feralboy
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Izzy is always the first one to arrive at the pub, signing off on shipments and taking stock, and if Edward shows up it will be just before last call, when Izzy is dead on his feet and can’t say no to a single thing. Truthfully, though, he rarely can.
Every day starts and ends exactly the same way, until a particularly chatty history professor begins sharing his morning commute.
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Bookmarked by feralboy
20 Jul 2022
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Crowley kept his eyes zeroed in on Aziraphale’s face. Watching, waiting for any sign that Aziraphale was displeased or repulsed. This was a relatively new game, one that had him naked and on his knees before his angel. No sunglasses on, no defenses up. His soft cock rested in his lap, unacknowledged for now. His hands were behind his back, forearms tied one above the other with a silky but unrelenting cloth rope. The position forced his chest forward, a flat one today, and his nipples were peaking in the cool air. Each breath he took expanded his ribcage, displayed each ridge of bone in his thin frame. He tried to keep his breathing steady, even, unhurried. This was the game. He was to hold still and let himself be seen.
Aziraphale wants Crowley to let go of his carefully maintained human persona and let Aziraphale look at him with all his defenses down. A short but sweet exploration of submission and the mortifying ordeal of being known (and the rewards of being loved).
Bookmarked by feralboy
01 Sep 2021
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Because Crowley wants. He's wanted since… as long as he can remember. To be able to give himself to the angel until there's nothing else that can be taken.
To give and give and give .
💜
Crowley offers and Aziraphale indulges.
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Bookmarked by feralboy
31 Aug 2021
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i loved you first, i loved you first by aziraphvle (strangehunger)
Fandoms: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
08 Jul 2019
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"It needs a trim," Crowley had said by way of explanation, using the blades to gesture to his long braid. "It’s driving me mad."
It drove Aziraphale mad, too. In a rather different way, he supposed. A handful of years had passed since the Apocalypse had failed to happen and the two had quietly slipped away from the hustle and bustle of London to these windswept hills. Crowley hadn’t cut his hair since, and it had grown long. Longer than Aziraphale had seen it in centuries, possibly millennia. When it wasn’t pulled back in a plait, it curled long and loose over his shoulders, or dripped wet down his back, or fanned against the cream of the pillows --
At that particular thought, Aziraphale had, naturally, protested. And when that had failed, he had laid a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, slipped the shears from his hand, and said, "Allow me."
or: an incredibly self indulgent piece of introspection surrounding Crowley and his hair, as seen from Aziraphale's perspective.
Bookmarked by feralboy
27 Aug 2021
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“You don’t like answering questions, do you?” Aziraphale sounds a bit sad about it. “Okay.”
He steps over to the table and picks up his tumbler. “Come with me. I know what to do with you.”
And, well. Curiosity has always been Crowley’s hamartia, hasn’t it?
He follows Aziraphale into the sanctuary, all the way down the aisle, and stops. Aziraphale points at each side of the confessional.
“You go in there, I go in there.”
Bookmarked by feralboy
21 Aug 2021