look at your friend without lifting your head, sarcasm lacing your words. “Is Halloween just a singles’ mixer for witches or something?”

Anathema swiped the flyer from the table and placed it front of herself, her long hair rustling over her shoulders as she did so. You placed your chin onto your hand with a slight smile. “Anathema, you’re a mediocrely inconspicuous witch at best, why do you bother with these things?”

“I don’t know,” She looked down at the flyer with a small smile. “Newt likes them. He thinks it embraces my history.”

Cynicism continued to drip from your words, deepening your voice as you took another sip of your coffee. You tried not to feel mightier in that moment, but it was difficult. “You once went on a 20 minute rant about the inaccuracies of a Party City witch costume.”

“The corseting alone was astonishing!”

“And what are you dragging me along for if Newt’s coming?”

“Because it’s an excuse for you to finally wear that angel costume you got on sale two years ago… And because groups of 3 get in for cheaper.” She murmured the last bit, pushed her glasses up on her nose, and stood up. She picked up the flyer, and with a smile and a flash of it before your eyes, she was leaving before you could protest further. “Tonight, 11pm, angel costume!”

So there you were, a walking white polyester nightmare, and Anathema dressed in her usual witchy garb, emphasized by the flimsy black witch’s hat pinned to her head. Newt was… You weren’t certain what Newt was meant to be, as he looked rather the same as always. You said as much.

“A witchfinder, of course. We wouldn’t do very well if we were conspicuous to others and witches, would we?”

No, you supposed not.

At this point, a few drinks in, the thrum of the beat rattling your ribcage, you almost felt as though you could sink into the crowd and disappear. Or, like the very costume you were wearing, simply ascend on the wings of elation. You’d like that, you thought, to simply disappear somewhere, just for a little while. Put your soul at the mercy of a higher power. That was when something brought you crashing back down to reality.

“Pardon me, angel.” A man’s voice, rich as velvet, hit the shell of your ear as he eased himself through the crowd, his hand brushing your hip bone with a touch as light as the lick of a single flame. Your eyes looked to your side, where long and delicate fingers met the forearms and shoulders clad in a black blazer, then slim hips in a pair of black leather trousers. The culmination was a shock of coppery hair that looked like it’d be warm to the touch. He moved with the grace of a serpent, that was your first thought.

Actually, he didn’t so much walk through the crowd as he slithered through it, like he knew exactly where he was going, and didn’t mind taking up the space to do it. You barely got a look at his face, though you saw the arms of sunglasses framing his temples, with a black smudge near his hairline on one side. He looked like the devil himself. An inexplicable force pulled you towards him, and you were nearly powerless to resist.

“I’ll be right back, I’m going to get a drink!” You shouted to Anathema over the music. She nodded and turned her attention back to Newt, who, God bless him, was trying his best to keep up with the beat. You pushed through the crowd, following the man until you reached the corner of the bar. The light on the overhead was out on his side, and his face was cloaked in shadow almost as if he’d intended it to be. As though that was his spot.

You sidled up to the bartender, close enough to the man, and you stole a glance at him once again as he bent his head back and drank the rest of his drink in one fell swoop. You watched the angle of his jawline, the movement of his Adam’s apple, and felt a heat flare up inside of you. Rather suddenly. You turned to the bartender to order, but someone else took up his attention.

Slightly defeated, you huffed and leaned away from the bar, when you heard the man beside you speaking, barely a regular speaking level over the din of the music, but the bartender immediately turned to face him. “She’ll have what I’m having, providing she can handle it.”

The bartender obliged to your delight, and poured the drink in front of you. You took a sniff. “Fireball?” You laughed.

“Nothing more appropriate for a demon.” He replied, sliding the glass towards the bartender once more. Wordlessly, he stopped what he was doing and refilled the demon’s drink. They must have a deal of some sort, you thought.

“Is that what you’re supposed to be?” You challenged, lifting a brow. “Pretty low-key for a demon.”

“We’re masters of subtlety, we are. Well, some of us. Others have got all sorts of things all over them, frogs, flies. I saw one with a chameleon once, he wore it like a hat.” He shook his head. “Not for me.”

“Not a fan of reptiles?”

He smiled, a mischievous, knowing grin, black lenses peering at you inside the dark club. As if he knew everything you didn’t. As if he knew what you looked like underneath your clothes. “Quite the opposite.”

“So then, angel,” The pet name made you flush, but even if he were keen enough to notice, it’d be difficult with those sunglasses. His dedication to the costume was impressive; how did he manage to walk around so easily? “Are you up for a spot of temptation?”

“Is that why you’re here? To tempt others?” You asked, eyes flashing as you drank the rest of the alcohol, the fireball burning heavily in the back of your throat. Something told you he would burn you up from the inside just like that, a deep heat within your blood. He raised his brows behind his glasses, another smirk on his lips. You pushed your glass back behind the bartender, and he instantly came over to refill it. You looked over at the demon, impressed, but his eyes were on you.

“I’d wager you’re the tempting one here, angel. I don’t personally know of any holy beings who’d wear a bloody skirt like that.” He nodded towards your backside, and your feet shuffled in the white heels you’d borrowed from Madame Tracy, suddenly very aware of just how skimpy this costume was. A white bustier with gold trim, a tiny skirt fluffed up with several pieces of tulle, and rhinestoned gloves and tights. A cheap pair of feathery wings spread behind your back, and a tinselled gold halo crowned your head.

“Personally?” You laughed. “You talk like you’re a… professional demon or something.”

Just then, you thought you saw the mark on his temple shift. You blinked under the flashing club lights, and barely made out the sinuous outline of a black snake. But didn’t it just slith-

“You could say sin is my speciality, angel.” He thought for a moment, then his tongue darted out to wet his lips, but at an inhuman speed. Had you imagined that as well, or was the fireball already affecting you? You’d never had such lucid hallucinations before. “You haven’t answered my question, and it isn’t good manners to keep a demon waiting. We’re an impatient lot.”

You raised a brow, took another sip of the cinnamon-based brew, and licked your own lips as you pretended to think on it. “Are you going to corrupt me?”

The man set his glass aside, took two steps, and rounded the corner separating you two. You drank him in like a glass of wine, the darkness, the sultriness of him. He stood by you, and you could practically feel the heat emanating from him as though he held hellfire itself in the palm of his hand, which he offered to you. Outstretched, his long, delicate fingers beckoning you towards a world of hedonism and temptation, one not easily escaped under the haze of lust and greed.

“Until you’re begging.”

Sat in the passenger seat of the great black Bentley, you couldn’t help but sigh when you felt the buttery softness of the leather seats, and the musky smell inside the car. The sinfully delicious man driving next to you was hardly helping the haze in your mind. “My place is closer, I can guarantee that much.” He spoke like he knew something you didn’t.

You made a soft non-committal hum, then blinking soberly for a moment as you realized something. “I don’t even know your name. What is it?”

“Crowley.” Your brow furrowed.

“Is that a first name or a last name?”

“Crowley comma Anthony.”

“Oh.”

He glanced over at you, now peering out of your window. “You don’t like it?”

“What?” You laughed, looking back over at him. “What do you mean, you daft demon? It’s your name.”

“I’ve had a few mixed responses.” He responded vaguely. You smirked to yourself, once again allowing yourself to admire the interior of the car. Never mind the exterior, but your attention continued to fall onto Crowley. You watched his elegant fingers as they wrapped around the steering wheel, and you had a most unholy vision of them wrapped around your throat. You hummed quietly again at the thought, and you saw Crowley smirk, as if he knew all along.

“And yours?”

“Y/N.”

“Lovely.”

“Well, you see Crowley, I simply wanted to know which name,” You leaned up towards him, your lips brushing against his ear. He was still as a statue, restraint overcoming him as he weaved in and out of traffic like it was the Formula 1. You barely felt the car move. “I’d be screaming tonight.” You sat back into your seat, somewhat pleased with yourself. “… Providing you can handle it.” The echo of his own words against him was not lost, and you felt elated at teasing him.

“You are a minx, aren’t you? But something tells me you’re all talk, angel.” You watched as his fingers slithered over the bare expanse of your thigh, just centimetres from the boundary of your short skirt. His touch was warm against your skin, his fingertips leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. You clutched the side of the door as his fingers dipped lower, until they were perfectly level with your underwear. Your breathing hitched, eyes fluttering shut as you waited for him to touch you. But it never came.

Peeking one eye open, you turned to look at him, still driving, with both hands on the wheel, and grinning like a Cheshire cat. “That’s alright, love. I already know you’re soaking wet for me.”

Fuck if he wasn’t right.

You don’t entirely remember the details of getting into Crowley’s place, which you chalked up to the alcohol. However, the moment you both crashed through the door, lips smashed against each other in a fiery kiss, all of your attention was on him. His hands were everywhere, your breasts, your ass, your thighs, your hair. You were so tempted to touch him, but you settled for wrapping your arms around his neck, fingers playfully tugging on his hair.

His lips disappeared from yours for but a moment as he leaned down to collect you in his arms. You squealed in delight as he picked you up with ease, walked over to a decadent looking throne, and sat down with you on his lap. You took a moment to glance at his home, noting the gloominess of the decor, the greyness of the furniture, and yet the opulence of the golden throne framing him in front of you. The flat extended further beyond the main room to a hallway full of plants, and you couldn’t help but find the thought of him spraying each leaf with care endearing.

You regarded him again, groaning softly as he maneuvered you onto his stiffening member, earning him a gasp as he unexpectedly bucked up into you. The friction between his leathery pants and the underside of your bare thighs was electrifying. He smiled up at you in an almost saccharine way, which made his intentions all the more sinister. Your fingers skimmed his jaw line in admiration, then moved up into his hairline, and rested on the metal arm of his sunglasses.

“Is it okay for you to take them off?”

Crowley lifted his hand and snapped his fingers, at which point the lights in the flat dimmed to a much softer light, one that would almost require you to squint.

“Anything my angel desires.” He purred, giving a subtle nod as permission. You slipped them off, and his eyes looked a bit greenish in the dark. Coloured contacts, you thought, very dedicated to the demon look.

He reached up and slowly slipped the elastic bands of the angel wings from off your shoulders, then delicately removed the halo headband from the top of your head. He was an enigma; all fire and heat and smoke and brimstone, and yet these little light touches were as delicate as a breeze. But you were no fool - you felt the power in him, thrumming through him, and underneath you.

“Now for something I want.”

His eyes watched yours as his hands made a similar path as when you were in the car, but this time his fingertips brushed against the soaked material of your panties. You preened against him, practically begging for his touch. He tsk’d quietly, his touch a little more insistent as he rubbed against the wet patch of your underwear. “We’ve been naughty, haven’t we? Is this enough to get you wet, angel? My voice, my fingers?” As he spoke, his pace quickened, his skilled fingers beginning to move your panties aside. You felt the coldness of the air hit your pussy as his fingers delved into your slick. You throbbed at the touch.

“Yes, Crowley.” You swore solemnly, a high-pitched moan slipping from your lips as you grabbed the armrest of his throne. Your other hand was gripping his wrist, feeling the strength of it as one of his fingers slipped inside of you. His eyes flashed in the darkness wickedly.

“Brilliant. Get that skirt off.” Your hands quickly went behind you, with luck, the skirt unzipped entirely off - clearly orchestrated for situations such as this. You tossed it aside, then loosened the cheap corset strings of the bustier, yanked it off, and threw it alongside the skirt. You moved as quickly as possible to just be able to focus on his hand, as a second finger slipped inside of you easily. His thumb came up and began to rub circles against your clit, causing you to buck against his trousers.

“This hardly seems fair,” You hissed in pleasure. “I’m naked, and you’re still clothed.”

He chuckled lowly in his throat. “You like it.” A third finger then, and your words died in your throat. They stroked against your g-spot effortlessly, and your lips pressed to his in a heady kiss.

“Oh-oh! I’m close, Crowley.” Your eyes drifted shut as you concentrated only on the feeling of long fingers fucking into your pussy, the feeling of his leathery pants underneath you, and his growing erection against the inside of your thigh. Your hips rutted against his hand desperately, but as soon as the end was in sight, his hand retreated. You whined in protest, eyes opening in time to see him press a gentle kiss to your cheek, your jawline, then your throat. You felt his tongue slithering against your skin, and even felt one of his canines sink into your skin for a moment. You felt your soul begin to tarnish with every moment you stayed in his arms.

“Not nearly finished with you yet.” He stood up, and you had half a second to realize the earth was moving underneath you before wrapping your arms around his neck, and coiling your legs around him like a snake on a branch. His hands grabbed your ass, giving it a generous squeeze as he walked you to a door off to the side, and shoved it open with his foot.

His bedroom, you surmised, which was decorated much the same as the rest of it. Gloomy, dark, and grey, with a huge bed decked out in black sheets right off to the side. “Is this where you’ll have your wicked way with me?” Crowley laughed in your ear, depositing you onto the bed. His lithe form covered yours as he slowly pushed you down and back farther onto the bed. He pushed his knee between yours, opening you up to him. In a moment, his shirt was gone, revealing lean but strong muscles and a tiny waist clad only in his trousers.

“Oh, no, love, you’re going to have to beg for it.” He hissed in your ear, hips grinding against you. You could feel his hardness against your pussy, and you gasped quietly. “Come now, my little angel. Tell me what it is you want most.”

A shiver rocketed through you and inflamed your blood. You pushed your hips back against him, a soft sob building up in your throat. “Please, fuck me. Please.” Desperation flooded through you as yet another second passed when he wasn’t inside of you. You felt yourself dripping onto your thighs, and you could only beg the devil himself for Crowley to take mercy on you.

“Louder, angel.”

“Fuck me, Crowley!” Your voice gained some strength, fingernails digging into the demon’s skin as you tried to pull him closer to you. You felt him begin to take off his pants, and the promise of release loomed closer as your eyes took him in, long and thick and hard. You rutted against what little of his skin you could feel. Your eyes drifted shut. “Please.”

“Look at you, positively desperate for my cock. Corrupted you nicely, haven’t I?” He sank in so fluidly, you sobbed in relief. Finally seated within your soaking cunt, Crowley let out a primal groan, sucked air in through his teeth, and grabbed your hips in a brutal vice. He began to roll his hips against you, getting you used to the feeling of him deep inside of you. His fingers dug into your skin, letting out small hisses as he pounded into you, slowly at first, then built up to a brutal pace. The feeling of him, hard and thick and heavy, stroking the inside of you, was almost enough to make you cum on the spot. He was just so big, and he knew it.

“What a good little angel you are for me,” He grunted above you, your hands gripping his forearms, corded with lean muscle. “So-so good… and so bloody wet. Is that all for me then?” His teasing tone returned, and you couldn’t help but smirk up at him, clenching your pussy around him. His hips stuttered for just a moment, hand coming to rest against the headboard as he moaned at the feeling. He immediately punctuated his displeasure with your antics with a particularly sharp thrust, making you gasp as pain mingled with pleasure deliciously.

“Remember who you’re dealing with, love.” He growled, his voice taking on a deep and predatory rumble. His hips quickened against you, hands moving to hold your hips down as he pistoned in and out of you. “I am the temptation, and you are mine to ruin.”

“Fuck, yes, Crowley!”

Your orgasm tipped you over the edge of a chasm, and pleasure spread like waves to your very fingertips. You shook against him, his lithe, sinewy body, and his hands quickly moved to scoop you up and switch positions. He now lay on the bed like the god of the underworld himself, red hair mussed, chest heaving, arms crossed underneath his head, a smile on his face. His eyes glinted impishly. Your pussy throbbed against him, still hard inside of you.

“I can’t, Crowley…” You sighed, a sheen of sweat lighting up your features as the moonlight trickled in. You felt like a creature of the underworld, under his command. “Please.”

“One more, sweetheart. An angel must be properly fucked in order for her to become one of the fallen.”

Your pussy was overwhelmingly sensitive as you rocked forward against his hips, earning you a groan from his lips. So sensual and raw the sound was, that it spurred you, eager to please. You fought through the ache as you fucked yourself against his cock, bouncing against him. His hands uncurled from underneath his head and slyly slipped over your body, from your breasts back down to your hips, and in between your legs where you needed them most.

“I-I’m so close.” You panted, the sight of Crowley laying there like a god while you worked to pleasure him enough to drag you over the edge alone. The only indication you had that he was close as well was him beginning to fuck himself up into you, one hand braced against your thigh, and the other beginning to tweak your clit. You nearly screamed at the feeling, release building inside of you.

“There’s my good girl,” He sang his praises like a choir to your ears. “Nearly there, aren’t we? Such a desperate little thing.” Your hips moved desperately against his, his cock angled perfectly to make you see stars with every heaving thrust. “D’you want to come?”

You nodded, and the idea of gaining his permission made you clench around him. You sobbed at the feeling, very nearly losing control before he could allow you to fall apart around him. “God, yes, please!.”

“He isn’t here. Your release is in my hands.” His fingers rubbed against your clit more vigorously. “Cum for me, angel. Show me who can make you cum like this.” Exhausted but frantic, you gyrated your hips against his cock and his talented fingers until you felt your spirit leave you. Your release rocketed through every synapse in your body, a feeling that only an otherworldly man could cause. You pushed yourself against him one, two, three more times, then felt yourself go limp. You felt him buck up into you to ride out his own orgasm, the feeling of his cum filling you up, hot and deep. His hands held your hips in place for a moment longer, ensuring you milked him for every last drop.

Crowley quickly switched the positions once more, and you nearly fainted at the thought of a third round.

“Crowley, I-”

“Relax, angel.” He laughed. He shifted to lie down next to you, softening cock slipping out of your sorest parts, and you suddenly felt a blanket slip up against your skin, though you hadn’t seen him bend down to acquire it. You could feel his hot seed trickling out of you, mixing with your own slick on your thighs, but you couldn’t find the energy to even sit up let alone clean yourself off.

As exhaustion began to overtake you, you felt the last pieces of your soul blacken like the curling edges of parchment over a flame. Pleasure still rippled through your fingertips, and you knew that was him writing his name, leaving his mark on you for eternity. Damned, you were, and damned if you didn’t love it.

“Well.” You panted heavily, eyes beginning to close. “Fucking hell.”

“That’s about right, angel.”

[unholyplumpprincess]

Say Amen

(Older content)

Summary: Despite being in a relationship, they still long and yearn for each other. Despite being in a relationship, Crowley can't get over that Aziraphale loves touching him.

Fandom: Good Omens

Relationship: Aziraphale/Crowley

Warnings: R18+/NSFT, Crowley has a dick, one getting off and not the other

Words: 2k

_________________________

What you must know about Aziraphale and Crowley was that, for over 6,000 years, they had been playing a game of chase.  

Whether Aziraphale would like to admit it or not, he had been aware of the whole thing. Crowley’s implications, the soft flirting, how the demon would give a crooked smirk and it would strike something in the angel like a sharp sword. So hard he would have to turn away lest his vessel’s ears burn as red as his cheeks.

The thing about Aziraphale was that he liked the wily serpent’s chase. He enjoyed their banter between each other, the opposites attract aspect. Something exciting and warm always thrilled through him when he saw Crowley with his glasses in hand or to the side, gesturing with his other hand in conversation.

~Rest under the cut~

More often times than not he caught himself looking towards Crowley’s lips when an ‘s’ noise was particularly held. Just so he could watch that tempting tongue flick over his lips to wet them.

The thing about Crowley, on the other hand. He was so used to chasing and flirting, tempting and thwarting. That he did not take into consideration that perhaps, maybe, the angel he’d fallen for in the original act of Paradise, may have liked him back. How Aziraphale’s plump cheeks lifted with his smile, how he wore spectacles for no reason other than to wear them when he read. Pushing them up his nose and turning his head to hide a smile.

Now. The thing about the both of them.

They were both madly in love with each other.

Aziraphale finds himself, even after all these years, thinking about the serpent with fondness. How he sometimes missed his long, red hair curling down his shoulders. Recently cut to fit the social norms of current standards of society.

How he longed to press his lips to Crowley’s neck, to inhale his smoky, dark scent and curl his much softer frame into Crowley’s bony one.

It shouldn’t even be a passing thought he has. How he longs, longs and yearns for Crowley’s touch. Even a simple hand on the shoulder and Crowley almost seemed...nervous to touch him. As if his touch would burn the angel alive and they would be left with nothing but yearning, longing hearts.

Aziraphale sighs. Sitting in his bookshop was always a comfort, especially at his desk. Yet, he’s finding himself almost agitated. Sliding a hand under his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose and pinching his eyes shut. Flashes of a face peer behind his eyes, a face he is most fond of. Sharp cheekbones, wide eyes, a devilish smile-

“Ohhh! Stop it!” His voice is a whine at himself, standing up and slamming his hands down at his sides as if frustrated. His cheeks burn pink, stormy blue eyes looking off to the side as he considers his own thoughts.

It just- it was so much! These feelings! Crowley had been so...tempting!  

These past few months they’d grown closer and closer- if that could even be a thing. Crowley had started staying at his bookshop late into the night, miracling himself a bed until Aziraphale ended up having a right proper bedroom in the back.

Aziraphale found himself, most nights, coming in just to tuck himself under Crowley’s chin and be comfortable in his arms, for crying out loud!

So yes, maybe being upset he was thinking about him at a constant when they were in a...well...

Well, a relationship, shouldn’t be a thing that is happening, yet Anthony J. Crowley consumed every thought he seemed to have lately.

Perhaps these romance novels were simply not working for him. He could switch to something more, well, biblical. Perhaps that would stop these thoughts of-

“Angel!” Comes a cheery voice from behind him. Aziraphale’s eyes brighten like a puppy dog’s and his metaphorical heart beats twice fold. From the back, it’s easy to see him perk up, turning with a small step to look towards Crowley with a fond smile.

“Yes, my dear? You seem awfully excited about something, what could it possibly b- mmnph!” Aziraphale was so caught up in the moment he doesn’t notice Crowley coming forward until he’s pressed against his desk, lips pressed to his own and his eyes flutter. Not registering it at first until his boyf—husb-- partner is pulling back.

No matter how many times they’d done that, Crowley’s face still turns just as pink as Aziraphale’s. There’s a comfort in that.

There’s an even bigger comfort in how Crowley’s lithe body presses to his much softer one. Long fingers still resting upon Aziraphale’s plump cheek to cup him softly. Over 6,000 years, and Aziraphale is on his toes in excitement, in an almost hunger as Crowley’s eyes linger far too long on the way Aziraphale bites his bottom lip.

What...was it he was so happy about? He had something to tell him. Yet, now Crowley is lost. The tingling taste of something vanilla-like left on his lips from the angel, how Aziraphale is looking at him expectantly.

It’s too much, the affection is too much, it’s all too much. And Crowley, Crowley pulls away.  

Slowly retracting his body to give his angel space, who looks a bit...disappointed? However, Crowley merely clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck as he finally shows what he’d been carrying this entire time in a mere plastic bag on his wrist. Funny how memory strikes you back.

“That, uh, bakery you like- on the third block over? They had those cakess- ahem. Cakes you liked.” Clearing his throat at his held ‘s’ as he offers the bag.  

That certainly brightens that pouty look Aziraphale had, gleefully taking the bag and thanking him with a peck on the cheek that does NOT send Crowley’s dead heart back to life, thank you.

Now, there was something you needed to know about these two.

Though now, understanding each other’s affections, Aziraphale loved to kiss and touch. Loved to be close and stay close to Crowley.  

Now, Crowley may have loved that as well, but after going 6,000 plus years thinking you would only ever be on a mutually pining stage. Meant that Anthony J. Crowley was having a hard time catching up to the...the kissing, the hand holding, the strange yet loving thing Aziraphale did with their noses nuzzling, to the...the...

The few nights spent. Where Crowley mapped out Aziraphale’s soft frame with his fingers. How the angel trembled beneath him, biting his lower lip and throwing his head back and making noises he’d only dreamt of.  

To Crowley, under Aziraphale, burning to the ears and huffing at every compliment, every praise showered upon him. Of how beautiful Aziraphale thought he was, of how much he adored Crowley, how he was the Sun and Aziraphale was the helpless Icarus who would burn his poor wax wings to be with him-

“I really must thank you properly, my dear! Oh, you know how much your small gifts mean to me. Can I te—encourage you the bedroom?” Aziraphale’s voice cuts through his thoughts, not realizing he’d been stuck mid-way. Arm stuck out and face still flushed.

His eyes stay big and wide behind his glasses as he looks towards Aziraphale- sweet, sweet Aziraphale. His fluffy white curls were getting longer these days, now curling onto his cheeks rather than resting simply atop his head. Crowley swallows thickly at how bright Aziraphale’s eyes are, sparkling with adoration and a touch of mischief.

How could he say no to such a tempting look?

--

“You are so beautiful, my love. I wish you could see yourself. Ah- there you are, relax for me.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft and cooing. Damned angel is what he was, fallen, Crowley’s mental voice nags.

Though, perhaps that is because the praise is too much at times.

Crowley has been stripped to nothing. Glasses delicately set on the nightstand next to the bed. Aziraphale had instructed to see all of him, but did say if it became too much, he knew their safe word and he could grab his glasses if he needed to.

A safe word, even used in not so rough scenarios. It was simply because Crowley may have to stop if the praise DID become too much. A precaution. Something Aziraphale must have learned in his times in certain clubs around the cities.

Yet, now, he lies beneath Aziraphale. Pale skin bared up to the angel, his chest heaves with breaths he does not need. Head tipped back and to the side to try to hide his burning face.

His cock is hard, lying against his abdomen and jerking every time Aziraphale’s soft, pudgy fingers massage upwards into his thighs.

A full body massage, that’s what he was being given as a ‘thank you’. However, Crowley knew better with how devilish his partner could be, what this would turn out into.

With Aziraphale’s praise dripping from his tongue generously and his fingers expertly working over any kinks in his body. Crowley swallows down a moan, cock jerking and a drool of pre-cum escaping him onto his abdomen. Yet, Aziraphale just ignores that part.

Cruel angel.

Sliding his hands up and over Crowley’s abdomen, over his sharp hip bones and humming fondly as Crowley exhales sharply with a soft, “You’re killing me here, angel.” In this high-pitched whine that Aziraphale smiles a bit at.

“Patience is a virtue.” Is all Aziraphale chirps back. Hands sliding over him, working onto his sides and making Crowley sigh as his warm body comes overtop his own.

Aziraphale shuffles a bit closer, still fully dressed sans his coat and nice loafers, tossed to the side. His rounded tummy presses softly, almost teasingly to Crowley’s crotch area and he can’t help the whimper that arises.

A hiss follows the noise when hands come up to his chest, deliberately sliding over his nipples where thumbs play gently for a moment in circles. His head falls back, too sensitive there and baring his throat to which Aziraphale takes as an invitation. Lips sealing over his pulse point and beginning to kiss and nibble along his throat.

Then finally, finally his body weight comes atop Crowley. Applying pleasant weight until Crowley can thrust his hips up and shamelessly hump against the soft angel above him.  

He smells so good, something sweet, something floral. Crowley’s eyes about roll in his head when his jawline is sucked on, leaving a fond bruise over his skin. Of course, he could miracle it away later.

He wouldn’t.

“That’s it, good boy.” Aziraphale coos right next to his ear, making Crowley whimper as he humps upwards. Sliding his drooling cock over Aziraphale’s clothing.  

It feels so good- so dirty in a way. The way Aziraphale is just letting him sully his clothing. Crowley should be worshipping him, on his knees, mouthing at Aziraphale’s crotch and feeling his partner yank at his hair until Crowley begs for forgiveness-  

That does it for him.  

He sobs out as he cums, hips lurching up and his bony fingers digging into Aziraphale’s plush hips to keep him still above him. Another bruise is sucked into the side of his neck, just beneath his ear as his cum soaks into the clothing above him.

With a few gentle kisses along his face, Crowley’s eyes about roll into the back of his head. A bit tear filled in a way that makes him feel right fucked. Vaguely hearing Aziraphale cooing to him, sweet words as he nuzzles his jawline. “So good for me, Crowley. You looked beautiful. You’re such a good boy, my dear. My very good boy.”

Perhaps.

Perhaps on days like this.

Crowley could take such affection.

[yamisnuffles]

The Ecstasy of Anthony J Crowley

Aziraphale smites a demon and inspires Crowley's best impression of Teresa of Avila.

Rated E. 2809 words. Read on Ao3

- - - - -

The smell of ozone permeated the air. It made the hairs on the back of Crowley's neck stand on end and triggered something bone deep in him, something forged in sulfur and ruin. It told him to shed his skin, burrow into the wet, loose soil and become part of the loam. You are a snake. You are oil. Go back to the earth and be consumed. Get out of the light.

The ground in front of him was an obsidian streak. All that remained of a demon, now but char and smoke. That could have been him. Countless times over the millennia, that should have been him. Babylon, Egypt, Greece, and more. They’d been at odds for so long and yet Crowley had survived it all. His chest rose and fell with every frantic gulp of air. Fear, yes, but something else, something that pooled molten hot at his core.

He couldn’t look away from the hard, angry line of Aziraphale’s shoulders nor from solid fingers with their neat trimmed nails now crackling with residual energy. A spark skipped from one knuckle to the next. Crowley wanted those hands on him, no matter how they might burn. Especially because they might burn. He wasn’t entirely fireproof, not when it came to Aziraphale. There wasn’t a shred of him that was safe from Aziraphale.

Sulfur burned a vibrant, violent blue. Crowley could feel the memory of it in his skin as he looked in Aziraphale’s eyes. Then Aziraphale blinked and that blue cooled to a river, an ocean. In the space of that blink, his face went from coolly impassive to terrified.

“Are you alright?” he asked. His hands ghosted just above Crowley’s arms, his shoulders, in search of injury. “You’re shaking. I didn’t hit you, did I?”

“No, it’s not—”

Crowley shook his head but he felt lost in a fog. He could still feel it in the air, the strain of Aziraphale’s ethereal might against this mortal plane. If he raised his hand he could just about touch the protective curve of a wing that pressed against the fabric of reality, just beyond reach but close enough that they both shivered.

Crowley all but lunged at Aziraphale. He wanted to taste. He needed it. He missed his mark and had to drag his hungry mouth across Aziraphale’s jaw to find his lips. Once there, he pressed in, in as far as he could go. Words of divine command remained there like an echo, on tongue and teeth. It was something electric that numbed and enlivened all at once. Crowley couldn’t get enough of it.

There was a question on those lips but Aziraphale was quick to respond, sinking in with a groan. It was messy and delicious and it only made Crowley want more. He was beyond the point of caring that he had an erection that was straining ever more against too tight denim. What did he care if Aziraphale felt the hard press of it on his stomach when the taste of the angel made his teeth and tongue tingle? It was the taste of that first storm and a wing over his head. It was surer to destroy him than a swan dive into holy water and he was more than happy to leap.

Aziraphale gasped when he came up for air. The hand he pressed to Crowley’s chest was the only thing that kept them parted as he spoke. “Should I ask what spurred this?”

“Probably shouldn’t.”

A soft laugh was paired with an even softer smile. “Alright then, what do you say we continue this back at the flat?”

“Lead the way, angel. You know I’ll follow.”

“Will you now? Anywhere?”

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow and Crowley arched one right back at him. “Yes? Is that even a question.”

“Oh, but there are so many possibilities.” Aziraphale looked down at their discarded picnic blanket. “We’d been enjoying a nice meal before we were so rudely interrupted. Perhaps I’m in the mood to eat something more.”

“Whatever you want.” Crowley’s voice jumped an octave with each word. He took a moment to quickly pack the remains of their prior meal into the tartan lined basket, leaving only a wide expanse of inviting blanket. The smiting had lit the sky like a beacon that warned any mortals away. The danger of it rolled thick through the air. They could do whatever they liked without fear of prying eyes. Not that Crowley particularly cared one way or another at the moment. “So, uh, yeah. Could do that. If you’re still hungry.”

“For you? Always.” Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. With a snap of his fingers, the blanket was rolled on top of the basket. He walked onward, trusting that Crowley would grab their things. “But there is a bit of a chill in the air. It could be unpleasant,” he mused as he found the path out of the park.

“Could be…”

That always was caught somewhere between Crowley’s third and fourth ventricle. The angel could be insatiable but it still felt impossible to Crowley that he was on the menu. Months after the averted apocalypse and he had no clue if there was bottom depth to that hunger. He knew his own want was endless. If there was any end to it, he would split himself apart to make more room for Aziraphale. He wanted to consume and be consumed, now more than ever.

He drifted helplessly in Aziraphale’s wake until it led them back to the Bentley. A drive to either the shop or his flat seemed impossible. He had no idea how he’d survive the wait, no matter how fast he drove, but he’d go as slow as Aziraphale needed.

Aziraphale took both basket and blanket and tucked them safely onto the floor in front of the back seat. He remained stooped, eyeing the interior.

“This seems spacious,” he mused, as though out shopping for furniture and not a place to fuck. Crowley barely heard him over the blood pounding in his ears. “I know how you are about this beastly contraption, though.”

“Just what part of you do you think would sully my car? Any bit of it can count itself lucky to be blessed by your backside.”

Aziraphale sidled up close and kissed Crowley’s neck. Then his ear. “And just where,” he asked in a low rumble, “is it that you want my backside?”

He palmed at Crowley through his jeans and the demon’s hips stuttered in response. He pinned Aziraphale against the car so that any remaining space between them dissolved. That serpentine part of him that existed just below the surface ached to taste the celestial scent that clung to centuries old fabric. Perhaps then he could untangle that intangible, ineffable something that marked Aziraphale as an angel like no other. 

“Whatever you want to do. Wherever. I told you.”

“I know.” Azirphale kissed either cheek then pressed a hand to the small of Crowley’s back to pull him closer still. His breath brushed the shell of Crowley’s ear. “But you never told me what this was about. So tell me now— what do you want?”

What did he want? He wanted to bend Aziraphale over the hood of the Bentley. He wanted his mouth on Aziraphale and Aziraphale’s mouth on him. He wanted Aziraphale inside him, taking him apart piece by agonizing piece. He wanted everything and he didn’t know where to begin choosing.

Crowley panted. He could barely find air through his desire. He wasn’t entirely sure his lungs were even working as they should anymore. He abandoned it all— lungs and heart, mind and soul— to Aziraphale. Let them move as all. That’s what he really wanted.

“You,” he said.

“I could tell that much, my dear,” Aziraphale replied, pressing his own growing hardness against Crowley’s. “You’ll have to be a bit more specific.”

A growl rose from the back of Crowley’s throat. He used what little willpower he had to step away from Aziraphale. “Lay down in the backseat.” Aziraphale moved to comply only for Crowley to stop him. “Wait. Actually. Just…” Crowley took the blanket and spread it over the seat. “There. That leather can be murder on bare skin.”

“Bare skin,” Aziraphale repeated. He slid into the seat and as soon as he was reclining, a miracle had his clothes folded in a neat pile in the front. “So, like this then?”

Aziraphale’s knees were up and parted to perfectly frame his blushing cock as it rose from amongst golden curls. Crowley felt like the air had been pulled straight from his lungs. He clambered into the back of the Bentley with as much grace as he could manage. As soon as the door was shut behind him, his own clothes vanished. He might have sent them to the front seat or to Mars. He neither knew nor did he care.

He slid beneath Aziraphale’s legs so that they were perched on his shoulders. He kissed pale thighs and nipped the tender flesh just enough to draw out a gasp. He pressed his nose into skin, fat, and muscle. He knew these bodies were only shells but what a glorious one Aziraphale had. He had to remind himself that he had an eternity to explore it all. Later. Now he had that electric feeling to chase, the one that hung like a dissipating shroud around Aziraphale.

He let his tongue fork and followed it like a divining rod down across downy flesh to what he desired. He pressed it deep into Aziraphale with a moan. Thighs clamped tight around his ears when he pushed deeper still. It should have been enough to hurt but all he could think was strong. Aziraphale was so strong and yet he was willing to make himself vulnerable to a demon. No, not just any demon. One particular demon. One demon who got to breathe the petrichor after the storm.

“Crowley.”

He would sooner tire of the beating of his heart than the sound of his name dripping off Aziraphale’s tongue. He lapped it up, got drunk on it. He was insensible to all else beyond his name mixed in heat and sweat and the needy twitch of muscle. He could have stayed that way until every last syllable was wrung into that heavenly choir but he couldn’t ignore the throbbing desire for more, more, more.

Crowley let fingers slip in the place of his tongue. He resented the distance but was more than repaid for it by the sight of Aziraphale. The angel’s hair was a mess of fluffy curls. His skin was dewy with sweat that glistened in the dull glow that lingered around him. Crowley didn’t remember much of Heaven. Hadn’t spent much time there, really, but he had spent a lot of time amongst the stars. Aziraphale was as pale and luminous as some of the best swathes of the Carina Nebula. Crowley wished he could run his fingers through that celestial substance. In a way, he supposed as he hooked his fingers just enough to make Aziraphale cry out, he still could.

But still, still there was that drumbeat in his head for more. Closer. Deeper.

Aziraphale looked at him when he stopped his ministrations. “What— Do we need to… did you already...”

His eyes were blown black and looked unfocused as they travelled over Crowley’s form in search of answers to his half formed questions. Crowley couldn’t help the pride that swelled in his chest any time he reduced Aziraphale to incoherency.

He took Aziraphale’s hands in his own. “Come here.”

He pulled Aziraphale up so that the angel was straddling his lap. It was an awkward position. Crowley’s knees dug into the seat back in front of him and Aziraphale had to stoop to stop from hitting his head against the interior roof of the car. Already, though, it was better. Aziraphale’s arms and legs were wrapped around him and torsos were pressed together. There was, however, only one whisper of touch on the head of Crowley’s cock, one final gap between them that was bound to drive him mad if they didn’t cross it. His fingers dug into the meat of Aziraphale’s ass and he swallowed hard under the watchful gaze of smiling eyes.

“Like this?” Aziraphale asked, wiggling just enough downward to send Crowley’s head crashing back.

“Yeah. Yes. If you want. That’s—”

Aziraphale sank down onto him in one smooth, excruciatingly slow motion. Crowley swore he saw another flash of divine lightning. He certainly felt one jolt down his spine. Sight, sound, smell, all of it vanished for a moment as his body seized to an immediate stop. His heart was the clap of thunder that followed.

He realized vaguely that somewhere beyond the pulse of blood in his ears, Aziraphale was talking.

“Wuh?”

“I asked if you are alright.”

Crowley thrust up and groaned as a frisson of energy danced over his every nerve. “Fuck. Yes. In the name of everything holy or unholy or who even cares, yesss.”

Aziraphale wrapped steadying hands around the back of Crowley’s head. His thumbs were tucked behind Crowley’s ears and his fingers raked along the short, bristley hair under the base of his skull. It made the hair on Crowley’s neck and arms stand on end and sent him skittering on the razor’s edge of too much and not enough.

When it came to Aziraphale, he would always err on the side of not enough. He pressed forward into a kiss that landed like the first tumbling flakes in a rolling avalanche. Before long, he was buried in the sensation of rolling hips, teeth, tongues, and the continued hum of divine energy that electrified every movement. He had the vaguest notion there were fingers tugging a bit too hard on his hair, that the blanket had slid away and he had leather sticking to places he’d later regret, and that a million other imperfect things were happening. Yet none of it, not a moment of it, took from the perfection of Aziraphale on him and around him.

“Aziraphale. This is— I— Fuck.”

“I rather think I know the feeling,” Aziraphale replied, a laugh on his breath.

A star was born in the too tight cavity of Crowley’s chest. “Angel, you have no idea.”

How could he? Crowley wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say. There was probably something he should say but even at his best, words could be elusive around Aziraphale. All he knew was that this was perfect. That Aziraphale was perfect. Aziraphale was good in ways that should have been agony to him and instead brought only exquisite, blinding ecstasy.

Aziraphale slammed down once, twice, and Crowley had just enough time to wonder if he could get another body if he was discorporated there before he felt the warm, sticky spill of Aziraphale’s release between them. That was his undoing. There were heels in his back and nails in his scalp and all he could feel was the spread of Aziraphale’s pleasure marking him.

He bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood. Every time he thrusted up in search of more he felt a bit of himself caught on Aziraphale and remained there inside him. He was on fire with it. In agony so hot that it wrapped into an exquisite ecstasy. He let it tear out of him in a silent scream. By the time it was over he was barely aware of his body. He was just a pleasant haze drifting from that celestial fire.

He was brought back to his boneless body when Aziraphale shifted and pulled him down with him. And what a wonderful feeling it was in that body when he could no longer tell what parts belonged to him. He was one of a pair in a sweat slicked tangle of limbs.

Aziraphale swept a soaked strand of hair off his forehead. “Better?”

Crowley buried his face in a salty expanse of chest hair. “Much,” he mumbled.

“In any mood to tell me what that was about?”

Crowley considered. Telling could be fun. Telling could lead to more.

“Nah.” He snapped his fingers and the Bentley’s engine purred to life. “Not right now.” He managed to wriggle out a stretch without disentangling himself. Another snap and the Bentley was on its way to Mayfair. “Right now, sleep. Maybe for a week.”

Aziraphale sighed and Crowley could feel the curl of a smile on the top of his head. “Alright then, but I’m not sitting about that empty flat of yours for a week.” Another snap and the Bentley veered off toward Soho. “A change of course. You can sleep in my flat.”

“Wherever you want to go, angel,” Crowley said with a yawn. “You know I’m with you.”

[southdownsraphael]

Nightmares and Revelations

Hey! This is my first posted fic attempt with Good Omens (Raphael hc) and it's mostly angst with some graphic injury. At the moment all I really have is a taster, I'm on vacation in America so my time is pretty limited until next week as well as only having my phone to work on.

However, I am still working hard on this and I'm going to post more soon...

---------------------------------

Crowley was dreaming.

This wasn't a particularly odd occurrence, Aziraphale would be the first to admit, but something didn't feel right.

Aziraphale was sitting beside his demon in bed, a book open on the bedside table and one of Crowley's hands resting on Aziraphale's thigh, his face inches from the angel's hip. He had been trying to hug Aziraphale's leg before he'd finally given in to exhaustion, his body having been denied the regular sleep it was used to for almost a week.

Crowley's wings were out, one spread across the angel's lap where Aziraphale had been grooming it carefully, reverentially fixing each feather while Crowley slept.

Now though, the tender peace of the small room had been disturbed, and Aziraphale paused, his fingertips still buried in the beautiful softness of Crowley's glossy black feathers as he listened.

"No...I didn't.." Crowley muttered again, his voice small and shaky, his fingers twitching against Aziraphale's leg. "Please.."

Aziraphale's heart felt like it had dropped into his stomach at the broken tone of Crowley's voice, the soft, sincere begging driven by intense fear. He hadn't heard anything like it from his demon, not even at the end of the world, not from Anthony J. 'forever the optimist' Crowley.

"It's alright, darling," Aziraphale murmured, slipping one hand off the delicate wing and into Crowley's messy red curls, his thumb stroking over the demon's cheek. "I'm here, my dear."

Crowley shifted again, his brow furrowing as this dream resisted the comforting gesture, usually enough to soothe the demon down from any nightmare. "No.."

Aziraphale sighed and ran his hand over Crowley's bare spine, feeling his cool skin and silently debating what to do next. Crowley had gone through a period after they'd pulled off the switch during which he'd had horrible nightmares every night, and once Aziraphale had gotten used to recognising them early, he'd always been able to calm the demon without waking him. This seemed to be different, and much worse somehow.

Considering the gruesome and horrifying content of Crowley's previous nightmares, Aziraphale wasn't sure he wanted to know what much worse would look like.

But Aziraphale had always been curious, possibly to a fault, and he knew he had another option, an option that could possibly make Crowley quite angry, but at least he wouldn't have to rely on the demon's rather variable ability to talk to him about his dreams.

Aziraphale stroked Crowley's wing once more, then brushed his knuckles down the demon's cheekbone before pressing two fingers against his temple lightly.

The room was small, dark, and made completely out of concrete. A light flickered somewhere near the high ceiling, a grubby yellow light that cast odd shadows in the box-like room.

Aziraphale had found himself in the corner of this room, an unheard and unseen watcher squinting at a slumped figure in the middle of the floor, an indistinct shape in the dim light.

The shape shifted slightly, the light catching glistening, bloodied skin, and the stark white of exposed bone. What had once been wings were now mostly gone, a few feathers clinging to charred bones and mutilated skin, the white feathers stained red.

As the figure moved, tried to push itself up on its hands, Aziraphale saw a flash of red curls dread settled deep in the pit of his stomach as he slowly moved closer, close enough to see the blistered, burned skin, the countless cuts and lacerations, the pool of blood sticky beneath the angel's torso. There wasn't an inch of skin that wasn't smeared with red or dirt or both.

The angel fell back with a soft sound of pain and the iron door in the far wall slammed open, revealing Gabriel standing in the doorway. He strode in and over to the angel, who tried to push himself up again, to face up to the archangel in front of him.

Aziraphale slowly circled around in fascinated horror, dreading what he was going to see, but painfully aware he simply had to know.

"Archangel Raphael. Pathetic," Gabriel began, his voice booming in the small room as the door slammed shut behind him. "You've disappointed all of us."

Aziraphale relaxed slightly at the sound of the unfamiliar name, making his way around to the corner next to Gabriel, so he could see the slumped angel, whose head was down, one cheek against the concrete floor.

From this angle, Aziraphale could hear the rasping, rattling breaths Raphael was taking, his body very clearly only just clinging to the edge of life.

Gabriel took a step forward and crouched down, heaving a deep sigh. "You were a favourite, Raphael. The Almighty was quite impressed with you, in fact. And yet, here we are."

Raphael lifted his head slowly, every tiny movement betraying pure agony, and as the broken angel finally locked eyes with Gabriel, Aziraphale's heart stopped.

He knew that face, he knew it like the back of his hand, it was a face he'd been studying for six thousand years. The eyes were wrong, a soft, beautiful blue, the kind of pale blue that made the watcher feel that if the owner began to cry, all the color would just wash away with the tears.

Crowley was crying, in fact, the tears streaming down his cheeks, leaving little clean tracks in the dirt and blood and grime on his face, and Aziraphale remembered to breathe again.

"Please, Gabriel," Crowley begged, blood spilling from his lower lip as he talked, his voice hoarse and broken, despairing. "I've seen the Great Plan, and it has to stop! The Almighty can't just play games with living, breathing creatures, it's cruel!"

Gabriel just shrugged, tilting his head to the side. "You're not supposed to ask questions, Raphael, you can't go around asking the Almighty why she chose her path, and then criticising her on it. It's not what we do, we do what we're told."

Crowley's head dropped back to the stone, his eyes displaying nothing but agony and a terrible, heart-wrenching resignation. "She's going to kill sentient beings," he insisted quietly as Gabriel stood up, straightening his jacket stiffly. "Children, animals, everything."

"We don't question the Great Plan," Gabriel answered simply and firmly, giving the fallen angel a sad look. "They'll find a place for you here in Hell, Raphael. It's where you belong, you don't fit in with us anymore."

The door shut behind Gabriel with a loud clang and the angel on the floor let out a slow sigh, going completely limp and just staring at nothing. Aziraphale didn't think, his brain just shoved him forward as soon as Gabriel had gone, driving him to the body on the floor.

Raphael looked up dreamily when a pair of shoes stopped in front of his eyes, then dropped his head back again just as Aziraphale fell to his knees, his hands shaking as he reached out slowly.

As soon as his fingertips brushed the angel's skin, he was gathering Crowley up in his arms, gasping and trembling and stifling little sobs as he pulled the demon into his lap.  

Crowley cried out in pain, his whole being radiating hurt, but Aziraphale needed to hold his demon, he needed to hold Crowley and cradle him and tend to him. He slid one hand onto the back of Crowley's head, fingers spread, and held him with the other arm tucked around, under his waist. Crowley let out a long breath and drooped over his lap, his eyes slowly opening to stare up at Aziraphale's face.

Before, they had been such a soft, perfect blue, but now they were slowly changing, morphing into the much more familiar gold that Aziraphale had only ever known.

"Aziraphale.." Crowley gasped, his hands gently scrabbling on the angel's now blood-smeared coat. "Please. Wake me up.."

(To be continued....)

[mostweakhamlets]

Parsley, Thyme, Sage, Daffodils

Finally a full fic to this post

Summary: Aziraphale has a popular cooking show on the internet. Crowley dedicates part of his garden to the hobby, growing herbs and berries. Crowley also struggles to handle life after the apocalypse. Established relationship. South Downs fic. Features PTSD.

On AO3

By autumn, Crowley’s garden was beginning to die. He thought about yelling at them to keep growing past the season, but Aziraphale had gently reminded him that they had neighbors who most likely did not want to be disturbed any further by his plant discipline. Crowley didn’t necessarily care what the humans thought when he was in his garden, but he cared about Aziraphale’s desire to be good neighbors. So, he let his plants naturally wilt.

He had only a few handfuls of herbs that were salvageable. He was disappointed, but he wouldn’t let the plants know that right then. In a few weeks, he’d uproot them and let them think about their actions in the trash bin.  

Crowley tucked the handle of his basket in the crook of his arm, holding his pruning shears and gloves in the opposite hand and pushing open the door of the cottage with his shoulder.

“And I’m very proud of all of you who are cooking for the first time,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley stepped into the kitchen. Aziraphale stood in front of their stove, his camera sitting just to the side. The aroma of fruit baking flooded the room and immediately Crowley felt indescribably warm. It wasn’t so much a physical warmth as much as it was emotional.

“I enjoy reading how you’re all doing with your first meals. You’re coming along wonderfully. I know that some of you feel as though you’re struggling, but if you keep at it, you’ll be able to look back and see how much you’ve improved.”

Crowley was about to pass behind Aziraphale, hoping he’d go unnoticed so that he could tend to his herb clippings in peace. But of course, Aziraphale turned to him as soon as he was close enough and pulled him in-frame.

Neither was sure why, but Crowley was painfully camera shy. Perhaps it was his fear that it was easy documentation for Above and Below in case they thought it was time to interfere again. It also could have been because whenever Crowley made a cameo in a video, viewers left a flood of adoring comments.

His husband is so sweet for growing everything for him!!

I wish I had a husband that helped me with my hobbies like this.

Anthony should be in more videos! I love seeing them together. It’s like their soulmates.

Since Aziraphale had introduced him to his audience as “Anthony,” they were just as interested in catching glimpses of him as they were watching Aziraphale’s newest recipes. Crowley had never been in such a position before. He was a demon. He was supposed to be hated by his peers and cause chaos for humans--and he had accomplished both with no problems. He wasn’t supposed to be liked.

He hadn’t been liked by so many others since he fell.

The only person who truly liked him was Aziraphale.

And if the humans watching those videos knew what Crowley really was, they wouldn’t be so eager to see him--to like him.

“Taste this, my dear,” Aziraphale said.

He held a spoonful of jam to Crowley’s lips with his free hand cautiously under it, ready to catch any dripping.

Crowley leaned forward to wrap his lips around the spoon.

“Do you like it?”

Crowley’s cheeks heated. He nodded.

Aziraphale rested his hand on Crowley’s waist.

“Thank you, my dear.”  

Most likely his shyness came from the small tender moments Aziraphale was not afraid of showing the world. It had been the topic of many long conversations after Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand in St. James Park, causing Crowley to freeze and break out in a cold sweat. Being discreet had always been their top priority. For 6,000 years, someone would have surely seen them if they embraced in the middle of London. But now, Aziraphale had assured Crowley, things were different. They no longer needed to hide, but Aziraphale would go as slow as Crowley needed him to.

It was almost funny how their roles had switched after the apocalypse.

“You’re welcome, angel,” he mumbled.

Aziraphale smiled and let him go. There would be an offer later, like there always was, to delete whatever parts of the video Crowley was in.

Since the apocalypse and all the trouble that came with it, Crowley had been jumpy. He would wake in the middle of the night from nightmares. He would stop breathing if he saw a tall man with a square jaw in a gray suit (and though he didn’t need to breathe, it still felt wrong not being able to). But Aziraphale was always there to soothe him back to sleep or guide him away from the stranger that triggered such strong feelings. And every night he made a homemade meal, telling Crowley on bad days, “you’ll feel better if you eat.”

Crowley hated that he was always right.

Even if he picked at his dinner and had Aziraphale tut at him for only eating a few bites, Aziraphale was right.

“Now, if you don’t have a husband to give you feedback, you can be your own critic.”

Crowley shook his head as he laid his basket and tools on the countertop a safe ways away from the camera. He grabbed a handful of thyme, rinsing it and laying it on a clean towel. Aziraphale would decide what to do with it later.

“Remember that the food you make doesn’t need to be perfect. It just needs to be loved.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. He grabbed basil.

Aziraphale’s videos were always met with overwhelming positivity. The viewers, when not writing about Crowley, wrote about how Aziraphale taught them what their parents hadn’t, how they were living on their own for the first time and were slowly learning how to support themselves, how they had had unhealthy relationships with food for years but Aziraphale was helping them change that. To any other demon, it would be sickening. But Crowley was proud of his angel.

Without Heaven, Aziraphale was still performing his good deeds with the freedom to add his own twist. Heaven would never approve of Aziraphale’s new hobby. They hated food. They hated Earthly pleasures. They wouldn’t be able to see that Aziraphale was a great angel when left to his own devices.

“My dear, are you ready for dinner?”

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley’s waist.

“Is the camera off?”

Crowley hated how his voice sounded. It was quiet. It was meek.

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale said. Crowley relaxed. “Dinner?”

“Let me finish this. I’ll only be a minute.”

Aziraphale hummed in agreement and waited exactly three seconds before kissing Crowley’s neck. It wasn’t a sweet peck. It wasn’t a kiss that said: “this is the only place I can kiss you at the moment, but I don’t care because I love every inch of you.”

It was a kiss that Aziraphale knew would make Crowley’s knees go weak. He dropped his basil.

Aziraphale was also just enough of a bad angel to keep things interesting.

                                                            ~

It was the middle of December when the weather turned too cold for Crowley’s well-being.

Having been a snake, he still kept some of the traits. For starters, his yellow eyes were always going to be around. That he didn’t mind (Aziraphale told him multiple times he loved them). What he did mind was that when the cold crept through their cottage and assaulted him when he stepped outside, he grew sluggish and tired and found trouble eating. He really found trouble eating that winter.  

Aziraphale fussed over his cheekbones as they became gaunter. He touched Crowley’s hip bones, which protruded more than they had, and sighed. He caught Crowley when he swayed during a too-long fast and begged him to have a bite of something--just a bite--while he helped him sit.  

But they knew it wasn’t just the cold that had Crowley in such a state. He hadn’t been the sickly thin mess in winters previous.

It was the increasing panic attacks and restless nights and nightmares that angelic miracles couldn’t always stop. It was the awful anxiety that made Crowley’s hands shake and stomach cramp with nausea if he thought about holy water or Hellfire for too long. It was the absence of the relief they had expected South Downs to give them.

The cold just added more intensity to it. It was bad timing.

Aziraphale tucked a hot water bottle against Crowley before pulling the blankets close again. Crowley burrowed into his cocoon of quilts and Aziraphale’s sweater he had stolen weeks ago, curling around the new heat as it worked away aches. He was content where he was on the sofa, pleasantly drowsy and warm for once. He hadn’t moved since early that morning when he declared the spot as his when he stumbled down the stairs, exhausted after another sleepless night.

“Will I disturb you if I cook?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shook his head. “Go for it, angel.”

“I’ll make your favorite. Maybe you’ll manage to eat in a couple of hours.”

Crowley didn’t bother hiding his smile. Despite his growing anxiety in the past few months, he found himself smiling more because with every bad moment there was Aziraphale being gentle and doting.

Aziraphale kissed him on the forehead and brushed his temple. “Rest for now. Have sweet dreams.”

And Aziraphale left with a little angelic magic beginning to settle over him.

Crowley closed his eyes, curling up as tight as he could. He could hear Aziraphale trying to be quiet in the kitchen, gently setting pots and pans down and arranging whatever else he was miracling into existence.

“This recipe is a little more challenging,” Crowley heard. “But I thought it would be perfect for the season. My dear husband is under the weather, and I expect many of you are as well right now. Or maybe you know someone who is, and you’d like to make them a meal.”

Crowley could imagine the comments pouring in the second Aziraphale would post the video. Humans were so pitying and adoring of others when they were ill. They’d praise Aziraphale for being so thoughtful. They’d hope for Crowley to recover. It would be, if Crowley were to be honest, disgusting.

“It’s a light soup, so it’s wonderful for someone who has a touch of influenza.”

But Aziraphale deserved that praise. It was the praise Crowley felt too exhausted to give. If he wasn’t sleeping (or laying in bed trying desperately to fall asleep) every second he could, he would write an entire book to Aziraphale, telling him how wonderful he was and how little Crowley deserved such a caring, attentive angel. Once spring came, he would start to rebuild his garden. He would make it bigger than the year before--more room for berries and herbs. He’d let Aziraphale have whatever he wanted. And maybe he’d yell at his plants less.

Or maybe not that last one.

They’d never grow without discipline.

“My dear Anthony loves this soup. He first tried it at the Ritz years ago. I remember the first time I tried making it for him…”

And that was why everyone loved Aziraphale’s videos. 10 minutes were dedicated to telling a story about when he ate the meal for the first time--usually with Crowley, usually not within the last 100 years. He kept certain details out. They didn’t want his audience to know that they were immortal beings.

Maybe Crowley would dig up the grass in the front of the cottage and put in flower beds. Flowers weren’t necessarily his thing, but Aziraphale always admired them on walks. He’d oh so gently touch the petals and lean in to smell them. He’d tell Crowley to do the same, and Crowley would find himself doing it just to humor his angel.

Crowley fell asleep thinking of daffodils lining the front door, listening to Aziraphale list ingredients.

He dreamt of guiding Aziraphale’s hands through the dirt and helping him place bulbs in neat lines. The sun beat down on them, and though Crowley couldn’t feel it, he welcomed it. Aziraphale’s smile was bright, and he was proud of the little mounds in the soil.

There was no more shaking hands or uneven breathing. Crowley felt well again. Aziraphale openly touched him as people walked by, and Crowley laughed when they joked about the dirt and grass stains on Aziraphale’s pale suit that he still insisted on wearing.

They moved to the kitchen where fresh vegetables awaited them. Aziraphale took Crowley’s hands this time, helping him cut peppers and scrape out the seeds.

He woke up to Aziraphale leaning over him.

“I’m sorry, my dear, I lost track of time. This has gone cold.”

Aziraphale pulled the water bottle out of Crowley’s grip. It had turned cold, and Crowley could feel cramps returning.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Aziraphale lifted the blankets again to slide the water bottle--now satisfyingly burning as Crowley liked it--into Crowley’s waiting arms.

“I made you tea,” he said. “We still had just enough leaves left from when I made them a month ago.”

Crowley remembered the tea video. Aziraphale had felt adventurous and set out to cut up the herbs Crowley had been growing in their window sill (the only thing he could manage to grow in cold). The leaves turned out fine without any miracle, though Crowley’s plants saw better days after being butchered.

But the tea Aziraphale made from it was ridiculously amazing. It was earthy and rich. Every cup was perfect.

The newest steaming mug was right by Crowley’s head.

“I thought you might like it before we try dinner.”

Crowley sat up. He kept the water bottle close.

“How was filming?”

Aziraphale sat next to him. Crowley took advantage and rested against him. Much better than the water bottle.

“It was splendid. I’m thinking that everyone might be ready to try more complicated dishes. I’ll have to see what they think of this one. I know they’ll do their best, but there is no need to stress them out.”

Crowley had tried his hardest to explain that many of his viewers didn’t attempt every dish Aziraphale made and they didn’t watch them in chronological order. They simply watched because they were fond of him. But Aziraphale never seemed to understand, insisting that surely they must all be interested in cooking.

Crowley took a sip of his tea. The heat traveled down his throat to his stomach where it began easing knots.

“Remind me. Have you already made a video on crepes?”

Aziraphale huffed. “Of course, I have. It was one of the first. But they didn’t compare to what’s made in Paris. I gave a full disclaimer at the start of the video.”

“Oh, that’s right. I had to stop you from mentioning the Reign of Terror.” Crowley closed his eyes. “Mostly because humans frown upon people having happy memories of it.”

“It wasn’t as though I was talking about the revolution itself. Just the memories that coincidentally aligned with it. Dear, do try to stay awake long enough to eat. I’d love for you to have something tonight.”

Crowley hummed. “I’m not sleeping. Keep talking.”

Aziraphale was quiet, admitting his defeat to himself. Crowley would be asleep again within minutes.

“Anyways, I always tell them that the love surrounding the dishes is what makes it all the more special. That’s why it’s best to cook for someone you love…”

Crowley didn’t hear the rest of Aziraphale’s lecture. He returned to the summer garden.

                                                             ~

Spring was much kinder.

Crowley started his garden again.

He whispered a threat to every seed, telling them that they were for Aziraphale and therefore if they were a disappointment, the consequences would be dire. He had promised to stop yelling at the plants while he was outside in plain sight of passing neighbors. While Aziraphale made a list of the crops he’d like that year, he also made a list of conditions. Inside the cottage was fair game for yelling. All “punishments” had to be done in the shed. Crowley negotiated to be allowed to make an example of bad plants in front of the others at the beginning of the season (and since Aziraphale had never actually witnessed the “punishments” and was beginning to severely doubt that any true punishments were taking place, he allowed it).

Kneeling in front of the garden, detailing the many ways he learned to torture in Hell (a blatant lie as any demon who knew how often Crowley avoided seeing souls being tortured would tell you), he felt at peace. He heard Aziraphale step out the back door and smiled. His stomach flipped, but in a good way. He was excited to show Aziraphale the progress he had made and tell him about all the new plants they would have soon. He was excited to see Aziraphale clap his hands together and tell him how proud he was.

“Dear?”

Crowley turned around.

Aziraphale held the camera out. He had never learned how to zoom in and out and manually held the camera closer or further away instead.

“Angel,” Crowley whined, cheeks turning red.

He tried hiding his face, looking back down at the garden.

“Tell us what you’re doing,” Aziraphale said, sitting down in the grass next to Crowley.

“I’m starting the garden,” Crowley mumbled, still not facing the camera but not exactly minding it as much as he had in the past. “This is your bed. For all of, uh, the crops you need.”

“It’s looking wonderful, my dear. Almost as wonderful as you.”

Crowley didn’t want to imagine the blush the camera was picking up.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Aziraphale said, perhaps beginning to doubt his choice of surprising Crowley.

He began to stand. Crowley finally faced him.

“You don’t have to.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Do you really not mind?”

Crowley shook his head. He held his hand out. Aziraphale took it and sat back down.

“What are we growing this year, my love?”

Crowley’s chest tightened--but again, in a good way.

                                                                  ~

Crowley had just woken up. His new favorite part of summer was waking up to a breeze coming through the open windows and Aziraphale in the kitchen.

June had been treating the couple nicely. They began to enjoy walks through the town on sunny days, fingers laced together and nodding at neighbors who smiled at the eccentric couple who were finally debuting themselves. After their first walk, which included a short, polite yet nervous exchange of small talk with a neighbor about the weather, Aziraphale had kissed Crowley’s face a dozen times as he told him how proud he was. He had come a long way, Aziraphale told him.

Even the rainy days--and being in England, there were many--were beautiful for them. Crowley had grown to enjoy the sound of thunder, and Aziraphale was finding himself pleasantly pinned down by a sleeping Crowley on his lap more often.

Crowley made his way downstairs. He could smell whatever Aziraphale was baking, the sensation of warmth overcoming him as it always did.

“I understand it’s a special month for some of you, and I always see the comments thanking Anthony and me for being ourselves.”

Crowley stayed behind the wall of the hallway. He hadn’t realized Aziraphale was filming.

“I believe that we may have a little more history of rebelling than you’re all aware of. I’ve never acknowledged it before because, well, it is a bit difficult to bring up, but we do understand what it’s like to have to walk away from those who are supposed to be accepting of you. We have plenty of experience going against what we’ve been told is God’s plan, but we found ourselves happier doing so. And believe me, She doesn’t mind what humans are together romantically. I really don’t know where that rumor started.”

Crowley shook his head. To humans, Aziraphale sounded like a pious man that was very certain of his beliefs (and maybe a little crazy when he didn’t bother censoring himself as much as he should have).

“Nevertheless, it is hard to give it all up. You do lose a part of your identity and you have to rebuild that. And maybe Anthony knows a bit more about being rejected and falling--falling out with those who are supposed to love you, I mean.”

Crowley rested his head against the wall. It took a special demon to be a fallen angel and be a traitor to Hell.

“He has had an awfully rough time with it all, but he’s overcoming it. I’m very proud of him. He’s found where he truly belongs, and we’re both much happier.”

There was a pause.

“And the joy I feel being with him finally--here, in this little home we’ve made for ourselves--is indescribable. I couldn’t imagine myself anywhere else. I do hope the rest of you are able to find similar happiness.”  

Crowley changed his clothes and fixed his hair with a snap of his fingers.

“Anyways, that’s why I’ve decided that scones would be perfect this morning--”

Aziraphale was cut off by the weight of a demon crashing into him. Crowley spun him around and wrapped his arms around him, pressing their hips together.

“Good morning, angel.”

“Good morning, dear.” Aziraphale looked taken aback. “The camera is on--”

“Screw the camera.”

He pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s, taking a long moment to savor it. Every anxiety-inducing thought of the wrong person watching them was momentarily gone. He didn’t care about the people on the other side of the screen. He only thought about holding Aziraphale right there.

Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s face and pulled away.

“I love you very dearly,” he said.

“I think I love you even more.”

Crowley kissed him again.

Aziraphale’s hands moved to Crowley’s shoulders, then his waist, then lower.

“Alright, camera has to go,” Crowley said, breathless.

A wave of his hand and Aziraphale turned off the camera and the oven.  

Truly an awful angel.

(These are the people who asked to be tagged/who I think wanted to be tagged

@frenchibi @thegryffindorbookworm @odysseyinink @misstylersmith @fairkid-forever @a-person-in-the-rain )

[janthonyashtoreth]

Hello I have to miss my post today because of a family emergency, but I’ve answered a bunch of anon messages that have been sitting in my inbox for a while! I don’t want to spam anyone so they’re all under the cut. I’ll see you guys on Monday ❤️

Ok but is Azi gonna give Crowley the little snake tattoo by his ear at some time?

YES!! It’ll be his first tattoo. I know I said a while ago that it would be a snake twining around his chest and shoulder but I have since changed my mind alkdjfl

Wahoo!

Wahoo!!!!

My head anon is that when Azera and Anthony start to get serious Az gets a small snake tattoo on his ring finger.

sdfsdkjf im crying,,, when they eventually get married mayhaps they’ll do tattoo rings........... 

wahoooooo

wahoooooooooooo!!!

Head cannon: crowley has a super low pain tolerance but lies about it to act tough. Zira totally knows but humors crowley

klsdjf i dont think he necessarily has a lower than average pain tolerance but he is SUCH a baby around needles so he might as well

What if we saw Azra's reaction to Anthony cutting his beautiful hair? Lol jk. Unless...

NOOO I CAN’T COPE WITH THIS,,,,,, but maybe 

Ok but... Azra getting some kind of plant/flower tattoo after someone starts showing up more?

hmmmmmmmm anathema ur boss is pining and needs floral tattoos NOW

tongue piercings are Hot as Fuck but all i can ever focus on is how they erode your gums by rubbing against them all the time,,, i think they’re okay if you only wear them every so often but yeah,, anyways +10000 sexy points for azra tbh

ew yikes thats. Awful. tongue piercing is on my to-do list but at the moment im only speaking about them with information ive gotten from other people’s so,,, Whoops. Azra is a responsible piercing-haver!!

I can’t help but think what would snakeCrowley do if he was put into a ball pit 🧐

he just falls to the bottom then immediately gets stomped on by a feral child,,,, and thats how crowley got discorporated for the first time folks

I JUST NOTICED THE FRECKLES ON CROWLEY'S FACE AAAAAA im deeply in love with your art, you're amazing

🥺💕💕 im crying????? i love u????? also yeah i am WEAK for crowley with freckles

AHHHHH i love you ink and flowers mini comic so much!! i live for your art syle and color palette 😭 crowley's little freckles are everything too... and in this comic aziraphale literally dresses exactly as i do it's freaking me out 😂😂anyway just wanted to say thank you so so so much for putting your art out there

laskdjf thank YOU (and all of my other followers!!) for sharing my content!!! i wouldn’t do it without you guys 💕 also im so glad people like the ink and flowers au because,, im obsessed w it not even gonna lie

headcanon that crowley walks Like That because he looked at the human body and just generally made himself the same shape with no regards for the inside bits. hip bones? nah. his spine is made of melted down rubber ducks and the despair of children. he is Free.

crowley has a vague idea of how human skeletons and muscles are articulated. if his corporation has entirely too many vertebrae and entirely too few ribs, that’s neither here nor there

I would die for your ineffable husbands

i would die for u anon

Omg the way your draw Aziraphale is so fluffy and cute. I just wanna play with his hair. Omg. 💜🐝

ssdbjkfs thank you,,,, i love how Softe tm he is and i try to emphasize that when i can!! 

can I hear a wahoo for Anthony being intrigued and obsessed with Azra’s nipple piercings? When he realise/see them for the first time, his brain totally short circuits and poor Azra’s like ‘think I broke him again...’ He asks coyly, blushing, about the pain and the sensation. I can also see him Being a massive baby with needles, with the exception of the pre-existing holes in his ears - which he fainted from.

YES YOU CAN HEAR A WAHOO!!!! he 10000% short circuits someone save him. also yeah he is a huge baby around needles,,, he has one (1) piercing in his right ear from his punk phase but he got so anxious for it that he couldnt even do the other ear to match. He’s Baby.

i feel like Zira would love doing tattoos of eyes and it would be kinda his “thing” cause angels’ ethereal forms are like glowing eyes with wing

ooo yeah,,, i can’t remember if i mentioned it in my other brain dump post but azra is really good at designing tattoos with religious iconography in them. so i’d venture a guess and say that his expertise also extends to wings and eyes and flames

[ineffable-bentley]

Scottish Highlands, 1932 AD

He awoke in a cold sweat, feeling chilled to the bone, gasping at the musty, cloying air.

A dream. A dream. Nothing but a dream.

In panic, he grabbed at his arms, hugging himself. Flesh. No scales. Sweat beading on his brow and dripping, stinging, into his eyes. Snakes don’t sweat, he reminded himself.

A dream, just like the others, it wasn’t real, and it couldn’t hur-

His eyes flashed open. Aziraphale! He threw out his consciousness, rapidly, overstretching painfully, but he didn’t care. What if- what if- what if-

There he was. In his bookshop, an aura of worry around him, but no harm.

Crowley fell back into bed, exhausted. A dream. Just a dream. No harm done.

No more sleeping then. He wouldn’t do that again. Even if he was too exhausted to think right now, sleeping wouldn’t do any good. It was time to go home.

Groaning, Crowley pushed himself upright, stretching and sniffing at the dark around him. The same damp, dark earth, sealed off from the world, just as he’d intended. He groaned. He had no idea how long he’d slept.

With effort and stiff joints, he went to the door of his hovel and pushed. Nothing. He grimaced. Not a good sign. Grunting, he miracled it open, only to find the hinges had rusted off, and a layer of earth had accumulated before the door, moldering into the surrounding landscape.

The door fell outward with a dull thud, and, cautiously, Crowley peered out, tasting the air. The same scents as when he’d gone to sleep. Wind and waves and stone and sheep dung. Lots of sheep dung.

His hair had grown long and ungainly while he slept, spilling out behind him in a great red carpet, dragging on the ground behind him. He couldn’t be bothered, yet. Before he got back into civilization, he’d need a proper haircut, but for now, maybe he’d stride up to the top of the hill, have a look around, get his bearings. See if that little farmhouse wasn’t still-

“Stop!” Came a high voice, with a thick Scottish accent, and Crowley nearly jumped out of his skin.

Looking up, he spied a young girl, maybe in her early teens, scrawny and fierce and holding a shepherd’s crook like a baton. He needed a coffee, at least, before he could deal with this.

“Er. Hello.” Crowley managed, lamely.

“Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself? You just came outta the hill!”

“Yes. Well. I’m a bit lost,” Crowley was not prepared for this situation.

“Well I should hope so!” The girl laughed then, a bit nervously, and Crowley offered a weak smile in return. She tilted her head and looked at him, up and down. “Yer not gonna hurt me, are ya?”

Crowley shrugged, “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Alright then. You got no weapons, you sure as hell look skinny enough, and God knows you clearly haven’t got all yer wits about you,” she gestured vaguely, to his unkempt hair falling down his shoulders and trailing behind, and to his clothes, once fine, now not much more than rags of wool and leather.

She strode down the hill, wild hair flying in the wind, and seemed to study him as if he were an exhibit.

He looked around for clues, anything, that might give him even the faintest idea of when he was. There was a tug on his scalp, and he looked down to see a sheep taking a cautious bite of his hair, lying as it were, all over the ground. “Oy! Watch it!” he yelled, jumping back.

“Oy!” the girl yelled back, nearly at him now, “That’s MY sheep, you better watch it!”

“Teach your damned sheep to behave, then.”

She laughed again, “I take it you’ve never been a herder then, mister.”

“Not recently, no.”

She narrowed her eyes, still studying him. “Well, that’s all there is in these parts. What did you say your name was…”

“I didn’t. But. Anthony.” Crowley straightened from shooing off the sheep and stood, hair bundled in his arms, glancing around for any sign of civilization.

“I’m Mary. Not that you asked,” she replied, a bit petulantly.

“Great. Er. Mary. Could you please tell me where I might buy a horse?” Of course this damned girl had to be here now, when he could have just peacefully miracled himself somewhere tolerable. Maybe it was for the best. His head was already killing him from seeking out Aziraphale, the growing thudding in his temples warning him not to do any more miracles for at least a few days. He rubbed at them, irritated, thinking of how he’d have to get a horse, ride to the port, and charter some kind of ship, only to hop a train if he was lucky, and then still have-

Mary interjected. She, at least, was a sharp one. “Listen, mister, are you sure you’re well?”

Crowley waved her off with as much nonchalance as he could manage, “Yes, yes. Just need a horse.”

“Well, let’s get you somewhere less windy, and we can see about that horse, alright?” Crowley didn’t miss the concerned tone in her voice, the pity there. He supposed he must look a wreck, although he couldn’t help but curl the slightest smile at how the tables had turned, with him and these humans. Mary was still talking, and had lowered her crook, and offered it before her. “To help you walk, Mister Anthony. That’s an odd name, isn’t it? What’s it?”

“Italian.” Crowley grunted, pretending not to hear the bit about helping him walk, and straightening up with as much dignity as he could muster. Leonardo had given him that one. Well, Antony. Crowley did allow himself a bit of modernization. A bit odd this far north, for sure, but Crowley was never one to refuse a gift, especially a gift of a name.

Mary stunned him from his thoughts, chirping, “I’ll take you to Pa, he’ll at least know where to send you.”

Crowley felt older than he had in a long time. Leonardo, those warm Florentine nights, were a thousand miles and five hundred years away. He needed to get back to reality. “What-“ Crowley cleared his throat, “What year is it?”

“You really are mad, aren’t’cha?” Mary stuck her hands on her hips and looked down the bridge of her nose at him. “It’s 1932, you daft bastard.”

“Right-“ Crowley muttered, but it felt as though he had swallowed a brick. How long was that, then? Nearly seventy years. Fuck. He’d overslept.

“How in the hell did you get out here, anyways?” Mary was still talking, but at least she was leading him somewhere now, “Nobody’s ere we don’t know and, it looks like you’ve been here at least a while.”

“Wanted to get away from London for a bit,” Crowley mumbled, ignoring the jibe about his appearance.

Mary laughed then, out loud, “Well I damn well say you succeeded! You’re about as far as you can get from London, except maybe Ireland.”

“Can’t-can’t do Ireland. Not since that Patrick bloke went muddling around and-“

Mary wasn’t listening, and Crowley trailed off. No point telling the truth anyway. Besides, his headache was strengthening with each step, and talking only made it worse. 

So he simply trailed along behind her, lacking, for the moment, a better plan, and desperately looking about for any clues as to what might have happened in the last seventy years. Christ. (He felt at least entitled to that swear, after he’d gotten to know the kid so well.) Of course he’d been brilliant enough to throw himself all the way out here for a nap. At this point he could’ve slept through the rapture and not known it. And, from what he could tell, Mary wasn’t much of an indicator in that department.

They soon reached a run down sort of sod and thatch dwelling, with a few cows and a whole lot of sheep milling around outside. Crowley supposed this must be the farmhouse. He eyed the cows dubiously. Surely there had to be a horse here somewhere. Maybe he’d whore out, finally, offer them a perfect lambing season, cure their sick, or some other such nonsense, in exchange for a horse. His mouth ticked upwards. Aziraphale would love that. A miracle, a miracle, any miracle for a horse!

“Pa!” Mary yelled towards the house, “Broughtcha a present!”

From round the dwelling came a gruff looking man, poorly shaven, already yelling back, “Mary, what fool thing have you done no-“ but he stopped dead when his eyes fell on Crowley, and his mouth fell open.

Crowley took advantage of this opportunity, and pressed. “Have you got a horse? I’m willing to trade!”

The man ignored him, instead shouting at his daughter again, “What in the damned hells have you brought me?”

“Dunno!” She called back as they approached, “But he’s awful skinny, and can’t stay warm long in those rags.”

The man sighed, and rubbed a worn hand over his face, tiredly. “Well, he’d best come in at least.”

The interior of the house was sparse but homey, with wooden furniture worn smooth by years, and a small fire crackling in the corner. With far more reasonable suspicion than his daughter, the man settled heavily at the table, and motioned wearily for Crowley to take a seat across from him.

“Alright then. So what’s your story, Mr…?”

“Crowley,” Crowley supplied, glancing around the home, hands fidgeting nervously on the table before him, “Really, you needn’t trouble yourself. I just need a horse to ride back south. I’ve got money, I’ll pay.”

The rugged man raised his eyebrows, looking at Crowley’s ragged clothes and train of hair, “I think you’ll pardon me, Mr. Crowley, if I doubt that for the time being.”

Crowley sighed. He supposed that was fair enough. Looks like he’d be walking then. He placed his hands flat on the table before him to stand to go, “Can’t say I blame you, but I don’t care to trouble you any longer. I’ll be going, the-“

“Wait.” The man’s attitude had changed suddenly, staring at Crowley’s hands, splayed out on the table. Crowley nearly cursed. The dratted things had taken to a tremor, and now the fingers each trembled, visibly. The man must have seen his grimace, because he held up his own hand, and Crowley saw, much more subtle, but still there, a slight vibration. “No need to be embarrassed. Plenty of soldiers down on their luck after Europe spat us back.”

Crowley stood still as a snake, hardly daring to move, eyes locked on the man’s.

“You fought in the war?” the man prompted, more gently.

The War. It haunted his dreams, still, holy water, falling like rain, melting those it struck, fire arcing across the sky, everywhere the scent of burnt wings and ichor, and amidst it all, two hands, intertwined. And then not.

His face must have betrayed his emotion, because the man patted the table to indicate he sit back down, and, cautiously, Crowley did. “My home is home for any who fought, and doubly for who came back with shell shock. I’ve no idea where you’ve come from, but it hardly matters now. What matters is, have you got anyone to go home to?”

Crowley met the man’s eyes, gentler now, and licked his lips nervously. “Yes, I do.”

“Well. That’s settled then,” and the man turned to Mary, who had been standing, stock still and wide eyed in the corner, “Take him down to the post office at least, they should be able to get him further south from there. Did he say where he’s from?”

“London,” Mary said, a bit sheepishly, looking at Crowley with eyes wide as saucers.

“Right then. Better get a move on.” The man stuck a thick arm out towards Crowley, and grabbed his hand, warmly, “I hope you find who you’re looking for.”

Crowley hoped so too. ______________ This is an excerpt of my slow burn fic (currently at 45k), The Sun Will Rise and We Will Try Again, about Crowley’s trauma and Aziraphale and him overcoming it together. Couldn’t resist adding it since I’d already made the St. Patrick’s day joke. Check out the full fic here!

[aziraphalesrarebooks]

Happy Golden Days

A Secret Santa for the lovely @skatle-skootle-demon-noodle! 

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, the occupants were stirring, including the mouse.

Or, alternatively,  Anthony and Ezra find it difficult to wrap gifts while their son is too excited to settle down for the night.

They had tried everything they could think of. 

Five different books; two of which were read no less than three times each, four bathroom breaks, three almost successes, two threats of no Santa and one glass of warm milk.

  Ezra was lying next to his son; who had almost, almost fallen asleep. The child was cuddled close to him and his breathing had finally begun to slow. The four-year-old was excited, “Papa, I don’t want to sleep. Can’t we stay up and wait for him to come?” he’d asked no less than twelve times that evening.

He and Anthony had begun the night with pizza and matching PJs. Then, they’d made cocoa and popcorn while watching movies on the couch. Warlock had dozed off during the Muppets Christmas Carol and had gotten just enough sleep to be an absolute terror for the next three hours.

Ezra sighed, it was nearing midnight and he had no idea how he would get up when Warlock eventually fell asleep. The boy had a firm grip on his pajamas and was unlikely to let go anytime soon.

   He’d come into their lives rather suddenly, Anthony had been named guardian of the child in the event of his parent’s death, never believing the moment would come when he would need to become his acting guardian. 

They’d received the call two years prior, only a week before the Christmas holiday. The life of an ambassador was a dangerous one, a date night had turned deadly for Thaddeus and his wife, Harriet leaving their only child to the care of his uncle and partner. 

Anthony and Harriet were half-siblings, Anthony older by five years had doted on his little sister and had been utterly heartbroken to learn of her death. Fatherhood had been a difficult journey for the man who saw her ghost in the eyes of her young son.

Six months later, they’d officially adopted the child. 

Two years later, the three had settled into their home in the London suburbs. Anthony had made certain his sister and husband were as much a part of their family as they could be, it was important to Anthony and to him as well little Warlock knew how loved he was. 

Now, here he was; cuddled close to a child he’d never anticipated but loved dearly. Frustrated he was, he couldn't remember a time when he felt so whole and so loved. He sighed, shifting a bit on the mattress in hopes of reviving his long numb limbs. 

   Finally, it seemed, Warlock was falling asleep. 

The boy’s nose wrinkled in his sleep and he sighed, a signal he would likely sleep through the night. Carefully, Ezra extracted his nightshirt from the grasp of the four-year-old and went downstairs to join his husband.

   In the living room, Ezra found his husband with tools and a half-assembled bike lying haphazardly around the floor alongside scraps of brightly colored paper and ribbon.

“Oh, my dearest, this mess!” he exclaimed. 

Anthony rolled his eyes and blew a raspberry at him, “Is the hellspawn asleep then?”

“Finally, I’d rather be doused in hellfire than read Peppa’s Christmas Wish once more.” He picked up one of the colorful biscuits that had been left for Santa and thoughtfully crunched on it, “Perhaps it will go missing soon?”

“There will only be another to take its place, angel. S’your fault, reading him all those books. You’ve gone and gotten him hooked now,” he grinned.

Ezra sighed dramatically, placing his hands on his hips, “Well, I do need someone to take over the business when I’m gone.”

“Good luck with that, I have a feeling he’ll be running the place long before you’re ready to retire. Imagine it, you selling e-readers and run of the mill, mass-market books.”

Ezra gasped in mock horror, “he would never!”

Anthony cackled, “Na, too much like you and his mum for that. Thad on the other hand…” he trailed off, watching his husband’s eyes widen.

“His father was a lovely man, just very… American,” he replied weakly, causing Anthony to laugh even harder.

“You get to wrapping… I need to try and finish this,” he frowned picking up the instruction booklet for the bicycle they'd purchased for Warlock.

They set to work and two hours later, at nearly 3 am, the gifts were wrapped and under the tree. The mess had been cleaned up and was ready to be disposed of at a later date. 

“We’re going to regret this in the morning, why did we wait so long to wrap his gifts Ezra?” complained Anthony.

“Because, my dear, we’re idiots,” he replied sleepily, “very tired, exhausted idiots.”

"Idiots who love their son, even if he can be a nightmare." 

Ezra laughed, "Quite, darling."

   They’d only been in bed two hours when a very excited young Warlock announced himself by flinging himself onto the bed containing his sleeping Dad and Papa.

Anthony cracked open an eye and pulled the boy into the center of the bed, “sleep,” he commanded as he yawned and snuggled back into the blankets.

“Daaad,” he whispered, “it’s Christmas, Santa came! I just know it!”

Aziraphale wrapped his arm around the wiggling boy, “go back to sleep, it’s not quite time to wake up yet,” he said softly.

He sighed dramatically, “Ok, Papa,” said Warlock as he relaxed into the embrace and reached out for his Dad’s hand before falling back asleep.

   Ezra woke first, the sun was brightly shining into their bedroom. 

Warlock and Anthony were still sleeping soundly, mouths open and laying in much the same position. The two of them so close, relaxed in their sleep brought a smile to his face. 

His heart felt so full, he never thought his life would go this way. Never thought he’d be given the chance if he were being truly honest with himself.

   Ezra had been so lonely before Anthony came back into his life, he’d had his shop and that was about it. His family had all but abandoned him, caring little for the son who, in their minds had turned out to be such an utter disappointment. His friends were often busy and if he were being honest, they seemed to only be able to make time for him when it suited their own needs.

He had been well and truly alone with nothing but fond memories to keep him warm at night. 

Ezra was lonely, it haunted his dreams and left him cold while he was awake. Books were well and fine but were a poor substitute for conversation and love. 

He was starved for affection, from family, friendship and especially in love. He'd thought himself quite pathetic, too scared to take chances, too worried about what his family would think, and still too hung up on someone from years past to move on. 

He’d spent so much time trying to get over the boy he’d fallen in love with so many years before. A boy he'd never kissed, never held hands with or even dared to confess to. They'd been so stupid, so much time wasted. 

   It was a day like any other, not busy for that time of the morning, which allowed him to stock and do some light cleaning. He hadn't expected it, not dared to dream he'd come into his shop. Ezra recalled the moment he came back into his life, waltzing into his shop, hips swaying like sin on legs. 

Their eyes had met and Ezra felt a fire he’d long thought extinguished blaze with fury inside of him. Smooth he was not, as he’d dropped the book he’d been holding in surprise. 

Anthony Crowley looked much the same as he did at 17, still devilishly handsome and charming. With one glance of those golden eyes, Ezra had known there was no hope for redemption. 

Anthony had spent the better part of two hours in the shop, browsing and catching up with Ezra before making his purchase. Ezra hadn’t wanted it to end, he took his time ringing the man up, hoping and praying he’d never leave. It slipped out, he’d been unable to stop himself, “Would you perhaps like to catch up over coffee?” he’d asked. Anthony had grinned brightly at him in return.

Coffee becomes lunch, which then became dinner.

 Soon, the two were meeting on a near-daily basis. Friends, best friends even but Ezra was sure they were moving towards something more. He could feel it, anticipation thrumming beneath his skin, aching into his joints. 

   Warlock shifted in his sleep, throwing a leg haphazardly over his hip. Too much like his Dad, all sharp angles and restless in sleep. 

   Ezra recalled with fondness the evening Anthony kissed him for the first time, Christmas Eve in St. James Park. They were just drunk enough to need to walk home, nearly frozen to the bone as snow fell around them.

Ezra wasn’t sure exactly how it happened, one moment he’d been walking just fine, the next he was on his back with Anthony atop him cradling his head. Dazed by the fall and the pleasant closeness, he’d missed the panicked look in his friend’s eyes, “alright angel?” he asked again.

Their eyes met, he nodded, unable to break his gaze.  

Ezra could still feel the anticipation building within, the excitement of having the man he was in love with so close. He truly didn’t know who moved first, but the soft mouth pressing against his was everything he'd ever wanted and longed for. Each touch sent shocks of warmth through him until he was sure he’d never be cold again.

   Six months later, Anthony took him along on what he'd called a research outing. He’d packed a picnic dinner, wine, and dessert into the back of his vintage Bentley alongside his equipment and took him into the dark countryside. A night of good food, better wine and stargazing ended with a ring on his finger.

“Angel, I want you to look at this one. It’s special,” he watched eagerly as the man peeked through the telescope, softly falling to his knee while Ezra was distracted, “you see the bright one in the middle?”

“Yes,” he breathed, in awe of the sight his lover had found for him. Anthony knew the stars like the back of his hand. Ezra didn't know physics or astronomy, it wasn't his passion, but he could appreciate the beauty of the universe. 

“Two stars," he replied. 

"Oh!" unable to take his eyes away just yet from the lens. 

"Two starts in a never-ending dance with the other, binary star systems. You can’t have one without the other.” He paused, exhaling a breath, “Like us. I can’t exist without you, I tried, Ezra and I was miserable without you.”

The blond gasped as he turned from the lens of the telescope, “Oh, Anthony.”

“I love you, I don’t ever want to be without you, please…” he ran a nervous hand through his messy hair, “please do me the honor of being my husband?”

Ezra fell to his knees, he recalled the burn of his tears falling down his face, the warmth of Anthony’s hand as he slipped the ring onto his finger, “My dearest, my heart, of course, I’ll marry you!”

It had been one of the happiest days of his life. 

   Warlock shuffled in his sleep, his restlessness soon turned into an eye cracked open then another. “Papa?”

Smiling, Ezra ran his hand through the boy’s dark hair, parting it away from his face. “Good morning, Happy Christmas! I believe Santa came for a visit last night, wait here with your Dad and I’ll go get the coffee on. Would you like some hot chocolate?” he asked gently.

Warlock yawned, nodding before turning towards Anthony.

   Ezra extracted himself reluctantly from the bed and padded down the stairs and into the kitchen. He turned the coffee pot on, then began the process of heating milk and went into the living room to turn on the tree, making sure that everything was where it should be.

Ten minutes later, two steaming mugs were on the coffee table along with one warm mug of cocoa with a handful of marshmallows floating on top.

   "Ezra, you ready?” he heard Anthony ask from atop the stairs.

He grinned, picking up his phone and turning it to record, “come on down my darlings.” 

In two seconds flat, a rush of red pajamas and black hair ran past him followed by a slower, much taller red-clad Anthony. His auburn hair a mess of cowlicks and his eyes tired. He bent to press a kiss to Ezra’s mouth before making his way towards the tornado that was their son.

The sound of paper ripping and ecstatic shouts filled the air for the next twenty minutes. “Dad! Look!! It’s just like yours,” then, “Papa! Did you get me the whole set? Will you read them to me?”

By the time Warlock had opened his presents, he’d nearly worn himself out again. New stuffed snake in hand, he’d climbed between his two dads and was happily sipping his cocoa as they spoke. 

“Dear, I think you missed one,” said Ezra with a smile in his voice.

Warlock looked at him curiously before a flat box was placed in his lap. 

He handed his Papa the mug of coca before slowly opening the gift. 

Inside, was a book.

Large and black with funny looking paper. The boy slowly removed the heavy book, opening it curiously, only to find the faces of his Father and Mum staring back at him.

The boy snuggled into his Dad’s side as they spent the morning leisurely  exploring pictures and telling stories.

   The day passed quickly, too quickly for Ezra’s liking. Good food, beter company and the love of his family had made it a perfect celebration. 

   That night, as the two tucked the boy into bed, Ezra was struck once more by how lucky he was to have them both.

Ezra bent to kiss his forehead goodnight, “I love you, dear Warlock. May you dream of whatever you like best,” he said softly. He ran his hands over the cream blankets, assuring himself Warlock was securely tucked in before walking into his bedroom.

“Goodnight, angel. It was a good day, wasn’t it?” asked Anthony. 

“The best of days, my love,” He replied, scooting down beneath the covers, his chilled toes waiting for the warmth of his husband to join him. 

Anthony found his way into bed, wrestling with the heavy duvet before finding a spot he deemed comfortable, “thank you for the album,” he said quietly. 

He reached behind him, grasping his husband’s hand, “of course, darling.”

“I miss her Ezra, it’s so unfair he’s going to grow up without her. He is so much like her and he probably doesn’t even remember how much she loved him.”

He nodded, “perhaps, but that’s why he has us. To remind him, to show him and to teach him how to love. We will make certain he knows how loved he was and is.”

Anthony pulled him close, “Happy Christmas, angel. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Pressing a kiss to the hand holding his, “Happy Christmas darling.”

As he settled in for the night, Anthony pressed behind him, holding him tightly. Ezra smiled into the darkness, Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night, he thought as his eyes drifted closed.

[patricianandclerk]

if you take prompts, would you maybe do something in the vein of playing games? not smut, necessarily, but just Aziraphale in the gentlemen's club, pampering the demon in his lap, maybe getting a bit possessive when other members of the club start eyeing his Crowley

My Ask | My Ko-Fi | My Ao3 | Requests always welcome!

Anthony was asleep.

You could see the way he was lounging in his place, his head on Mr Fell’s shoulder, his nose pressed in toward the older man’s collar. In the evening light of the Hyacinth and Vine, lit by a few tall candles, the lines on his face were exaggerated, creating handsome shadows and highlights on the panels of it, drawing attention to the handsome, sculpted lines of his brow, his jaw, his nose. His thin lips were a dusted, sultry pink; his eyelashes - usually hidden from view - were long and dark and beautiful.

“Christ,” muttered Robert Hughes, and he adjusted his monocle. Beside him, Reginald McGarry cleared his throat.

It wasn’t Anthony’s face.

Everyone knew he had a handsome face.

Everyone knew he had a handsome body.

But in sleep?

It was elevated beyond measure.

Sprawled in Mr Fell’s lap, one arm loosely slung about the rounded, comfortable cushion of Mr Fell’s belly, his body pressed tightly against him, Anthony Crowley was a breathtaking vision of soporific eroticism. His suit was tailored tightly to his body, and one could see the supple lines of his entire body, the rippling muscle plain beneath the tight black cloth. One raised thigh, curled against Mr Fell’s body, was carved with muscle, and the flat curve of Anthony’s arse was almost completely visible under his trousers, or would be, were it not for the possessive settle of Mr Fell’s plump, beautifully manicured fingers upon it.

It was impossible not to envision him as they’d seen him before, sprawled on the floor with Henry Battersea sculpted against him, his muscled back on display, his body arching, and the sounds he’d made, those little moans, the gasps, the hisses...

“You think he has him every night?” Harry Jones asked, sipping at his drink. Mr Fell was reading around his makeshift blanket, paging through his book with one hand and resting it on the jutting bone of Anthony’s hip. 

“I don’t think he stops having him,” Geoffrey Evans murmured, and exhaled quietly. “I wouldn’t.”

Anthony shifted in his sleep, arching his back to press his body more solidly against Mr Fell’s body, and the movement served to stick out his arse - pert, pretty, rounded off.

As one, the four men sighed.

--

“You are insouciant, my dear,” Aziraphale said in an undertone, stroking an idle pattern on Crowley’s lower back.

“Dunno what you mean,” Crowley murmured, and smirked in his “sleep”. 

[klunkcat]

Okay, I admit that piercings are a mayor special interest of mine as well as an attraction point in themself, so of course I absolutely loved that Vet Crowley fic but I also want to encourage you to write more, because I would absolutely DIE for Crowley with more piercings. Maybe Aziraphale realizes during their date that this Anthony fellow also has his tongue pierced and he asks about that and it kind of goes from there? I don't know, but if you need a sign to do more with this au, this is it.

(Oh, you’ve done it now my friend, I’m now knee deep in this AU and sinking fast. I have named the snake there is no return.) 

Zira didn’t exactly know what to call it, this…companionship they’d developed. Something more than friendship, he’d hope- hewasn’t exactly well versed in socializing or current trends, but he was fairlycertain the level of heated stares and blushing that occurred between the twoof them was out of the norm for most friends.

It wasn’t enough of course that Crowley was attractive, wellbeyond attractive, in fact. Or that he was witty, quick on his feet, wilyfor all intents and purposes. It wasn’t enough that the mischievous glint inhis eyes when he slid his glasses off made Zira’s heart quicken, or that hissmirk felt a little like basking too close underneath the heat lamps he’d purchasedrecently. It wasn’t even enough that he’d found Crowley to be inescapably kind,too. Selfless in the sort of way that left one breathless; subtle little gestures,like remembering Aziraphale’s favorite food, the temperature he liked his tea bestat, his favorite fonts even (anything with swash characters and discretionaryligatures that were kept within reasonable balance, of course. The newer scriptaddition Bookmania had been a very exciting development in 2011, he’d eventhrown a small soiree for the occasion, which was only objectively correct,thank you).

All of these elements were poised for his demise, certainly,but the absolute kicker of it all had snuck up on him on their fourth outing.He’d already accepted the eventuality of his combustion via those daunting bitsof metal near Crowley’s lower lip, when he’d said something rather snarky andbeen treated to a genuine full-bodied laugh. That in itself was pure gold tothe veins, but Zira had also discovered in that moment, a flash of somethingmetal in Crowley’s open smile.

And oh, but that single flash cultivated the worst addictionhe’d yet to experience so far. At the time, he’d been utterly enraptured, intrigued.Gabriel had often cited Zira’s stubbornness as a negative trait for which he shouldwant for improving and ridding himself of; he was a bit like a dog with a bone,on occasion. Or a man with a growing fascination with mouth related piercings, it seemed.

“Dear boy,” he’d been utterly unable to stop himself,entirely not to blame for the invasiveness of his following inquiry. He’d beendriven to madness, completely outside himself. Scurvy, probably. Or… hysteria,like the old days. “Is that…. A tongue piercing?”

Crowley’s smile slid into something more contained, reserved. As though he’d been rebuked for it before and had developed a practiced and measured out response he knew to deliver in specific doses. Heaven’swe can’t have that, Zira thought nervously in the sort of way one realizes they have casually strolled into a veritable open wound and begun tap dancing with cleats on. 

“And if it is?” Crowley replied,all perfectly calm and relaxed in the sort of way that meant anything but.

Perhaps that would have been the right moment to change thesubject, to practice that social cues lesson Michael had tried to instill himwith, to compliment it nicely and return to their scrumptious brunch. Ofcourse, what Zira intended and what often fell from his lips around Crowley tendedto be two separate things.

“I adore it,” he said, in a rush, and immediately felt hisface flair bright red. He abruptly decided his meal was very and entirelyfascinating, actually. Strawberries, he thought, panicked anddisjointed, what lovely strawberries this crêpe has. Every crêpe should have strawberries, oh, unless there were allergies. Truly terrible, a crêpe only allergy. To imagine such a thing. 

“Oh,” Crowley said, in a very faint voice Zira had neverheard from him. “Um.” It was enough to give Zira the courage to glance upwards,and catch the completely stunned, frozen expression on Crowley’s face. The poordear looked a tad panicked, ears bright red like the first day they’d met, withsomething flickering in the slight part of his lips that touched a bit on theside of awed.

“It’s. Yeah, pierced. Got it done the day after I turnedtwenty seven, actually. Bit of a birthday gift to myself.” 

“Did it hurt?” Zira was entranced, thoroughly, fully. He was gaping, eyes wide, and he could do nothing about it. 

Crowley seemed to fall back into comfort at the question,strangely. “Nah, not even a little. Made of tougher stuff, I am. Went and got myconch done a month later just to prove it.”

Although Zira didn’t know what a conch was in this context, he certainly hadspent a good amount of time staring at the complex snake loop of a piercingstraight through the hollow bit of Crowley’s ear like the snake was twined protectively around it. It was beautiful, truly, anart exhibit in itself. Everything about Crowley was pure art, though. From the crawlingpeek of tattoo’s around the collar of his shirt and the rolled up sleeves he rarely let anyone see, to thearray of curling metal and dark wood surrounding his ears, and of course tothose two glittering bits near his mouth.

The tongue piercing though, that was a whole newfascination. He decided then and there, he’d do everything in his power to getCrowley to laugh that widely and happily more often. Just for a peek, just to scratch Zira’s fascination itch, as it were.

It proved, unfortunately or fortunately he supposed, to befrighteningly easy; making little snarky quips here and there, which of courseonly made the whole thing worse. He invited Crowley over to his tiny apartmentslash book store slash antique store slash book bindery for wine one night, thrilledbeyond measure that Crowley hadn’t so much as hesitated before accepting the invite,and positively and fully, as Anathema liked to say, screwed himself over whenhe’d discovered Crowley was practically a giggly drunk.

If he’d used that information entirely too much, easingsmiles and grins and full on guffaws out of his friend, that was for him toknow.

He told himself firmly it was for curiosity, of course. Notbecause he was completely obsessed with the way Crowley’s nose crinkled up whenhe laughed, or the way his joy just picked Zira up and swept him along with it,or because of the devastatingly handsome column of his neck when he threw hishead back, or—

Oh.

Zira sincerely and deeply hoped they were more than simplyfriends. Otherwise this whole ‘half in love with him’ situation would be dreadfullyawkward.

Maybe it would have been for the best if he’d taken a few stepsback, then. He knew it was what his family would have suggested, although theword family was less here than there and their general suggestions would likelyhave been all over unhelpful to every degree considering their stance on tattoosor piercings on the whole front. He also knew he had a tendency to fret, towait and wait and overthink until opportunities passed, that his nervous naturemeant a lot more no’s than ‘why not’s in the past.

He also knew, with the sort of swelling certainty that feltan awful lot like coming home after a long trip, that when it came to Crowley,it was terrifyingly easy to be decisive. To be brave.

A more stable individual would likely have required two tothree business days to sort out their position on the whole ‘love’ thing, weightheir feelings (intense, fluttery, like eating those fizzy candies that poppedinside ones mouth) and the time they’d known each other (five months and twoweeks, to be exact), and what they were looking from the whole thing (everything,everything). They likely would have formed an action plan of sorts, invitedCrowley out to a nice dinner, dressed up handsomely for the occasion. Maybethey’d have taken a long romantic stroll at twilight around a pond, retire toone of their abodes for a drink, and then expressed their feelings openly andhonestly.

Zira, of course, had lost all sense of stability the momentCrowley and his attractive face and attractive laugh and attractively charming,sweet, careful personality had sauntered into his life. And so, naturally, he’dnot done any of those things.

To be entirely fair, however, the circumstances and generalstate of affairs within the universe appeared to be stacked against any attemptsfor rationality.

“Really, my boy, what exactly do you desire out of all thismess?” Aziraphale sighed, the sound caught funny in his throat and squeaked outa tad more hysterical than he felt. Probably. “You’ll be cold shortly, I shouldthink! Oh, and the night is meant to be a brisk one. I do hope you haven’tdecided to head on an afternoon stroll.” He shifted another couch cushion to noavail, feeling a burst of frustrated panic lodging itself somewhere between histhird and fourth rib.

“Angel!” A voice called, a familiarly attractive voice, anattractive and absolutely heavenly relieving voice.

“Come in! Do shut the door behind you, the last thing weneed is for him to get into the books. There’ll be no chance of finding himthen.”

He heard the muffled sound of shuffling shoes, and the quickclick of a door, before Crowley’s red hair appeared in the doorway. “Oh, thankyou for popping in so quickly, my dear. I’m nearly at my wits end!”

Crowley shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, “Bestnot thank me, not till we find the bastard anyways.” He placed his hands on hiships. “Where’d you last see him?”

Zira pushed a hand through his hair, a disaster made onlymore disastrous by the movement. A small part of him that wasn’t frayed to theseams with stress bemoaned the whole thing, he probably looked quite the sight.He’d only pulled on a dress shirt before noticing the empty terrarium and ajar lid,and he was fairly certain a few buttons had sprung loose during his ransackingof the place.

“I’d been working on the books all morning and thought to havea quick bath before getting ready for our, um. Our outing. I saw him just beforehand,all stretched out like always. Even gave him a little ‘hello, how’re you’, sohis mood swing really is quite surprising. A-a firm talking to is on my list,most definitely.”

Crowley quirked a small smile at him, which did everything tosoothe his nerves. “Right, well. Couldn’t possibly be putting up a fuss aboutthe care, here. You spoil him. He’s got to be nearby, it’s too cold outsidebesides. Wouldn’t want to be anywhere like that.”

Aziraphale swallowed and nodded. “I sincerely hope not, poorOscar.”

Crowley stepped closer and rubbed his shoulder reassuringly,with a half-faltered motion Zira couldn’t decipher. “He’s here. Probablysleeping somewhere, the lazy—”

“Crowley,” Zira admonished with a tired giggle. “Youadore that serpent, don’t lie. It’s unbecoming.”

“Me? Lie? Never.” Crowley gave him a crooked smile inresponse, and Zira felt the warmth of it down to his toes. “Okay, I’ll start inthe study. If we don’t find him in half an hour, I brought over some dinner- we’lllure him out.”

They did not find him in half an hour, much to Zira’sdistress. Crowley teased lightly that he should go for the minimalistic stylein the future, so there were less places for Oscar to hide. Zira had to agreeit would be an effective method, not even a snake would find Crowley’s awfulflat couch comfortable. Unfortunately, in their searching, Zira also discovereda gap in one of the floor vents.

“Oh no, he must have gone through the gap! He’ll be stuck inthere, oh, I can’t stand the thought!”

“Hold on, Zira. Snakes are better at climbing than you’regiving our Oscar the credit for, mm? Probably just needs a little encouragement.I’ve got just the thing.”

If anyone had asked Zira how he thought the night their piecesfinally fell together nicely, he certainly would not have said there was anythingstrikingly romantic about placing dead mice near a floor vent in his crowded, unfortunatelydusty flat. In fact, crawling on his hands and knees alongside a Crowley whowas half underneath his terribly old sofa trying to sweet talk a serpent froman even dustier ventilation shaft, was probably not among the first hundredsuggestions he would have made.

However, the look of unbridled joy and pride on Crowley’s facewhen he finally emerged with an equally grey dusted Oscar tucked with absolutecare in his arms, was undoubtedly among Zira’s most treasured and perfect memories.

If he’d been half in love before, he’d gone and jumpedheadfirst off the diving board in the last hour or so.

“Holy hell,” Crowley wiped an arm across his forehead, andcarefully secured the lid on Oscar’s lid. “Glad that’s done with, then. Dinner?”

And it was all truly terrible. The soft golden lighting settingfire to Crowley’s disheveled hair, the dust flecking across his cheeks likestars, the crooked state of his glasses, the rumpled expensive dress shirt thatwould be hell and a half to iron out again. The absolute giddy happiness in Crowley’seyes, like he’d have done anything just to be the one to rescue Zira’s day,like he was so grateful to be given the chance and so proud of succeeding. Itwas far too much.

“If you don’t kiss me, right this instant, I fear I shall bequite cross with you,” Zira huffed.

Crowley stared at him like he’d just plucked stardust fromthe ether, his face was turning a lovely shade of pink. “Oh. Right. Um. Youwill?” Crowley said, voice sounding positively strangled.

“I will! I’ll. I’ll have no choice but to… to run off to thecountryside. Beside myself with longing. I can hardly bear it.” Crowley pressedforward, cautiously, giving Zira every opportunity and then some to back up, tosay no. Zira’s heart was truly going to burst at the careful way Crowleycrowded him against the wall.  

Crowley’s hand pressed against the side of his neck, slowlystill, like he wasn’t sure if Zira was real. Like he wasn’t sure if he couldhave this. This terrible, terrible man, Zira thought, leaning into the touch,meaning absolutely none of it.

His golden eyes were very wide, and Zira stepped impossiblycloser, pressing his own palms flat against Crowley’s chest. He could feel thethump-thump-skip-thumb practically against the pads of his fingertips, somethinglarge and impossible and overwhelming rose in his throat.

“Zira,” Crowley breathed. “You…” He swallowedroughly. “You detest the countryside. All the bugs and things. No sushi outthere. Wouldn’t last a day.”

Zira pouted; his fingers curled against Crowley’s lapels.Crowley’s hand slid carefully backwards, until he was cradling the nape of Zira’sneck. “We’d have to let Oscar out again then, pest control. On a leash, maybe.”

Crowley softened, something a little sad with a lot of overwhelmedhope painting his expression like hues in a sunset. “We?”

Zira couldn’t bear it then, absolutely refused to bear itany longer. This infuriating man with his sarcasm and his piercings and his hipsand his heartbreakingly small sense of just how much of Zira’s heart he’d heldfrom the moment they’d met.

He leaned forward, closing the small gap between them, andkissed Crowley with all the lighting filled adoration he possessed.

Crowley’s hand froze, slackened, and then twisted up intoZira’s hair at the same moment a quiet sigh poured through him. The returningferocity of Crowley’s kiss made his head spin in delicious ways; Zira had onlybeen kissed a handful of times, but not once had it been so enveloping, soready to pull him in and wrap him up and fill him up with relief and excitementand bliss all at once. Then Crowley tilted his head, parted his lips, and Zira feltthat electric touch of that damned tongue piercing and he was quite content notto think any farther.

[magnetothemagnificent]

Ineffable Honeymoon: Part One

(In which I shamelessly cram as many crossovers and cameos as I can into one story, take casual jabs at America, Aziraphale and Crowley play the tourists, and married fluff ensues)

Crowley ripped off her bowtie and collapsed onto the sofa. 

"Well, we did it, Angel," she sighed, reaching for the bottle of wine.

"Yep. Married in the eyes of the law and the Lord," Aziraphale agreed, holding out his glass. 

"M exhausted," Crowley murmured, cuddling up to her angel. 

"Me too. Shall I carry you to our room, dearest?" Aziraphale asked, with a wicked twinkle in his eye. 

"Ooh, that'll be lovely, darling."

An angel and a demon sat in a witch's living room, asking for advice.

"Well, Anathema, Crowley and I, as you know, are married now," Aziraphale began awkwardly. 

"Yes, I was at your wedding. What's your point?"

Aziraphale smiled and continued.

"Well, Crowley and I wanted to, ah, have a, what's it you humans call it? A marmalade comet?"

Crowley snorted and nearly spat out her drink. 

"Honeymoon, Angel, honeymoon."

Anathema looked at the pair with confusion.

"That's really nice, but what do you need me for? That's more of a job for a travel advisor," she asked.

The angel lit up, and began to hurriedly explain himself. 

"Yes, well, Crowley and I already decided on a location, but we figured it best to get some insider information from someone who lived there."

Anathema shook her head in amusement.

"You're honeymooning in America?" 

The couple nodded in unison.

The witch sighed.

"America's a big country, you know. Most Americans haven't even ventured out of their home state."

Crowley let out a groan. 

"See? I told you she'd be of no help!"

Eager not to disappoint, Anathema quickly backtracked. 

"But I could give you a list of all the key places you should visit. National landmarks, tourist traps, the American experience."

Aziraphale clasped his hands together and looked at his wife triumphantly. 

"Thank you dear! We knew you would help us!"

Crowley looked ahead at the long queue for security.

"You do know we can teleport, right Angel?" they asked as they tapped a scaly foot impatiently. 

"Crowley, dear, that would ruin the experience. We should try to do everything the human way," Aziraphale insisted. 

Crowley hissed between their teeth, quiet enough for Aziraphale not to hear. 

"Please remove any loose articles and shoes," a security officer instructed. 

Crowley reached for their glasses reluctantly, glancing at Aziraphale, who nodded at them to continue. 

Once their sunglasses were removed, Crowley kept their head low so as to not draw attention to their eyes. 

Aziraphale passed through the metal detector with ease, and motioned Crowley to follow. 

When they walked through, the detector let out an awful beep, making Crowley jump. 

Two security guards approached, and Crowley looked around nervous.

"No need to worry, sir, something must have set off the detector. We'll just pat you down here."

Crowley looked at their husband pleadingly.

"I'm afraid my partner here gets very nervous at being touched," Aziraphale intervened. 

"I understand completely, sir, but we have to follow protocol," the officer answered apologetically. 

"Do you have any artificial joint, pacemaker, or brace?" the second officer asked Crowley, who was becoming panicked. 

"N-no, I don't think so," they stammered. 

"You don't think so?" the officer intoned with suspicion. 

In truth, Crowley had no idea what artificial joints or pacemakers were, but how were they supposed to explain that. 

Aziraphale rushed to be by his partner's side, but was blocked by a third officer. 

"Please," he pleaded, "my partner has anxiety and is quite distressed by this situation."

The officer only nodded before approaching Crowley, whose head was still turned down, avoiding looking at the officers. 

"Sir,"

Crowley winced at the title.

"Sir," the officer repeated, "please look up at me so I can explain what we're going to do."

Crowley looked up shakily, and the officer tried not to gasp at their eyes. 

"What's your name?" the officer asked. 

"Anthony Crowley."

"Okay, Anthony, we're going to pat you down to make sure you're not carrying anything harmful. This is standard procedure, and we are in no way trying to make you uncomfortable."

Right…

"Would you rather a male or female officer pat you down?" 

"Aziraphale," Crowley mumbled.

"What's that?"

"Aziraphale, my husband."

The officer laughed.

"I'm afraid we can't do that, Anthony. If you can't choose, I'm going to pay you down. Is that alright?"

"Jussst get on with it, then," Crowley hissed, clamming up. 

The officer pat them down, and then waved a wand around their body. 

"Well, I looks like it's just your earring, here, Anthony," the officer chuckled. 

Crowley smiled weakly.

The officer escorted Crowley back to Aziraphale, who breathed a sigh of relief. 

"First time in security?" the officer asked. 

"I'm afraid so," Aziraphale answered, gripping Crowley's still shaking hand.

"You on vacation?"

"Honeymoon."

"Congratulations! I hope the rest of your trip goes smoothly. Welcome to America!"

Aziraphale smiled warily and nodded. 

Welcome to America indeed.

When they had finally made it out of JFK International and to their hotel, Crowley was thoroughly drained. 

"I think we should order dinner up to our room," Aziraphale suggested, unpacking their bags. 

Crowley let out a muffled affirmation from where they were splayed out on the bed. 

"Oh dear, those Americans were dreadfully overzealous with their security," the angel commented, standing by the window.

"Mmmf" 

"But, we're here now, thankfully."

Below him, the lights of New York City twinkled cheerfully.

"Come to bed," Crowley called, now sitting up.

"What about dinner?"

"We can have dinner later. After spending all those hours in that cramped plane, and then standing all that time in all those queues, you must be exhausted," Crowley retorted. 

"Well, I suppose I could use a little lay down," Aziraphale admitted, closing the curtains. 

"Of course you do!" Crowley exclaimed, and with a snap, Aziraphale found himself on top of his spouse. 

"Dearest, I thought we agreed on no miracles," he chided lightly. 

Crowley rolled their eyes. 

"What can I say? I'm a demon!" they giggled with a wink. 

"You sure are, darling."

Thus began the first night of their honeymoon, an angel and demon laughing away in bed in the middle of a very, very strange land. 

The next day, they fed the ducks at Central Park and visited the Natural History Museum. 

"You know what I hear, darling?" Aziraphale asked as they glanced skeptically at the enormous dinosaur skeleton. 

"What?" Crowley replied absentmindedly, fiddling with a bone. 

"That at night, this museum comes to life," Aziraphale answered in a conspiratorial tone. 

Crowley scoffed.

"Umm, excuse me, step away from the dino," a security guard called out, brusquely approaching the two. 

Crowley swerved, remembering their last encounter with an officer. 

"What do you think you're doing?" the guard asked, his hands on his hips. 

"Terribly sorry-," Aziraphale began to apologize. 

"Daley. Larry Daley. You're British, huh?"

"I suppose."

Almost immediately, Crowley realized the guard was not a threat. 

"I don't see what the problem is," they drawled, tracing a spindly finger on a bone.

"Hey! Don't touch that!" Daley sputtered. 

"Why? S not like it's real," the demon shrugged. 

"All a hoax," Aziraphale added, his inner bastard shining through. He couldn't let Crowley have all the fun. 

"Oh, great, religious folk, aren't you?" 

"Something of the sort."

"Christian? 'Cause you seem like the type. And if you're not going to respect history, you may as well leave."

"Oh no, that would look terrible on my record," Crowley protested, grinning.

"Ah, so you're Jewish."

"No, no, not that there's anything wrong with that."

Crowley terribly enjoyed the perplexed expression on Daley's face.

"Okay, we've had our fun. Forgive us, we just couldn't help ourselves. It is our first real interaction with an American in the States," Aziraphale apologized, trying not to laugh. 

"Okay…" 

Daley narrowed his eyes at the odd couple, who made their way to the miniatures. 

"Cute," Crowley mused, winking at the Western diorama. If a certain tiny cowboy became enraged, that was 'purely' coincidence. 

[loving-jack-kelly]

Anthony J. Crowley was many things, but soft was not one of them.

His corporeal form was all hard lines, bony hips and prominent collarbone and no extra padding anywhere.

A waste of a miracle, the designers had said when they’d given it to him, it takes more power to give you extra form, and you’ll look more demonic like this anyway.

And it was true. For six thousand years, Crowley’s bones and sinew and sharp, hard lines had served their purpose. He could be scary when he needed to, he could blend in when he didn’t, and he’d never really wanted to be soft.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was very soft. Soft hearted, soft spoken for the most part, and his body was all soft lines.

[ao3feed-goodomens]

Soft Lines

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2JDvaKf

by SpraceJunkie

Anthony J. Crowley was many things, but soft was not one of them.

His corporeal form was all hard lines, bony hips and prominent collarbone and no extra padding anywhere.

A waste of a miracle, the designers had said when they’d given it to him, it takes more power to give you extra form, and you’ll look more demonic like this anyway.

And it was true. For six thousand years, Crowley’s bones and sinew and sharp, hard lines had served their purpose. He could be scary when he needed to, he could blend in when he didn’t, and he’d never really wanted to be soft.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was very soft. Soft hearted, soft spoken for the most part, and his body was all soft lines.

Words: 4194, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Other

Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)

Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)

Additional Tags: crowley is a snake, He's Cold, Zira is so warm and soft, that's it that's the story, Confessions, Pining, Mutual Pining, i'm a disaster also watch out i'm planning one with an actual plot djgkjagjkadglkh, catch me ignoring all my other wips bc i watched this show

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2JDvaKf

[myserie]

Crowley and Duncan proposal? but things don't go as planned

It was a band of silver, simple and thick with emerald chips dotting the outward surface. Duncan frowned as he turned the ring over in his palm, and then glanced back up at the royal jeweller, Frederick. He was a short, narrow man with hawk-like eyes and a matching beak-shaped nose, but a talented silversmith and one of the finest jewel cutters in Araluen.

“Is it to your expectations, your Majesty?” Frederick inquired.

Duncan nodded and pocketed the ring. “It’s perfect, Frederick,” he said. “And you know not to say anything to anyone. Gossip spreads quickly.”

“Of course, your Majesty,” Frederick bowed and promptly left Duncan’s office, and the King sighed heavily and scrubbed his hands through his hair.

It had been eight years since he first met Crowley, soaked to the bone and gasping for breath on the edge of Wildriver, the red-haired Ranger watching him wide-eyed like an owl. He hadn’t known then how important Crowley would become, to himself and the kingdom, that first moment.

But he’d never forget the way the sun shone off Crowley’s fiery hair or the quirk of a victorious grin beginning to form at the corners of his lips. Looking back, that was the moment something inside him sparked.

A flash of green caught his eye and he grinned just as Crowley slid neatly between Duncan’s knees and his desk, perched on the very edge like a bird. The Ranger Commandant was grinning, bright as the sunlight streaming through the windows on the far side of his office.

“You’re chipper,” Duncan observed, suddenly very aware of the ring pressing against his thigh. “Did you scare someone horrible?”

“The Iberion Ambassador,” Crowley replied. “He dropped something very expensive, Lord Anthony is probably going to complain about it later.”

“Oh good,” Duncan became highly aware of the way Crowley’s knees were braced around his own. If he pulled Crowley into his lap, the other man would no doubt feel the ring in his pocket and now wasn’t the place Duncan had envisioned when he first ordered the ring.

He stood from his chair quickly and shoved Crowley further back along the desk, placing both hands on the Commandant’s hips. Crowley smirked, obviously pleased with himself.

“When’s your next meeting?” Crowley inquired, curling deceptively strong arms around Duncan’s neck. Duncan grinned and pressed his forehead against Crowley’s so their noses bumped together.

“I think I have a few minutes,” he replied, grinning as Crowley tugged him into a kiss.

-

“One of these days we’re going to break your desk,” Crowley said as he straightened the various items that had been knocked over in the last few minutes. “And I’m not going to be the one explaining to the royal carpenter why it suddenly snapped in half.”

“I have a royal carpenter?” Was Duncan’s only reply, too busy relishing the bone-deep satisfaction that had overtaken his body. Crowley rolled his eyes and tossed Duncan’s discarded sword and belt towards his lover.

Despite his relaxed posture, Duncan’s hand snatched the sword out of the air before it could collide with his chest and he stood from his chair, buckling the belt around his waist and letting the weapon hang against his thigh.

Crowley adjusted his own belt and took a step towards the other man, and felt something under his boot that scratched against the hard stone floor.

He glanced down and spotted the offending object, a bright silver ring with emerald chips inlaid on the outer side of the band. “Did you lose something?” He asked as he picked up the ring and held it out to Duncan.

Duncan paled and Crowley frowned at him. “Duncan,” he said, a touch of concern in his voice.

Duncan panicked. “Marry me,” the King stated.

Crowley blinked at him. “I’m sorry, what?” The Ranger Commandant demanded.

“Marry me,” Duncan repeated, taking the ring from Crowley’s grip and falling to one knee. He regretted it immediately as the joint in his hip and knee cracked loudly and he winced and swore.

Crowley was still for a long time, long enough that Duncan’s knee went numb against the cold marble floors.

“Are you serious?” Crowley said finally.

Duncan swallowed tightly. “Yes,” he said. “I wasn’t planning on proposing like this, I had romance planned. Flowers. Possibly a musician. I only just got the ring today, I hadn’t even begun to-”

Crowley kissed him, practically knocked Duncan backwards onto the floor with his arms wrapped around the King’s shoulders. Automatically Duncan’s arms curled around Crowley’s waist as they laid there on the floor, still kissing.

“Yes,” Crowley breathed as they finally separated, grinning madly. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you.”

Duncan grinned back, when a thought occurred to him that caused the grin to fall from his face.

“What?” Crowley asked.

Duncan stared at the ceiling, accepting his fate. “I’ll never hear the end of this from Cassandra. I promised I’d let her help plan the proposal,” he said.Crowley’s forehead pressed into Duncan’s chest as the Ranger Commandant shook with barely hidden laughter. Duncan took the opportunity to slide the ring onto Crowley’s finger, just as the far door to his office swung open.

It was Lord Anthony, come to complain about whatever expensive object Crowley caused the Iberion Ambassador to drop. 

[mandymonday]

I see so many posts that are like 'Mr. Tennant no one walks like that, you wonderful, slutty man' and like, as a man with problems from he hip down, I'd like to say he's probably just got bad hips and it hurts to not walk like that.

Still a Wonderfully Slutty Fellow but he also has hip problems