I will probably fry in hell for this
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16 Nov 2019
Some bedroom banter about penances puts a not-quite-nice idea into Aziraphale’s head, but it turns into a sweet exploration of how liberating it is for Crowley to simply surrender to his angel, and Aziraphale feeling his way into the responsibility that comes with being even a soft Dom.
Or, a four part broadside of unapologetic filth, with a fluffy little cherry on top.
He sidles around the last stack of books and sets down the bottle, and is about to swivel onto the couch when Aziraphale’s knee comes up, catching him just hard enough on the leg to throw him off balance, and he stumbles sideways. A strong hand catches him before he can hurt himself, and another shifts to press him facedown over the angel’s knees. He’s a little gobsmacked by how fast it’s happened.
The hand is quite unyielding. Aziraphale’s sitting forward so that Crowley’s just off the edge of the couch, knees on the floor. He braces his forearms on a small pile of 1860’s travel journals and experimentally pushes upward. He’s not going anywhere.