Several years into married life, Crowley asks his husband to fulfill a fantasy.
To reimagine one of the nights Aziraphale turned him down, on a Soho street in the 1960s. Only this time, Aziraphale gets back in the car, because he wants Crowley more than he can resist.
"I'm going to hold you down and fuck you," Aziraphale murmurs, "until you can't ever forget how much I love you."
Bookmarked by lurkmuch
06 Aug 2020
soon you'll grow so take a chance with a couple of kooks (hung up on romancing) by mygalfriday (BrinneyFriday)
30 Jan 2020
The image of Aziraphale — his bowtie undone and his coat long abandoned, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows — with a newborn tucked snugly in the crook of his arm like some sort of angelic nanny will stay with Crowley long after this world is nothing but a smoking crater.
Bookmarked by lurkmuch
05 Aug 2020
Clementine by Mussimm for commodorecliche
07 Jan 2020
I love you madly
Let my imagination run away with you gladly.
The seaside neighbours AU exactly one person asked for.
14 Dec 2019
The Cold War is ending, and Crowley can’t help but love an angel.
Aziraphale hummed happily to himself and bustled about, getting out an appropriate tea service and putting a plate of scones on the table. Crowley helped himself to one, nibbling at it while he watched Aziraphale work.
He could almost see the angel’s halo when he was like this, lost in some pleasant task and content in his labor. So much less fraught, going through rituals like these with no one to see and judge and reprimand if anything wasn’t done to someone else’s standards. The only witness was Crowley, and Aziraphale had made it clear some time ago that if Crowley had a complaint about how Aziraphale made his tea, he was quite at liberty to go home and make his own. No, this was something Aziraphale was doing for himself, because he found it soothing and pleasurable and good, and Aziraphale was practically glowing with it.
Fandoms: Good Omens (TV)
05 Dec 2019
Aziraphale starts something in the Bastille that gets out of his control. He's not used to that.
One of them's in love. The other wants to insist it's only a dalliance. It's going to be a rough ride.
“Don’t try to fool me, my dear. That is a temptation, for me to believe that, to imagine I’ve redeemed you, and I know you can’t love, or you wouldn’t be a demon.” He reaches two fingers up to Crowley’s cheekbones, one under each yellow, slitted eye, as if to remind him they’re still Hell-eyes, serpent-eyes, whatever’s on his tongue (chocolate, the angel thinks, and the phantoms of my kisses). “No more of this talk, or we shall have to stop. These pleasures are only what they are, but all the same I should hate to abandon them.”
There’s a short silence. “So should I,” says Crowley, in a tone of concession.
“There. So by the power of Heaven I abjure you – “ he needs to make this playful, he can’t be angry in this bed that’s just been so full of soft delights, something’s tugging at him inside and he doesn’t like it – “speak no more of this.”