quitequaintrelle
Fandoms
- Good Omens (TV) (8)
Recent works
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Summary
“This was a terrible idea.” Aziraphale's fingers drum an agitated rhythm on Crowley's shoulders. He plucks at the silky material of the cape draped over them.
Crowley snorts. “May I remind you that it was your terrible idea. You were the one who wanted… What was it? Oh, right. Verisimilitude.”
Aziraphale and Crowley indulge in a little ooky-spooky roleplay. (Well, Aziraphale indulges in the roleplay; Crowley mostly indulges Aziraphale.)
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Summary
“Crowley, I’m so… it hurts,” Aziraphale manages between shuddering breaths. “Please, I… I need…”
Even if Crowley hadn't spent every waking moment of his existence (and many of the slumbering ones) attuning himself to Aziraphale's desires, he would be acutely aware of what Aziraphale needs right now.
It's jammed against his thigh.
On a beach outing, Crowley has a clever plan to share an intimate moment with Aziraphale. This plan, of course, goes off without a hitch.
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Aziraphale could hustle him up to the master bath immediately. Nudge him under the shower's hot spray. Or ease him into the enveloping warmth of their claw-foot tub, the water filled to the brim. He could also simply snap his fingers and have a dry, toasty demon in an instant.
Just as Crowley could have banished the burgeoning clouds as soon as their underbellies swelled fat and grey, or conjured himself an umbrella, or fled inside at the first hint of raindrops on his skin.
But he didn't.
Crowley is also fully capable of whipping up a drying miracle of his own.
But he hasn't.
Crowley gets wet. Aziraphale kindly helps him with that.
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Summary
Crowley takes the offered hand in his. He rotates it so it’s palm up. Slides two fingers underneath the leather glove, lifting the edge to reveal a snatch of pale wrist. Stroking the skin with his thumb, he follows the blue veins down until they disappear beneath the frilled shirt sleeve. He’d like to trace that lifeline with his tongue. Unfortunately, there's propriety to consider. Crowley peels the glove back and sneaks a chaste kiss on the heart of the man’s palm.
There—the faint rustle of a long, trembling breath.
Two strangers (not really) have a chance (or perhaps not-so-chance) encounter at a masquerade ball.
Maybe this time, things will be different.
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Summary
Black. White. Black.
There's a strip of pale skin visible between the bottom of Crowley’s turtleneck and the top of his jeans. Just enough space to fit the width of Aziraphale's little finger.
Crowley has draped himself across the length of their sofa in a long-limbed sprawl, his head pillowed on Aziraphale's thighs while he naps. A typical Sunday afternoon pose. Aziraphale's hand—the one not holding his book—rests on Crowley's hip. His fingers twitch, drawn towards the gap between the edges of Crowley's clothes.
While lazing on a Sunday afternoon, Aziraphale takes care of Crowley.