Drinking games
Suddenly had an inspiration yesterday and bdfbfsd. It's short.
Yeah, well.
Title: Drinking Games
Rating: PG-13?
Pairing: A/C
A/N: Characters belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. I make no money and blah.
Reviews and constructive criticism - even flames - are welcomed.
Thank you to my temporary betas, chocolate_cameo and viridian_magpie.
x-posted in lower_tadfield and crowleyraphale
Crowley doesn’t like it when the angel drinks Miami Ices. They make him giggly. The angel, that is, not Crowley.
The angel grows red, secretive, and giggly. Crowley feels like hitting him when he does that.
It’s embarrassing, annoying, and it makes him feel like Aziraphale is hiding something.
***
Crowley’s legs are crossed as he sits on his fancy white couch. He’s resting his chin in his hand, sunglasses low and yellow eyes vigilant over plastic rims, darting over the angel’s hysteric form. His mouth is tight, drawn into an irked, humourless smirk.
Aziraphale gains control over his bouts of laughter, straightens and - still snorting occasionally -looks at the demon.
There’s mirth in his eyes, and Crowley feels it’s because of something he’s said or done. Crowley’ll be damne- fucked if he can figure out what it is though.
And the angel never tells him.
***
Sneaking across the room, Crowley stares in awe. Never before has he seen the angel fall asleep. Or has he passed out? That would be a first, too.
Squatting next to Aziraphale, Crowley peers up to his face. The angel’s soft breath smells of something sweet. He’s gained weight lately, just a little, but enough to add some cherubic softness around his waist.
Crowley is hit by a burning urge to wrap his arms around that waist. Instead, he sits back on the floor, legs stretched out before him, expression quite bewildered.
Thirty minutes pass. The angel has barely moved, and now Crowley is on his knees by the sleeping form, fingers hovering over Aziraphale’s cheek. Bracing himself with his free arm on the couch, he leans forward, and presses his lips against the angel’s. He’s being clumsy and he feels a flush crawl up his face.
Apparently, while asleep, the angel completely strips Crowley of all dignity.
And then there’s a soft hand stroking his neck, and an arm sliding around his waist, and blue eyes, those fucking blue eyes, staring into his. Sober blue eyes, Crowley notes and emits a small surprised sound.
But the angel just laughs against his lips, and Crowley realises he’s been made a complete fool of.
But his other arm is slithering around Aziraphale’s chest and his heart is racing and the angel’s lips taste of oranges and Crowley thinks that maybe being a fool comes with a handsome reward.
Yeah, well.
Title: Drinking Games
Rating: PG-13?
Pairing: A/C
A/N: Characters belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. I make no money and blah.
Reviews and constructive criticism - even flames - are welcomed.
Thank you to my temporary betas, chocolate_cameo and viridian_magpie.
x-posted in lower_tadfield and crowleyraphale
Crowley doesn’t like it when the angel drinks Miami Ices. They make him giggly. The angel, that is, not Crowley.
The angel grows red, secretive, and giggly. Crowley feels like hitting him when he does that.
It’s embarrassing, annoying, and it makes him feel like Aziraphale is hiding something.
***
Crowley’s legs are crossed as he sits on his fancy white couch. He’s resting his chin in his hand, sunglasses low and yellow eyes vigilant over plastic rims, darting over the angel’s hysteric form. His mouth is tight, drawn into an irked, humourless smirk.
Aziraphale gains control over his bouts of laughter, straightens and - still snorting occasionally -looks at the demon.
There’s mirth in his eyes, and Crowley feels it’s because of something he’s said or done. Crowley’ll be damne- fucked if he can figure out what it is though.
And the angel never tells him.
***
Sneaking across the room, Crowley stares in awe. Never before has he seen the angel fall asleep. Or has he passed out? That would be a first, too.
Squatting next to Aziraphale, Crowley peers up to his face. The angel’s soft breath smells of something sweet. He’s gained weight lately, just a little, but enough to add some cherubic softness around his waist.
Crowley is hit by a burning urge to wrap his arms around that waist. Instead, he sits back on the floor, legs stretched out before him, expression quite bewildered.
Thirty minutes pass. The angel has barely moved, and now Crowley is on his knees by the sleeping form, fingers hovering over Aziraphale’s cheek. Bracing himself with his free arm on the couch, he leans forward, and presses his lips against the angel’s. He’s being clumsy and he feels a flush crawl up his face.
Apparently, while asleep, the angel completely strips Crowley of all dignity.
And then there’s a soft hand stroking his neck, and an arm sliding around his waist, and blue eyes, those fucking blue eyes, staring into his. Sober blue eyes, Crowley notes and emits a small surprised sound.
But the angel just laughs against his lips, and Crowley realises he’s been made a complete fool of.
But his other arm is slithering around Aziraphale’s chest and his heart is racing and the angel’s lips taste of oranges and Crowley thinks that maybe being a fool comes with a handsome reward.