#Gentle dom Aziraphale

[tastymoves]

Chapters: 1/25 Fandom: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Good Omens (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Good Omens Bingo 2021, Alternate Universe - Human, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Gentle Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Anal Sex, Masturbation, Pillow Principality Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), Intersex Crowley Summary:

Don't tell me romance is dead So wake up your sleepy head Think of all the magic we could make All your dreams...

~ Paloma Faith

(kinky) ficlets - 666 words each - tagged as we go

written for @goodomensbingo

Chapter 1: Pillow Principality - Human AU - Gentle!Dom Aziraphale 

[f0ul-f13nd]

A Social Construct Chapter 15: honey gold

…The conversation had meandered between topics but had remained comfortable and relaxed, and now that the wine bottle is empty, the plates cleared, and dessert ordered, Crowley is feeling quite comfortable and relaxed himself.

Until he notices the way Aziraphale is looking at him across the empty table. Hungry, and… Possibly a bit feral. Crowley’s body reacts to it even before his mind processes what it might mean, his heart rate ticking faster. Breath quickening in his chest.

“What? Angel? Wha-” he swallows, his throat feeling tight.

Aziraphale doesn’t seem aware that he’s licked his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. “I’m only thinking of what I hope to do to you later.”

“Ngk,” says Crowley.

“Only if you’re amenable, of course,” Aziraphale adds, with a subtle tip of his head. As though this were a perfectly reasonable negotiation.

Crowley swallows again. Wets his lips. “I think you’ll find that I am, Angel.”

The angel simply gazes at him, his mouth twitching up at one corner.

Crowley doesn’t want to know. Not now. Not here, in this restaurant.

Yes. Yes, he does. He scoots closer to the table, where the long white tablecloth can hide whatever’s about to happen in his godforsaken lap. “What - erm… What did you have in mind?”

Instead of the direct answer Crowley had been expecting, Aziraphale answers with a question. “Do you enjoy being teased, dearest?”

Crowley very nearly swallows his tongue. He can only nod. Yes. He does.

Aziraphale nods as well; he knows. “Yes, you do enjoy it, don’t you,” he says warmly - and yet there’s something predatory in his gaze, something accusatory in his tone when he continues. “Personally, I don’t care for being teased. Which is why it’s been particularly difficult for me, sitting across from you all evening, suffering the provocation of your body beneath that damnable shirt.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, eloquently.

“Yes,” the angel agrees. “Quite.” He smiles then, open and clear-eyed, inviting Crowley to share in the humour of his misfortune. Poor Aziraphale, thwarted by a £21 secondhand top from Oxfam.

Crowley doesn’t feel like laughing; he feels like his cock might be in danger of splitting the front of his trousers. Or sounding a klaxon alarm that calls the attention of the restaurant patrons and staff alike.

“Which is why,” Aziraphale continues mildly, “I plan to keep it on you for as long as possible, while I touch you in all the ways I’ve thought about, this evening. Even after I’ve removed your trousers and whatever you’re wearing under them, that top will stay on. Again… if you’re amenable.”

“Fuck.” Crowley knows that if any other diners were to look at him, they’d know something’s amiss. His breathing is laboured. His hands are in fists on the tablecloth. “N’then?” he asks, because he’s never made a bad decision that he couldn’t take a step further down the road to Hell. Or in this case, down the road to embarrassment in a public space.

“And then, I’ll unbutton it with my teeth, dear. Not to worry - I won’t put my mouth anywhere I shouldn’t. But I can taste your hips, can’t I? Your iliac furrow? The inside of your thighs?”

“Mmm-huh,” Crowley answers, delirious.

“Why don’t you put your hands there, darling?”

Crowley blinks. The question does not compute.

Aziraphale smiles, so soft and patient. “Dearest. If you like, place your hands on your thighs. Only if you like. We can stop this at any time, if you’re uncomfortable.”

[f0ul-f13nd]

A Social Construct Ch 13: an enviable proposition

Heavy eyelids stuttering open, Crowley stumbles from oblivion into wakefulness and disorientation.

Last night, his past and his present, orbiting one another like binary stars, had finally succumbed to their mutual gravity and crashed violently together, reorienting the centre of his universe. Now he’s unmoored, the fabric of spacetime bent around him like the tartan duvet tangled around his shins.

Where is he? What time is it?

His internal clock insists it’s late morning, but the light is all wrong. Where’s the harsh sun that slants through his cheap plastic blinds? This strange room is dim, dust motes dancing through the filtered glow from the heavy drapes.

Why is this mattress so – so soft? The feather pillow beneath his head carries a hint of vanilla and bergamot, of tea and old paper.  

Oh. Aziraphale.  read more here

[f0ul-f13nd]

ALL OF THIS.

[f0ul-f13nd]

chapter 5 of A Social Construct https://archiveofourown.org/works/45376648

[f0ul-f13nd]

Our Two Solitudes Ch 7 smut

Aziraphale supports him easily in his arms, all power and control. He slides Crowley lower down his body, mouth moving from the demon’s collarbones, up his neck, to his lips once again.

And as Crowley lets himself be devoured, he feels the length of Aziraphale’s cock – firm, insistent – nestled along the cleft of his arse.

“I want you in me,” he hears himself saying, murmuring into the angel’s mouth.

Aziraphale pulls back to look at him, his starving gaze honest and open. “I want that, too,” he replies, sounding wrecked and ready.

“Fucking fantastic,” Crowley tells him, wondering how the fussy angel will feel about this – this process. “Let me show you…”

Aziraphale shifts Crowley’s weight a bit, and then the heel of the angel’s right hand is on his arse cheek, pulling it to the side, and blunt fingertips are rubbing gently at his rim, circling, pressing.

“Fuck, that feels good. Fuck. Okay. Now I usually –” his words break off into a strangled groan; Aziraphale’s fingers are slick with miracled lube. “Jesus, that’s –” He drops his head forward, resting his cheek on the angel’s shoulder. “Good,” he breathes. “That’s good.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says in a warning sort of voice, “I want you to look at me when I tell you this.”

The touching has stopped. Shit. Shit shit shit. His head jerks up, wide eyes hurriedly meeting Aziraphale's, which are sharp and focused.

“Honestly. You act as though I’ve never pleasured myself. Or read several hundred books on human anatomy and sexual behaviour. I know how to open you up and find your prostate. I’m sure I can figure out the rest. Now who is in charge here?” Aziraphale raises his eyebrows, clearly waiting for an answer.

“You are, Angel,” Crowley answers meekly. “Sorry.”

“Thank you. Now let me take care of you, Crowley.”

“But I’m s’posed to – ah! Okay. Okay…” Aziraphale’s fingers are back, pressing, sliding, teasing against him where he’s most vulnerable, and he’s gasping, grinding, wanting.

God, he’s really good at that.

“Kiss me,” he begs, and then he’s lost in the vast sea of their mouths surging together, their tongues like crashing waves, synchronised with the gentle tide of Aziraphale’s fingers stroking him, stroking him, entering him. One finger, then two. Deeper, pressing where he’s most sensitive, where each touch lights up the depths with sparks of flame, threatening to consume him in water and fire.

If he doesn’t stop, Crowley’s going to come, right now, all over his belly. complete fic at https://archiveofourown.org/works/43732359

[f0ul-f13nd]

At the end of Chapter 2, Aziraphale sent a text:  “Would you like me to help you relax?”

Chapter 3 has posted :) Praising Aziraphale’s loveliness is like tossing sugarcubes into the sea. No matter how many saccharine words Crowley hurls at him – (gorgeous, devastating, rubenesque) – the man still drowns in waves of salty self-deprecation.Crowley wishes he could tell Aziraphale the truth: “I’ve been watching you for months. I’ve seen you in the harsh light of the library. I’ve seen you sick, irritated, scared. I know your shape and your scent and your laugh.”But for now all he can do is throw another sweet cube of sugar: (the most desirable man i’ve ever seen?) And hope the man will take a bite.