vulgarweed | Seasonal flut.

Or smuff, I guess, though that's mistaken too easily for "snuff" or "smurf," neither of which feature here, I promise.

A very wise person told me to do something nice for myself on V-Day. A little belated, but I wrote some fluffy smut.

Calendar Stains

fandom: Good Omens
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley, surprised?
Rating: Adult
Summary: Immortals accumulate a ridiculous buildup of holidays over the millennia. Aziraphale overindulges.
Warnings/Adverts: Slightly squicky nightmare, dirty talk, clunky morning sex, culinary atrocities.

It was winter, but it was inexplicably hot in the packed crowd lined along the road that slithered up the Hill. The shouting, the trembling, the drums – and the heated, hair-raising smell of blood. Aziraphale wanted to run. He shouldn’t be here, this rite was pagan and profane and extremely vulgar, and he was about to leave when ululating cries of ecstasy arose all around him. “Here they come!” And now he was going to run, he was sweating and breathless (and felt short of breath even by choice) and the unholiness of it all was starting to fill him with panic, and then they came charging through, and he was helpless. His feet wouldn’t work. By the time he started to get them to move, he was trapped in a crush of eager, shoving, squealing women.

The young men cut through them like a scythe, all laughing and naked and reeking of maleness and goat, and before Aziraphale could protest that no, no, it was a mistake, he shouldn’t be here (and he couldn’t get his mouth to work either) he’d felt the stinging lash through his thin tunic: a whip of fresh bloody goat-skin. The women around him took the fertility-granting blows with lewd delight, but Aziraphale felt sick, and tried to scream, and looked up into the face of the one who’d struck him. Crowley, laughing triumphantly. In nothing but goatskin – on his shoulder.

Later on, Aziraphale moaned, feeling nauseous, hand over his belly that seemed to be…oh for the love of God, swelling. He felt something kick.

“Hey there,” came a thick whisper in his ear.

Aziraphale’s eyes flew open and landed immediately on one of his own argyle socks dangling from the ceiling light fixture in Crowley’s bedroom. Now how had that…oh. Yes, that.

Aziraphale winced. “That…was the most humiliating nightmare I have ever had.”

Crowley laughed. “I’ll have to make sure you get drunk enough to tell me about it.”

“Lupercalia,” Aziraphale sighed, accepting the cup Crowley was handing him. Now he could see the bedroom was festively decorated in numerous articles of clothing, and both he and Crowley’s bodies were utterly lacking in it. They weren’t short on bites or bruises, though, and Aziraphale was remembering giving and receiving each one by one, and discreetly rearranged the much-the-worse-for-wear sheets that wrapped him. “What is this?”

“A mimosa. Terrible thing to do to proper champagne, but all right for this stuff. You should get your vitamins.”

“It’s hardly a concern for us, dear boy.”

“There’s a television preacher who says homosexual activity causes scurvy.”

“I simply refuse to believe that.”

“Why? You know what the Americans are capable of.”

“One of yours, he must be.”

“You’ve got to be joking. We can’t make this stuff up.”

Crowley sidled beneath the covers again, and Aziraphale glanced over to the tray on the edge of the bed, and then remembered more – there was yet more wreckage there, of food and drink in this case. With a snap of his fingers, Crowley relit the blue flame of the fondue pot. Aziraphale winced again.

“Overdid it?” Crowley murmured, sliding his hand slowly over Aziraphale’s stomach, warming and calming.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Not surprised,” Crowley said softly. “Thousands of years of aphrodisiac lore tucked away in your twisty little angel brain, finding its way out all at once…”

“Chocolate…oysters…”

“Chocolate-covered oysters.”

“I did not!”

“You did.”

Pause. Yes. He did.

“That’s it right there,” Crowley whispered, his voice turning husky as he started to ever so slowly saunter onto Aziraphale (and possibly only Crowley was capable of sauntering both sideways and horizontally). “Though…seemed to me…the chocolate-covered demon cock was your favourite…”

“Crowley!”

“That’sss right, blush for me,” he murmured, biting the angel’s ear. Aziraphale moaned and Crowley ground against him, whispering hotly: “Let’s sssee how proper you are while I’m holding you down and fucking you nice and slow…”

Aziraphale whimpered a little and shivered, and still felt the twitch of his dream poking at him, and with a fumbling flail of sleep-heavy uncoordination still managed to arch himself up and roll Crowley underneath him, overturning cups and plates and hopelessly tangling sheets around and between them. “If you don’t mind,” he murmured against the demon’s throat, “I think I’d prefer to…make love to you instead…”

“Mmmm, fuck yes,” Crowley panted as he felt Aziraphale’s rising urgency nudge the inside of his thigh, “I usually have to…pick a fight with you to get you to ravish me…”

“Lupercalia,” Aziraphale groaned cryptically as he pinned Crowley’s wrists. “Better you than me, just in case.”

Aziraphale had really thought he’d been bluffing, that he was still too sleepy and clumsy for energetic copulation, and yet something about that demon, hissing and daring, grasping the bedposts and making feline invitations…and bending like that, one leg around Aziraphale’s waist and the other over his shoulder where the angel could take a sharp lingering nip of the inside of his knee to distract him as he savoured that tender violation.

Aziraphale, who was under no illusions of being in charge as Crowley drew him in, just groaned, his convulsive hands curling around rocking hips, pulling Crowley up hard against him, watching sweat drops fall from his hair onto the demon’s chest…

…and felt no particular fear about losing control entirely, eventually, thrusting deep and wild, for he was following Crowley’s writhing lead. By now he knew exactly what to listen for in Crowley’s cries, growing faster and higher in pitch until his body seemed to snap and freeze. And there it was again, Crowley’s eyes opening that way they did, even through his aftershocks, drinking in the sight of Aziraphale moving over him so hungrily Aziraphale could feel himself drawn into their black and yellow vortex, becoming so eager to please he had to…Oh, squeeze his own eyes shut as bright light burst inside them.

He shortly found himself collapsed and relaxing and sliding back down between Crowley’s legs around him, nuzzling Crowley’s stomach, wondering if the demon might have put on a pound or two in the holiday indulgence season, noting that little white splash there and taking the occasional experimental lick.

“I think chocolate does improve the flavour,” he murmured.

“I’ll have to try to eat more of it then,” Crowley muttered, his hand clutching at the back of Aziraphale’s neck, pulling him upwards. They’d done it a little bit backwards this time—this long, wet, exploring kiss, all open mouths and closed eyes, came only now, afterward.

“Lupercalia’s done,” Crowley murmured.

“And then comes Sepandarmazgan…”

“I don’t mind writing Persian love poetry on our nude bodies, but you’ll have to do a better job of licking all the honey out of my feathers, I felt sticky for years…”

“I’ll try to make more of an effort, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured into Crowley’s shoulder.

“And then there’s Carnival,” Crowley whispered. “I have sequins and I’m not afraid to use them.”

Aziraphale’s hand, lazily exploring his inner thigh, might have been threatening to keep him awake longer. But Aziraphale was now snoring softly, hand still tucked between Crowley’s legs. The demon just awaited more sleep with contentment. All their millennia’s accumulation of holidays weren’t nearly so tiresome nowadays.

~end~

Starting to get my keyboard-legs back again, I think....