Happy Holidays, DwarvenBeardSpores!
Dec. 13th, 2018 10:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
goe_mod posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
go_exchangeTitle: Three Out of Seven
Recipient: DwarvenBeardSpores
Characters/Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: E (NSFW)
Word Count: 1,440
Notes: Hi, recipient mine! Your love of Crowley's tendency to sleep after a meal was tempting, so that's the prompt I chose. Gluttony and Sloth aren't the onlysins indulgences you'll find in here, though. Christmas Eve is for all sorts of mischief.
Summary: “There’ll be none your complaining about crumbs,” Aziraphale warned, materializing a fork. He cut a diminutive sliver of custard, nudging it enticingly against Crowley’s lips.
Crowley took the bite without protest. He licked the tines with a hazy expression that suggested this had no more been about food for him than it had been about cinema for Aziraphale.
“S’good,” he said, opening his mouth for more, so Aziraphale obliged him. “I could make this.”
Aziraphale snorted and indulged in a heaping forkful. “You? Baking? That would be the day.”
Drinking in companionable silence after a substantial meal was a time-honored tradition, and if there was anything Aziraphale respected, it was that. He’d come to respect Crowley more—but, since the demon was just as big a fan of the traditional, the decision didn’t warrant much fuss.
Aziraphale leaned into Crowley while overblown opening credits sprawled their way across the television screen. The particular vintage they were drinking had been an astute call indeed: dulcet enough to appease Crowley’s sweet-tooth, but possessed of enough bite that Aziraphale didn’t feel like transforming it into something red.
“Dunno about you,” Crowley said, sinking lower on the sofa as he drained his champagne flute, wiggling his toes against the edge of the coffee table, “but I’m hungry.”
Aziraphale steadfastly ignored the young-adult drama unfolding on the telly, emptying his flute so that he, too, could slouch to a Crowley-worthy degree. He reticently braced the balls of his feet against the coffee table, trying the sheer indolence on for size.
“I can see why propping one’s extremities on the nearest piece of furniture not built for the purpose holds so much appeal. It’s bound to leave smudges on lacquered wood, and the overall effect it has is anything but elegant.”
Crowley snickered, snapping his fingers so that both of their glasses vanished. “Sloth, really?”
“I’ve already got a handle on this one, as you’re fond of pointing out,” said Aziraphale, irritably, bumping Crowley’s shoulder with his own. “I’m taking it to the logical extreme.”
“If you think bare feet on furniture’s as extreme as it gets,” Crowley marveled, “whooo-eee.”
Aziraphale scoffed wearily. “Rather hard to fetch leftovers from this position, I should think.”
Somehow twisting his body without losing toe-purchase on the coffee table, Crowley snuggled into Aziraphale’s side. He ran his hand over Aziraphale’s belly, slipping his pinkie deftly beneath Aziraphale's overdone top layers.
The soft, slyly calculated brush of Crowley's finger made Aziraphale shiver.
“You didn’t really want to watch an insipid Christmas Eve film, did you?” Crowley murmured.
“No, my dear,” Aziraphale sighed, setting his hand against Crowley’s middle in turn. He rucked up the grudgingly-worn, itchy jumper with caution, palming the planes of Crowley’s ribs and stomach.
Shivering, Crowley melted into the cushions with a breathy sigh. “I was thinking more dessert.”
“That wouldn’t go amiss,” Aziraphale agreed, delivering a light, fond pinch to Crowley’s side.
“Someone stuck both pies in the fridge,” Crowley griped, swallowing a giggle as he flinched. “I don’t think custard is meant to be eaten cold.”
Too lazily aroused to get up and do things the old-fashioned way, Aziraphale snapped the fingers of his free hand. A plate with two surprised, flash-heated slices of the requested confection landed on the cushion next to him. He stopped caressing Crowley and reached for it, bringing it over to balance precariously between their pressed-together hips.
“There’ll be none your complaining about crumbs,” Aziraphale warned, materializing a fork. He cut a diminutive sliver of custard, nudging it enticingly against Crowley’s lips.
Crowley took the bite without protest. He licked the tines with a hazy expression that suggested this had no more been about food for him than it had been about cinema for Aziraphale.
“S’good,” he said, opening his mouth for more, so Aziraphale obliged him. “I could make this.”
Aziraphale snorted and indulged in a heaping forkful. “You? Baking? That would be the day.”
“Listen, there’s a lot you don’t know,” said Crowley, making a grab for the fork. “No fair.”
“Ah ah,” Aziraphale chided, holding it out of his reach. “You needn’t lift a finger.”
“No, but I could lift the plate,” Crowley said, “and do a repeat of the blasted cream cake.”
“You wouldn’t,” replied Aziraphale, with mock-horror, but he swung the fork back within range and scooped another piece of pie. He fed it to Crowley. “My poor coat never recovered.”
“That coat bit the dust at least a century before you decided to put it back on,” Crowley said with his mouth full, snatching the fork. With fierce concentration, he cut off a piece that, given the angle at which they were slouching, Aziraphale would have difficulty swallowing.
“Yes, but you thought I looked quite fetching,” Aziraphale mumbled once Crowley had successfully shoveled the custard into his mouth. He swallowed. “I could tell.”
Unblinking, Crowley took one more bite of pie, dropped the fork on the plate, and banished the whole lot to the coffee table. He took hold of Aziraphale’s collar and hauled him into a kiss that, while sticky on account of the custard, was more tempting than Gluttony or Sloth.
“Change of plans,” Crowley whispered against Aziraphale’s mouth. “I thought we might…”
“Here?” Aziraphale asked, certain he was suggesting something trickier to clean than crumbs.
Crowley nodded, tangling his fingers in a hurried effort to remove Aziraphale’s jumper. “Here.”
“There’ll be none of your complaining about—oh,” Aziraphale gasped, twisting off the sofa so he could dislodge Crowley’s feet from the table and kneel between his thighs. Not that he had many encounters to go on just yet, but Crowley only vanished their clothes when he was feeling touchy about stamina. “Crowley, what…”
“I’m, ah,” managed the demon, his attractively-flushed chest already heaving, “not full enough.”
Aziraphale leaned forward, dipping his fingers into the sensitive hollows behind Crowley’s knees before sliding his forearms beneath them just so. He couldn’t breathe at the thought, but his wanting equaled Crowley’s, if not exceeded it.
Crowley closed his eyes and shifted, hooking his knees over Aziraphale’s elbows. Not the most comfortable position, but Aziraphale was steady, at least, and Crowley was flexible. He made an irritated sound, rubbing his fingers together with a look of concentration until they went slick.
“Please don’t rush,” Aziraphale murmured, bending forward to lavish kisses on Crowley’s exposed neck while Crowley worked himself open one trembling digit at a time.
“I’ve, look—I’ve tried this,” Crowley gasped, his eyes opening wide. “For science.”
“Only on yourself, I should hope,” Aziraphale soothed, aiming for a good-natured joke. He lapped at the hollow of Crowley’s throat, and the resulting sounds were just divine.
“Harp on the irony, why don’t you,” Crowley whimpered, clutching stickily at Aziraphale’s shoulders. When had he freed up both hands, and how had he managed to last?
“I didn’t mean,” Aziraphale began, but one of Crowley’s hands slipping down to guide him into position erased any and all notion of what he’d meant to say. Keeping the forward press of his hips measured was torture, at least until Crowley bore down on him with a groan.
“Did,” Crowley stammered, meeting Aziraphale’s breathless kiss with laughter, “did I—say the pie was good? Because…” He shuddered into Aziraphale’s careful thrust.
“I haven’t the faintest idea if I’ll be up for more,” Aziraphale said haltingly, adjusting his hold on Crowley’s legs as he withdrew and pushed in again, “but three out of seven…isn’t…”
There wasn’t any tactful way to say Lust was going to do them in, but Crowley’s bitten-off cries and half-hissed pleas were heavenly. This experiment was at least on par with dessert.
“I’m,” Crowley gasped, wide-eyed, with a strained jerk of his hips, “I’m going to...”
“I do hope so,” Aziraphale whispered, nipping Crowley’s ear. He rocked frantically without withdrawing this time, feeling Crowley’s breath hitch in delicious warning.
“Oh God,” Crowley rasped, clearly beyond caring what he sounded like, winding his arms tight around Aziraphale’s neck. “Feels like...”
“Feels like what?” Aziraphale gasped. His next conscious thought was lost to the last stutter of his hips and the utterly glorious havoc that orgasm played with his nerve-endings.
Crowley clawed at Aziraphale’s shoulders, pressing them closer, bucking against the restraint of Aziraphale’s arms hooked beneath his knees. And then he was gone, the hint of wetness against Aziraphale’s chest spreading with each taut thrust.
“Like Heaven’s supposed to,” Crowley sighed as he went limp. He trembled, thighs tensing when Aziraphale dug in his thumbs at Crowley’s hipbones and massaged there. “Mmm.”
“I quite agree,” Aziraphale panted, enjoying the aftershocks immensely. He kissed Crowley’s temple and miracled them clean, pleased when Crowley made a few more of the content noises he’d been making earlier. “Satisfied?”
“Never,” Crowley yawned, nudging at Aziraphale’s arms until he got the message and disentangled them so Crowley could stretch his legs. “S’why I’ll need more, understand.”
“Perfectly,” Aziraphale said, tugging Crowley’s blanket down off the back of the sofa. He tipped them sidelong onto the spacious white leather cushions, tangled and warm.
The film they’d been ignoring plodded on in the background, lulling them into a doze.
Recipient: DwarvenBeardSpores
Characters/Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: E (NSFW)
Word Count: 1,440
Notes: Hi, recipient mine! Your love of Crowley's tendency to sleep after a meal was tempting, so that's the prompt I chose. Gluttony and Sloth aren't the only
Summary: “There’ll be none your complaining about crumbs,” Aziraphale warned, materializing a fork. He cut a diminutive sliver of custard, nudging it enticingly against Crowley’s lips.
Crowley took the bite without protest. He licked the tines with a hazy expression that suggested this had no more been about food for him than it had been about cinema for Aziraphale.
“S’good,” he said, opening his mouth for more, so Aziraphale obliged him. “I could make this.”
Aziraphale snorted and indulged in a heaping forkful. “You? Baking? That would be the day.”
Drinking in companionable silence after a substantial meal was a time-honored tradition, and if there was anything Aziraphale respected, it was that. He’d come to respect Crowley more—but, since the demon was just as big a fan of the traditional, the decision didn’t warrant much fuss.
Aziraphale leaned into Crowley while overblown opening credits sprawled their way across the television screen. The particular vintage they were drinking had been an astute call indeed: dulcet enough to appease Crowley’s sweet-tooth, but possessed of enough bite that Aziraphale didn’t feel like transforming it into something red.
“Dunno about you,” Crowley said, sinking lower on the sofa as he drained his champagne flute, wiggling his toes against the edge of the coffee table, “but I’m hungry.”
Aziraphale steadfastly ignored the young-adult drama unfolding on the telly, emptying his flute so that he, too, could slouch to a Crowley-worthy degree. He reticently braced the balls of his feet against the coffee table, trying the sheer indolence on for size.
“I can see why propping one’s extremities on the nearest piece of furniture not built for the purpose holds so much appeal. It’s bound to leave smudges on lacquered wood, and the overall effect it has is anything but elegant.”
Crowley snickered, snapping his fingers so that both of their glasses vanished. “Sloth, really?”
“I’ve already got a handle on this one, as you’re fond of pointing out,” said Aziraphale, irritably, bumping Crowley’s shoulder with his own. “I’m taking it to the logical extreme.”
“If you think bare feet on furniture’s as extreme as it gets,” Crowley marveled, “whooo-eee.”
Aziraphale scoffed wearily. “Rather hard to fetch leftovers from this position, I should think.”
Somehow twisting his body without losing toe-purchase on the coffee table, Crowley snuggled into Aziraphale’s side. He ran his hand over Aziraphale’s belly, slipping his pinkie deftly beneath Aziraphale's overdone top layers.
The soft, slyly calculated brush of Crowley's finger made Aziraphale shiver.
“You didn’t really want to watch an insipid Christmas Eve film, did you?” Crowley murmured.
“No, my dear,” Aziraphale sighed, setting his hand against Crowley’s middle in turn. He rucked up the grudgingly-worn, itchy jumper with caution, palming the planes of Crowley’s ribs and stomach.
Shivering, Crowley melted into the cushions with a breathy sigh. “I was thinking more dessert.”
“That wouldn’t go amiss,” Aziraphale agreed, delivering a light, fond pinch to Crowley’s side.
“Someone stuck both pies in the fridge,” Crowley griped, swallowing a giggle as he flinched. “I don’t think custard is meant to be eaten cold.”
Too lazily aroused to get up and do things the old-fashioned way, Aziraphale snapped the fingers of his free hand. A plate with two surprised, flash-heated slices of the requested confection landed on the cushion next to him. He stopped caressing Crowley and reached for it, bringing it over to balance precariously between their pressed-together hips.
“There’ll be none your complaining about crumbs,” Aziraphale warned, materializing a fork. He cut a diminutive sliver of custard, nudging it enticingly against Crowley’s lips.
Crowley took the bite without protest. He licked the tines with a hazy expression that suggested this had no more been about food for him than it had been about cinema for Aziraphale.
“S’good,” he said, opening his mouth for more, so Aziraphale obliged him. “I could make this.”
Aziraphale snorted and indulged in a heaping forkful. “You? Baking? That would be the day.”
“Listen, there’s a lot you don’t know,” said Crowley, making a grab for the fork. “No fair.”
“Ah ah,” Aziraphale chided, holding it out of his reach. “You needn’t lift a finger.”
“No, but I could lift the plate,” Crowley said, “and do a repeat of the blasted cream cake.”
“You wouldn’t,” replied Aziraphale, with mock-horror, but he swung the fork back within range and scooped another piece of pie. He fed it to Crowley. “My poor coat never recovered.”
“That coat bit the dust at least a century before you decided to put it back on,” Crowley said with his mouth full, snatching the fork. With fierce concentration, he cut off a piece that, given the angle at which they were slouching, Aziraphale would have difficulty swallowing.
“Yes, but you thought I looked quite fetching,” Aziraphale mumbled once Crowley had successfully shoveled the custard into his mouth. He swallowed. “I could tell.”
Unblinking, Crowley took one more bite of pie, dropped the fork on the plate, and banished the whole lot to the coffee table. He took hold of Aziraphale’s collar and hauled him into a kiss that, while sticky on account of the custard, was more tempting than Gluttony or Sloth.
“Change of plans,” Crowley whispered against Aziraphale’s mouth. “I thought we might…”
“Here?” Aziraphale asked, certain he was suggesting something trickier to clean than crumbs.
Crowley nodded, tangling his fingers in a hurried effort to remove Aziraphale’s jumper. “Here.”
“There’ll be none of your complaining about—oh,” Aziraphale gasped, twisting off the sofa so he could dislodge Crowley’s feet from the table and kneel between his thighs. Not that he had many encounters to go on just yet, but Crowley only vanished their clothes when he was feeling touchy about stamina. “Crowley, what…”
“I’m, ah,” managed the demon, his attractively-flushed chest already heaving, “not full enough.”
Aziraphale leaned forward, dipping his fingers into the sensitive hollows behind Crowley’s knees before sliding his forearms beneath them just so. He couldn’t breathe at the thought, but his wanting equaled Crowley’s, if not exceeded it.
Crowley closed his eyes and shifted, hooking his knees over Aziraphale’s elbows. Not the most comfortable position, but Aziraphale was steady, at least, and Crowley was flexible. He made an irritated sound, rubbing his fingers together with a look of concentration until they went slick.
“Please don’t rush,” Aziraphale murmured, bending forward to lavish kisses on Crowley’s exposed neck while Crowley worked himself open one trembling digit at a time.
“I’ve, look—I’ve tried this,” Crowley gasped, his eyes opening wide. “For science.”
“Only on yourself, I should hope,” Aziraphale soothed, aiming for a good-natured joke. He lapped at the hollow of Crowley’s throat, and the resulting sounds were just divine.
“Harp on the irony, why don’t you,” Crowley whimpered, clutching stickily at Aziraphale’s shoulders. When had he freed up both hands, and how had he managed to last?
“I didn’t mean,” Aziraphale began, but one of Crowley’s hands slipping down to guide him into position erased any and all notion of what he’d meant to say. Keeping the forward press of his hips measured was torture, at least until Crowley bore down on him with a groan.
“Did,” Crowley stammered, meeting Aziraphale’s breathless kiss with laughter, “did I—say the pie was good? Because…” He shuddered into Aziraphale’s careful thrust.
“I haven’t the faintest idea if I’ll be up for more,” Aziraphale said haltingly, adjusting his hold on Crowley’s legs as he withdrew and pushed in again, “but three out of seven…isn’t…”
There wasn’t any tactful way to say Lust was going to do them in, but Crowley’s bitten-off cries and half-hissed pleas were heavenly. This experiment was at least on par with dessert.
“I’m,” Crowley gasped, wide-eyed, with a strained jerk of his hips, “I’m going to...”
“I do hope so,” Aziraphale whispered, nipping Crowley’s ear. He rocked frantically without withdrawing this time, feeling Crowley’s breath hitch in delicious warning.
“Oh God,” Crowley rasped, clearly beyond caring what he sounded like, winding his arms tight around Aziraphale’s neck. “Feels like...”
“Feels like what?” Aziraphale gasped. His next conscious thought was lost to the last stutter of his hips and the utterly glorious havoc that orgasm played with his nerve-endings.
Crowley clawed at Aziraphale’s shoulders, pressing them closer, bucking against the restraint of Aziraphale’s arms hooked beneath his knees. And then he was gone, the hint of wetness against Aziraphale’s chest spreading with each taut thrust.
“Like Heaven’s supposed to,” Crowley sighed as he went limp. He trembled, thighs tensing when Aziraphale dug in his thumbs at Crowley’s hipbones and massaged there. “Mmm.”
“I quite agree,” Aziraphale panted, enjoying the aftershocks immensely. He kissed Crowley’s temple and miracled them clean, pleased when Crowley made a few more of the content noises he’d been making earlier. “Satisfied?”
“Never,” Crowley yawned, nudging at Aziraphale’s arms until he got the message and disentangled them so Crowley could stretch his legs. “S’why I’ll need more, understand.”
“Perfectly,” Aziraphale said, tugging Crowley’s blanket down off the back of the sofa. He tipped them sidelong onto the spacious white leather cushions, tangled and warm.
The film they’d been ignoring plodded on in the background, lulling them into a doze.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-13 06:58 pm (UTC)I love how snuggly and slouchy and snarky they are, and and the gentle caressing of each other's stomachs, and "Too lazily aroused to get up and do things the old-fashioned way, Aziraphale snapped the fingers of his free hand" is so very good.
And they feed each other custard pie and I DIE with happiness that's all I want out of life.
“No, but I could lift the plate,” Crowley said, “and do a repeat of the blasted cream cake.” Ahahahahaha Crowley you wouldn't DARE.
“There’ll be none of your complaining about—oh." I also laughed at this, harder to clean than crumbs indeed.
“I’m, ah,” managed the demon, his attractively-flushed chest already heaving, “not full enough.” Okay so if the feeding hadn't killed me earlier this one would do me in this is so great.
Thank you thank you :D :D <3 <3
(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-14 05:02 pm (UTC)Their various shared hedonisms are, to me, intrinsically linked; I thought, okay, there's no way lazy sofa cuddling and feeding each other dessert isn't going to tilt a bit racy. And so it did ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-13 08:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-14 05:05 pm (UTC)Happy Holidays, and thank you!
(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-14 07:38 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-14 05:07 pm (UTC)Sweet-and-smut is a combination we've had a bit less of this year, as gift content goes, so I figured a slight dash wouldn't go amiss. Granted, what we've had loads of is historical content so far, even more than usual, and I will never complain about that.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-14 12:50 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-14 05:08 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-14 02:19 pm (UTC)>> Well, of COURSE XD What a great start into this fic already :D
"could slouch to a Crowley-worthy degree"
>> HAHAHa! XD
" He reticently braced the balls of his feet against the coffee table, trying the sheer indolence on for size."
>> Gosh, what a wonderful sentence!
“If you think bare feet on furniture’s as extreme as it gets,” Crowley marveled, “whooo-eee.”
>> Aaaahaha! XD Your humour is great! And I love that he says "whoo-ee", like in the book! :D
“Rather hard to fetch leftovers from this position, I should think.”
>> Aziraphale, always thinking practial :P
"A plate with two surprised, flash-heated slices of the requested confection landed on the cushion next to him"
>> I love when food or other objects are described as "surprised" because of the hubbies doing some miracles on them XD
“and do a repeat of the blasted cream cake.”
>> Crowley, NO!
Mmmh, the rest of the fic is... tasty ;D
And the ending, with them cuddling on the sofa under the blanket, is wonderfully cute <3
(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-14 06:16 pm (UTC)Putting feet on nice coffee tables is far more satisfying than it should be. I have a reasonably nice one I got off Craigslist, and I'm not even ashamed to say I put my feet on it all the time. I clean it with neurotic regularity to balance that out, but still. Glad you approve ;)
Aziraphale's surprised glass of transmuted Lafitte in the book is one of my favorite moments on that front. I figure the pie would be extra surprised given that, all in one fell swoop, it went from fridge to plate to heated in the blink of an eye.
Thank you so much, and Happy Holidays!
(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-14 11:50 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-15 02:11 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-19 02:20 pm (UTC)I tried to type a lenny face and it turned into THAT! Hmph!!! Well, lenny gave to you good sir or madam or neuter!!
(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-19 02:21 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-19 08:58 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-19 08:57 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2018-12-20 12:15 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-23 12:06 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-23 10:14 pm (UTC)Thank you very much, V. Happy Holidays from my insomniac wanderings to wherever you are!
(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-25 05:00 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-25 05:03 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-26 01:18 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-26 01:17 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-08 09:13 pm (UTC)Their banter in this is so good. And I LOVE Aziraphale trying to copy Crowley in the beginning, with his slouch, and his feet on the table XD
From irisbleufic:
Date: 2019-01-19 10:43 pm (UTC)