Kink Bingo Amnesty Story!
May. 16th, 2010 02:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vulgarweedVirtue, Ever Vigilant
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating: R
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Kink prompt: Sleepy/unconscious
Virtue, Ever-Vigilant
This was not the first time he had done this. The 7th century BC, for example.
Crowley had taken to his tent in one of the world's first and most impressive displays of ennui--he managed somehow to almost make that non-emotion dramatic--and, so he'd said, had to dig his way out of a massive sand dune when he finally woke. But at least it had been warm. That was more than he could say for the third century AD (his first on that damn and sunless island), and he'd been disconcerted to wake and find his Roman villa overgrown with a new stand of beech trees and a few very startled sheep.
The first time it had happened, Aziraphale had been a little relieved that that demon appeared to be gone once and for all, and found it hard to pinpoint the dimly unpleasant emotion that accompanied that. It would hardly do to miss him, exactly, but he did feel a bit at a loss for what to do with his spare time.
The second time, Aziraphale knew that a permanent disappearance was probably not indicated, so he decided instead to get as much Heaven's business done as he could in the time that he had with no one to wile away all his copious Good Work. But since he didn't know precisely how much time that was, the sheer amount of good that could be done and needed to be done overwhelmed him so that he simply had to sit down and think about it for a while, and perhaps contemplate making a few lists, and of course by the time he felt he finally had his priorities sorted, Crowley had sauntered in rather awake but still having a little bit of moss clinging to his hair.
The third time, Aziraphale was beginning to notice a pattern. Just about a century. Aziraphale was not making a point of strolling past Crowley's fine wooden house from time to time, just to check in. And he was not quite distraught on the day that house, along with most of its neighbourhood, burned to the ground, and when Crowley returned a few years later, it was in a body with a slightly different nose, just a little bit taller.
I hope it didn't hurt the poor dear too much, he thought. Er. Well. All God's creatures and all that. Then he wondered if Crowley had ever woken up at all. He'd suspected with his usual ineffectual disapproval that sleep was just another of humanity's habits Crowley collected with a little too much interest to be entirely decent - but no humans slept like Crowley slept, at least certainly not to ever wake up again. There was something in the act that Aziraphale found kind of impressive - he was certainly capable of gathering a good deal of dust himself as long as there was a good book involved, but the idea of being so inert for so long with one's eyes closed and mind, one imagined, turned off entirely was something far enough outside of his experience to be intriguing, but not so far as to be frightening. (Unlike some of the other things Crowley alluded to having done in beds, but unlike sleeping, in company.)
So the fourth time Crowley slept for a century--the 19th--Aziraphale decided to investigate more closely. Perhaps under the pretense of watching for any more fires. Though that pretense would crumble under closer examination, as he probably was not supposed to be acting as a celestial smoke detector while a demon enacted a truly heroic achievement of Sloth.
He half thought it was possible that the presence of an angel in his bedroom might wake Crowley, and then there would be awkwardness unless Aziraphale could manage to pass himself off as a dream or possibly the Tooth Fairy. But nothing of the sort happened - the long form under the sheets barely stirred, and for the first time, Aziraphale looked upon one of the few lumps in the world that could be described as lithe.
Crowley slept like that was the function for which he'd been created. His limbs coiled, his body started to breathe of its own accord with a sort of whispering hiss of a snore, his body temperature dropped, the mattress molded itself to his body, and his skin took on the vague cream colour of his sheets for camouflage. He only drooled a little. (In fact his body had a slight tendency to dessicate, and when he finally did wake up, he liked to have a good cleansing skin-shed before coming out in public again. That was what gave his complexion the expensive quality no spa could produce on a human.)
But when Aziraphale approached him, he was only about 27 years into his nap, so still rather fresh and almost-awake, relatively speaking, still a decade or two away from the very deepest stages. Aziraphale jumped when Crowley moved, but saw the eyes never open, the soft breaths never changing, just a slight rearrangement of arms beneath the clinging sheets, the emerging of a sinuous leg from one edge of the duvet.
Aziraphale drew closer. Fascinating. It wasn't exactly deathlike at all. It was as though Crowley's body were here (and was it ever here, Aziraphale noticed, almost certainly unclothed) and whatever it was that animated him were elsewhere and Aziraphale wasn't quite sure how that even worked for their kind. Emboldened, Aziraphale sat on the edge of the bed very carefully and took in Crowley's face--his hair grown long and shaggy, his eyes still so implacably closed, the cheeks every so slightly flushed, and just a glimpse of tongue once in a while. It wasn't that he looked innocent exactly. Or vulnerable. Or peaceful. It was that he looked so completely, thoroughly content and self-contained it gave Aziraphale a paradoxical sort of contact loneliness.
Perhaps that was what made the angel reach out to touch Crowley's hair. Or perhaps it was the imp of the perverse. Nonetheless, Crowley responded to the--it was an experimental touch, not a caress, oh no, never that--whatever it was with a strange, tiny sound, high-pitched and happy.
Well, in that case it would hardly do to stop so soon, would it? Crowley's hair was tangled, almost dirty, but still flowed through Aziraphale's fingers like embroidery thread. The angel's position started to get a bit awkward, and so he slid down a little closer and a little lower, and just as he was thinking perhaps it was getting warm in the room, Aziraphale nearly jumped out of his skin as Crowley's long limbs rearranged themselves again, and Aziraphale had to acknowledge that that was, indeed, a limp hand on his thigh.
It was a surprisingly heavy thing. Surprisingly elegant, its fingers. Giving off a sort of energy Aziraphale was fairly sure he had never felt before, and surely Crowley should not be able to do that, unless he was awake after all, the sneaky cad, and...
No. Definitely not awake. Aziraphale thought he ought to probably, very gently and carefully remove that hand, because some of the thoughts it was starting to give him were of other things that happened in beds, and surely that was not really what Crowley wanted or else he would have said so. After all, it probably wouldn't do for an angel to be curious about such things at all, and if one was, surely it was best to ask about them in the clear light of day...
But that wasn't what Aziraphale wanted. He had all the clear light of day he could ask for - he could just follow the rotation of the earth if he wanted an infinite supply of it. What he wanted was whatever was beyond the veil where Crowley was, whatever was going on behind those closed eyes with their upsettingly beautiful lashes. So he hunkered down into the sheets a little lower still, a little closer to Crowley, and was disconcerted but not unpleased to feel that errant hand travel right along with him, following the line of his inseam like a very, very slow and soft train trying not to disturb its track. Aziraphale bit his lip and wondered what to do with his own other hand when a sheet slipped aside, seemingly of its own accord, and showed him suddenly a lot more of Crowley than he'd seen in a long time - all lean muscle and sharp-curved hip and smooth skin, with the occasional patch of fine dark hairs that seemed to say, "touch here."
Aziraphale, still labouring under the impression that backing out of this would be possible, still stared at that strangely guileless face, watched the pink tongue moisten the lips, picked up the earthy tang of Crowley's scent, and figured he might has well be hanged as for a sheep as for a lamb. His fingers lightly traced Crowley's jaw, his throat, his collarbone. He started again when Crowley rolled half onto his back as if to point out just how much real estate there was for the surveying.
This simply cannot be right, Aziraphale told himself as he slid down further, blinking away his shirt and waistcoat to spare them sweat and wrinkles and just perhaps a spot of demon slobber just in case Crowley's face continued its apparent plan of fitting itself against Aziraphale's neck. He should not be doing this. After all, a sleeping creature cannot give proper informed consent. But Crowley's bare thigh, which had insinuated itself between Aziraphale's own, and his shockingly erect, flushed cock, which was now tucked up firmly against Aziraphale's own groin, certainly seemed extremely capable of consent, because they were expressing it as enthusiastically as they knew how.
Crowley rutted against him in a rippling, languid manner that used his whole spine; the breath rasping against Aziraphale's throat was still hissing and regular and not at all unpleasant in scent; steamy and charged, and after some internal struggle mostly to save face in front of himself, Aziraphale took Crowley's erection in his hand without hesitation, because it would have seemed rude not to do. Emboldened by Crowley's failure to wake despite his increasing vigour, Aziraphale toyed with him a little, explored him a little, indulged in the desire to push his sleepy pliability about, touched his tongue and lips to collarbone and belly and first left nipple than the right, nuzzled his nose into Crowley's armpit, and in general, overall, took such liberties as the demon's dream seemed to request of him, which was a great many.
Even the tensing and shuddering, the sticky release, the convulsive little snakebite to Aziraphale's shoulder, didn't get those eyes to open. Not at all. Aziraphale found himself sweaty, aroused, flustered, with a mess in his hand and a mind full of a swarm of buzzing questions, and not even quite able to lay back or gracefully extricate himself, entangled as he was. He supposed he'd been sure at some point in the proceedings that Crowley would wake and acknowledge his presence somehow--well, he supposed his presence had certainly been acknowledged, and the fact that this never happened bemused and aroused him still further.
In the dark of the night, hours later, he finally managed to relieve his own tension, which took some doing considering that Crowley was wrapped around him very thoroughly, the demon's arms and legs seeming to bend in a way more like rounded coils than one would expect of the usual elbows and knees.
He was no closer to fully understanding the mystery, but the situation he was in was not what could strictly speaking be called unpleasant, and he wondered if he ought to try this sleeping thing himself, since obvious it was not something that could really be explained to an outsider.
Seven years later, he gave up, when Crowley shifted positions again, and picked up his shirt from the floor and draped Crowley in it, just because he could.
~end~
Whew! I really blew the game this time, but this will give me another chance.
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating: R
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Kink prompt: Sleepy/unconscious
Virtue, Ever-Vigilant
This was not the first time he had done this. The 7th century BC, for example.
Crowley had taken to his tent in one of the world's first and most impressive displays of ennui--he managed somehow to almost make that non-emotion dramatic--and, so he'd said, had to dig his way out of a massive sand dune when he finally woke. But at least it had been warm. That was more than he could say for the third century AD (his first on that damn and sunless island), and he'd been disconcerted to wake and find his Roman villa overgrown with a new stand of beech trees and a few very startled sheep.
The first time it had happened, Aziraphale had been a little relieved that that demon appeared to be gone once and for all, and found it hard to pinpoint the dimly unpleasant emotion that accompanied that. It would hardly do to miss him, exactly, but he did feel a bit at a loss for what to do with his spare time.
The second time, Aziraphale knew that a permanent disappearance was probably not indicated, so he decided instead to get as much Heaven's business done as he could in the time that he had with no one to wile away all his copious Good Work. But since he didn't know precisely how much time that was, the sheer amount of good that could be done and needed to be done overwhelmed him so that he simply had to sit down and think about it for a while, and perhaps contemplate making a few lists, and of course by the time he felt he finally had his priorities sorted, Crowley had sauntered in rather awake but still having a little bit of moss clinging to his hair.
The third time, Aziraphale was beginning to notice a pattern. Just about a century. Aziraphale was not making a point of strolling past Crowley's fine wooden house from time to time, just to check in. And he was not quite distraught on the day that house, along with most of its neighbourhood, burned to the ground, and when Crowley returned a few years later, it was in a body with a slightly different nose, just a little bit taller.
I hope it didn't hurt the poor dear too much, he thought. Er. Well. All God's creatures and all that. Then he wondered if Crowley had ever woken up at all. He'd suspected with his usual ineffectual disapproval that sleep was just another of humanity's habits Crowley collected with a little too much interest to be entirely decent - but no humans slept like Crowley slept, at least certainly not to ever wake up again. There was something in the act that Aziraphale found kind of impressive - he was certainly capable of gathering a good deal of dust himself as long as there was a good book involved, but the idea of being so inert for so long with one's eyes closed and mind, one imagined, turned off entirely was something far enough outside of his experience to be intriguing, but not so far as to be frightening. (Unlike some of the other things Crowley alluded to having done in beds, but unlike sleeping, in company.)
So the fourth time Crowley slept for a century--the 19th--Aziraphale decided to investigate more closely. Perhaps under the pretense of watching for any more fires. Though that pretense would crumble under closer examination, as he probably was not supposed to be acting as a celestial smoke detector while a demon enacted a truly heroic achievement of Sloth.
He half thought it was possible that the presence of an angel in his bedroom might wake Crowley, and then there would be awkwardness unless Aziraphale could manage to pass himself off as a dream or possibly the Tooth Fairy. But nothing of the sort happened - the long form under the sheets barely stirred, and for the first time, Aziraphale looked upon one of the few lumps in the world that could be described as lithe.
Crowley slept like that was the function for which he'd been created. His limbs coiled, his body started to breathe of its own accord with a sort of whispering hiss of a snore, his body temperature dropped, the mattress molded itself to his body, and his skin took on the vague cream colour of his sheets for camouflage. He only drooled a little. (In fact his body had a slight tendency to dessicate, and when he finally did wake up, he liked to have a good cleansing skin-shed before coming out in public again. That was what gave his complexion the expensive quality no spa could produce on a human.)
But when Aziraphale approached him, he was only about 27 years into his nap, so still rather fresh and almost-awake, relatively speaking, still a decade or two away from the very deepest stages. Aziraphale jumped when Crowley moved, but saw the eyes never open, the soft breaths never changing, just a slight rearrangement of arms beneath the clinging sheets, the emerging of a sinuous leg from one edge of the duvet.
Aziraphale drew closer. Fascinating. It wasn't exactly deathlike at all. It was as though Crowley's body were here (and was it ever here, Aziraphale noticed, almost certainly unclothed) and whatever it was that animated him were elsewhere and Aziraphale wasn't quite sure how that even worked for their kind. Emboldened, Aziraphale sat on the edge of the bed very carefully and took in Crowley's face--his hair grown long and shaggy, his eyes still so implacably closed, the cheeks every so slightly flushed, and just a glimpse of tongue once in a while. It wasn't that he looked innocent exactly. Or vulnerable. Or peaceful. It was that he looked so completely, thoroughly content and self-contained it gave Aziraphale a paradoxical sort of contact loneliness.
Perhaps that was what made the angel reach out to touch Crowley's hair. Or perhaps it was the imp of the perverse. Nonetheless, Crowley responded to the--it was an experimental touch, not a caress, oh no, never that--whatever it was with a strange, tiny sound, high-pitched and happy.
Well, in that case it would hardly do to stop so soon, would it? Crowley's hair was tangled, almost dirty, but still flowed through Aziraphale's fingers like embroidery thread. The angel's position started to get a bit awkward, and so he slid down a little closer and a little lower, and just as he was thinking perhaps it was getting warm in the room, Aziraphale nearly jumped out of his skin as Crowley's long limbs rearranged themselves again, and Aziraphale had to acknowledge that that was, indeed, a limp hand on his thigh.
It was a surprisingly heavy thing. Surprisingly elegant, its fingers. Giving off a sort of energy Aziraphale was fairly sure he had never felt before, and surely Crowley should not be able to do that, unless he was awake after all, the sneaky cad, and...
No. Definitely not awake. Aziraphale thought he ought to probably, very gently and carefully remove that hand, because some of the thoughts it was starting to give him were of other things that happened in beds, and surely that was not really what Crowley wanted or else he would have said so. After all, it probably wouldn't do for an angel to be curious about such things at all, and if one was, surely it was best to ask about them in the clear light of day...
But that wasn't what Aziraphale wanted. He had all the clear light of day he could ask for - he could just follow the rotation of the earth if he wanted an infinite supply of it. What he wanted was whatever was beyond the veil where Crowley was, whatever was going on behind those closed eyes with their upsettingly beautiful lashes. So he hunkered down into the sheets a little lower still, a little closer to Crowley, and was disconcerted but not unpleased to feel that errant hand travel right along with him, following the line of his inseam like a very, very slow and soft train trying not to disturb its track. Aziraphale bit his lip and wondered what to do with his own other hand when a sheet slipped aside, seemingly of its own accord, and showed him suddenly a lot more of Crowley than he'd seen in a long time - all lean muscle and sharp-curved hip and smooth skin, with the occasional patch of fine dark hairs that seemed to say, "touch here."
Aziraphale, still labouring under the impression that backing out of this would be possible, still stared at that strangely guileless face, watched the pink tongue moisten the lips, picked up the earthy tang of Crowley's scent, and figured he might has well be hanged as for a sheep as for a lamb. His fingers lightly traced Crowley's jaw, his throat, his collarbone. He started again when Crowley rolled half onto his back as if to point out just how much real estate there was for the surveying.
This simply cannot be right, Aziraphale told himself as he slid down further, blinking away his shirt and waistcoat to spare them sweat and wrinkles and just perhaps a spot of demon slobber just in case Crowley's face continued its apparent plan of fitting itself against Aziraphale's neck. He should not be doing this. After all, a sleeping creature cannot give proper informed consent. But Crowley's bare thigh, which had insinuated itself between Aziraphale's own, and his shockingly erect, flushed cock, which was now tucked up firmly against Aziraphale's own groin, certainly seemed extremely capable of consent, because they were expressing it as enthusiastically as they knew how.
Crowley rutted against him in a rippling, languid manner that used his whole spine; the breath rasping against Aziraphale's throat was still hissing and regular and not at all unpleasant in scent; steamy and charged, and after some internal struggle mostly to save face in front of himself, Aziraphale took Crowley's erection in his hand without hesitation, because it would have seemed rude not to do. Emboldened by Crowley's failure to wake despite his increasing vigour, Aziraphale toyed with him a little, explored him a little, indulged in the desire to push his sleepy pliability about, touched his tongue and lips to collarbone and belly and first left nipple than the right, nuzzled his nose into Crowley's armpit, and in general, overall, took such liberties as the demon's dream seemed to request of him, which was a great many.
Even the tensing and shuddering, the sticky release, the convulsive little snakebite to Aziraphale's shoulder, didn't get those eyes to open. Not at all. Aziraphale found himself sweaty, aroused, flustered, with a mess in his hand and a mind full of a swarm of buzzing questions, and not even quite able to lay back or gracefully extricate himself, entangled as he was. He supposed he'd been sure at some point in the proceedings that Crowley would wake and acknowledge his presence somehow--well, he supposed his presence had certainly been acknowledged, and the fact that this never happened bemused and aroused him still further.
In the dark of the night, hours later, he finally managed to relieve his own tension, which took some doing considering that Crowley was wrapped around him very thoroughly, the demon's arms and legs seeming to bend in a way more like rounded coils than one would expect of the usual elbows and knees.
He was no closer to fully understanding the mystery, but the situation he was in was not what could strictly speaking be called unpleasant, and he wondered if he ought to try this sleeping thing himself, since obvious it was not something that could really be explained to an outsider.
Seven years later, he gave up, when Crowley shifted positions again, and picked up his shirt from the floor and draped Crowley in it, just because he could.
~end~
Whew! I really blew the game this time, but this will give me another chance.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-05-16 10:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-16 06:55 pm (UTC)I bet Crowley was horrified about how out of style it was. Never mind that after a century, anything would be. Maybe that's how "retro" was invented. :D
no subject
Date: 2010-05-16 09:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-17 12:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-17 09:31 am (UTC)It's good to have you write them again. Thank you for sharing!
no subject
Date: 2010-05-17 12:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-17 06:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-18 05:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-18 03:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-14 05:04 am (UTC)I love how Aziraphale is so "Oh, I mustn't" and trying to be angelic...and still thinks of it as Crowley's cock (and that of course he talks himself into fooling around with a sleeping being)