Good Omens Crowley and Aziraphale shorts--Ineffable Husbands PWPs and fluff

The Curtain of the Sanctuary

NOTE/WARNING No explicit on-page sex, but explicit discussion and heavy references to sex, including xeno/non-human genitalia. 

Aziraphale came back to reality with what he was sure would be a nasty bruise on the base of his spine where the edge of the desk had been bumping against it, a feeling of dizzy elation, and the vague impression that his soul had been sucked out. That had been happening a lot lately, ever since a few days ago when he had summoned his courage and kissed Crowley on the way home from the Ritz, and been dragged by the hand back to Crowley's flat.

Crowley looked smugly up at him, extended an inhumanly long tongue to clean up his own chin, and rose to his feet. Aziraphale was gathered up and kissed lovingly on the cheek.

"Good?"

"Perfect. You're perfect." Aziraphale slid a hand around Crowley's hip and down and inwards.

And there it was. The one blot on perfection since Crowley had whispered fierce words of love in his ear and taken him in hand, so speak, on that night. Aziraphale's hand was caught, lifted and kissed before it could reach its destination. "I'm all right, angel. Let me be the one to please you. You don't have to."

"I want to."

"Next time, beautiful." Crowley kissed his lips, chastely and then deeper, the faint bitterness of semen on his tongue. Lovingly, passionately. Distractingly.

It was always next time. Aziraphale told himself not to probe, that nagging Crowley to talk about things never worked, that they had thousands of years to work out all the implications of being an unemployed angel and demon in each other's arms. But it hurt. There was no use pretending it didn't. Crowley obviously found him desirable. Crowley would drop to his knees at the first opportunity, or spread Aziraphale out on the bed and kiss and linger over every inch, draw orgasm out of orgasm from him while lavishing him with as much besotted praise as kisses. Crowley just never let himself be undressed or touched in return.

Once or twice Crowley had rutted himself frantically against Aziraphale's backside and shuddered and shouted in what had to be orgasm, but always trapped in leather or a harsh zip so that Aziraphale strained to feel the shape of him, always from behind. He never let Aziraphale touch, never let him see. Never, to be direct about it, fucked him, or seemed keen to have his trousers removed for the other way around.

Aziraphale would pull his friend close, let him doze in his arms, and think of all the times he had called Crowley a fiend, a demon, fallen, reminded him of his place. It had been a way of keeping them safe, reminding them of the distance, affectionate even. Now Aziraphale worried that Crowley had heard lesser and dirty and somehow thought it wasn't his place to be loved. The guilt tarnished some of the shining happiness and love of the last few days.

"Crowley," he said carefully, "you don't think you're unworthy of me because I'm an angel?"

"Don't be bloody stuck-up. I'll take a demon over an angel any day, hypocritical wankers -- unless it's you. "

"Then why don't you want me to make love to you?" His voice cracked despite himself. "I mean, if you aren't made to feel that way, I understand and I won't try again, but I need to know ."

"Oh, don't sound like that. It's not that I don't want you to touch me," Crowley admitted miserably. "I have been dreaming about it for thousands of years. I'm -- well, I'm bloody terrified of what will happen, if you must know."

"Darling." Aziraphale stroked his face. "I wouldn't do anything you didn't want to."

"Great. So we can forget this whole thing and go back to me making you happy." Crowley rubbed his cheek against Aziraphale's, with an erotic scrape of faint stubble that had to be deliberate, as Crowley didn't grow facial hair unless he chose to. "I do make you happy, don't I?"