New Member
Hello. I've been a Good Omens fan for a decent time, recently found this community, read through most of it, and decided I'd like joining.
So... to break the ice, I come bearing a gift. I hope you all like it. There's sex very strong innuendo action. But it's not terribly explicit. C/A, of course. Enjoy!
IN THE NOT-SO-BEGINNING
The ducks at St. James' Park circled conspicuously in front of two conversing figures, being connoisseurs of secret meetings and the bread that accompanied it, gak-gaking expectantly.
The first figure looked like a banker or a lawyer (a profession with which he had experimented back in the early 1800s, but in the twenty-first century there were simply too many laws) but with better cheekbones and shiny black hair that would have instantly labeled him as an American hippie with the local bridge club. He was decked out in full battle regalia--a tuxedo with a broad, aggressive tie, designer shoes which looked to be snakeskin oddly enough, and dark sunglasses even though the day was damp and gloomy. If one could see his eyes, they would have pointed out that they were yellow (brilliant contacts, mate! was a compliment he'd once recieved) and sometimes he did not blink at all.
The second figure was one of those odd people that you don't particularly notice at first glance, but if your eyes happen to slide back over them a second time they're actually quite handsome; he was precisely like this, but having accumulated a bit more dust and tartan than most people found normal was less likely to get second glances. He could be labeled as a delicately handsome man of vaguely indescribable age who perhaps could benefit from losing a couple of pounds. But only a couple.
"I've always thought The Sound of Music was one of your side's inventions," the first figure said conversationally, breaking off a peice of bread for the ducks--who were not pleading, thank you very much, but asking very insistently in polite tones.
"My dear Crowley, no. Humanity did that on it's very own," replied the second figure, who could only be Aziraphale, since it was even theoretically impossible to find Crowley feeding ducks without him. "We did, however, inspire Gone With the Wind."
Crowley seemed to ponder this for a moment, adjusting his stylish tie as he did. "Wasn't Lawrence of Arabia the longest, though?"
"Only by two minutes. It was a Buddhist joke, anyhow," Aziraphale said, sounding slightly peevish. Noticing Crowley's puzzled look, he said, "Never mind. It's a long story."
"We have all of eternity, you realize," Crowley pointed out as if it were the most obvious thing in Creation. Which it should have been, considering that they were both immortal and has been for the past six thousand or so years.
"I'm more interested in what you've been up to for the past few weeks," Aziraphale said with the great enthusiasm of someone who is changing the subject to avoid an embarassing topic.
Crowley, not without his own embarassing topics and therefore an understanding of self-preservation in a matter he would have otherwise pursued relentlessly, replied, "Nothing terribly worth smiting, if you were hoping for a bit of excitement. Turning off alarm switches in whole neighborhoods, leaving windows open on drafty nights, the like."
"My dear," said Aziraphale, not particularly scolding but managing to convey a half-hearted protestation of Crowley's feeble sinning. Oh well, it was to be expected of a demon, really.
"Well, what have you been doing?"
Aziraphale's cheeks flushed faintly (and it is rather becoming when an angel flushes, to be perfectly honest) and he said, "Well, I can't say anything much more amusing. Giving visions to vicars and religious charity workers--the preapproved ones, of course."
"Did you ever thing that maybe we needed to make a side of our own?" Crowley asked after a long, blinking pause in which the two merely stared at one another, contemplating.
"Oh, dear, I don't think I could do that. The whole 'lack of free will' thing and all," said Aziraphale, looking sensibly alarmed. "It's not part of the ineffable plan, I can safely assume."
"Bugger lack of free will; you've got oodles of it. And besides, how would you know if it's not part of the ineffable plan if the plan is ineffable?" Crowley argued.
Just when it looked as if Crowley were going to have to bust out the big guns of temptation, so to speak, Aziraphale sighed and asked, "What would I do with all my books? I assume you'll be wanting to use my place as a base of operations."
"You could sell them--" Crowley suggested, at which the angel made a strangled noise rather like a human might if he had part of a biscuit lodged in his throat. "And donate the money to charity?" The word left a funny taste in Crowley's mouth but it seemed to content a momentarily discontented Aziraphale. At least a little.
"Oh, well, all right then."
AFTER THE NOT-SO-BEGINNING, BUT STILL NOT THE MIDDLE
Aziraphale looked at the empty, but still dusty, shop with more than a bit of remorse. Though neither of them were quite sure what their operations were, they were fairly certain that there was to be a base for it if any operations were ever to commence. Crowley had been rather specific about their base of operations and his specifications definitely did not include dusty first edition books in mint condition. So Aziraphale had rid the shop of them and donated a large sum of the proceeds to local charities, though Crowley had insisted that they keep a decent amount for 'personal funding'.
Aziraphale had a good idea that personal funding consisted of several forms of alcohol and pastries. It was almost a chore at first to not protest, but he liked both alcohol and pastries and couldn't bring himself to deny celebration of their recent sashay into relative neutrality. Though he was slightly miffed that Crowley had been suspiciously absent during the whole affair.
Five quick seconds after Aziraphale became miffed, the object of his irritation sauntered (he was very good at that) through the still-dusty door carrying two large bottles of the finest wine and grinning like a fool, or a snake, or a fool snake. Aziraphale's face lit up with delight, seeing that the demon had procured, as well, his favorite pastry--mille feuille.
Until she walked in. She was a leggy blonde with harlot-red lipstick and a dangerously tight skirt. She leaned against Crowley and gave her most seductive look in Aziraphale's direction (which was her job, if the description of the color of her lipstick were any indication).
Aziraphale wasn't sure whether he was experiencing jealousy or covetousness, or even very sure which was a sin and which was not. Both of them were pretty bad, thinking briefly upon it as Aziraphale had a tendency to do at the very least when he took action.
Even then he winced delicately at the blonde's yelp as she landed on her rear and the door to the shop slammed closed in her decidedly plastic face.
APPROXIMATELY THE MIDDLE
"What the bloody hell was that for?" Crowley snapped immediately, setting down the wine bottles on a nearby counter before he did something drastic, like throw one at Aziraphale's stupid head, for instance.
"I will not abide harlots in my place of residence. Horrid things," the angel replied grouchily, avoiding Crowley's glower like it were the angelic equivalent of the black plague.
"She wasn't a harlot. She was a call girl, and the best I could afford out of my own pocket," Crowley hissed.
"Bloody wench, still," Aziraphale replied.
Uncharacteristic snippishness, cursing, and downcast eyes were never a good sign where Aziraphale was concerned, considering he had rarely displayed the first, even less frequently done the second, and tended to look up instead of down (a tad wistfully).
Crowley was immediately worried. Something was wrong. He said so.
Aziraphale replied with a sputtering, "Of course! You bring a harlot into my home and expect me to just be all fine and dandy? Honestly!"
"I wasn't aware that call girls were the Origin of All Evil," Crowley said drily. "I've known you six thousand or so years and you've never protested the profession before today. Pardon if I'm a bit baffled."
"Well, they're... dirty. And they tempt men to adultry and carry diseases and--" Aziraphale broke off, realizing that his argument was rather fragile, considering that he had once before protested to the bigwigs Upstairs that they were unfortunate souls who really had no other way to go in their life due to years of opression by men.
And Crowley had been there when he'd written the letter, reading over his shoulder and ticking off a list of sinful things that men did to their wives. Aziraphale was quite sure that Crowley had a soft spot for women in general regarding those sorts of things.
"She was just for celebration of our recent liberation from the wiles and smiting of old," Crowley muttered half-heartedly.
"Hmph," said Aziraphale, still giving Crowley that disapproving look. And blushing.
It dawned on Crowley that the blushing angel might be jealous.
"Huh," he said, blinking his slitted yellow eyes at Aziraphale from over his sunglasses. "Fancy that."
THE PART AFTER THE MIDDLE AND BEFORE THE END
It was after much deliberation and, of course, the prefabrication of the essential bodily structures and passageways, that Aziraphale allowed Crowley to push him up against an empty bookcase and have at him, so to speak.
Except that there wasn't very much speaking going on, though there was quite a good deal of noise. And they hadn't even gotten past kissing.
Crowley's sunglasses had fallen off at some point in his motion, which he had intended, as those with glasses very well know that they can interfere with kissing. His tie was mussed (entirely Aziraphale's doing), his jacket discarded (his own doing), and his pants were around his ankles (they both suspected gravity, which has a funny way of getting around things like erections and even the most determined belts). Aziraphale found himself completely nude in a matter of milliseconds with Crowley hissing against his throat. He was about to complain about the wishing away of actual clothing, but found himself too enraptured by Crowley's sudden discovery of his left nipple (which was rather new and still very tender).
One could say that his new state of liberation (which Aziraphale didn't take too seriously--Crowley had caught him performing a miracle to rid a child of a spring cold) freed Crowley's options as to whom he could fraternize with. Not that he was normally afraid of the conseqences, seeing as it was a noteworthy achievement to tempt an angel to sin.
The way Aziraphale dug his long, graceful fingers into Crowley's back, however, could be nothing but pure, heavenly ecstacy. And he hadn't even gotten past the angel's chest. Any moment Crowley expected him to burst into holy song, which would have been rather inopportune, seeing as Aziraphale really couldn't sing. He would have to fix that.
"Oh, oh dear, oh Crowley," murmured the angel between gasps, clutching his fingers in the demon's hair. "You've been holding out on me, I dare say."
Crowley pulled back and gave Aziraphale his most snake-like grin and did something very odd indeed with his tongue. Aziraphale tasted like strawberries, one of the few fruits that Crowley had a certain passion for. "You've never asked, old friend," he murmured in reply.
"I must ask after this more frequently, if it's not such a bother," Aziraphale gasped, clutching tighter. He'd not had such an interesting experience since he was electrocuted fifty or so years ago.
"Oh not a bother at all," said Crowley, fiercely pursuing the flesh on Aziraphale's left hip, leaving a nice, dark mark in the relative shape of a snake when he finished.
"Can we--" started Aziraphale.
"Of course," Crowley answered, cutting him off with another interesting kiss as he stood up.
It didn't take terribly long to coax Aziraphale's legs apart and slick him up back there with custard from the mille feuille, the remnants of which Aziraphale licked off his fingers. Crowley situated himself inside with minimal adjusting and discomfort for the angel, which Aziraphale privately believed was the demon's doing. Even for immortals those sorts of things were generally uncomfortable at first.
When Crowley drew back Aziraphale shuddered, and when the demon thrust back in, growling, he was reduced to a gasping, clutching mess. Crowley ended up sprawled in a broad chair (which Aziraphale was quite sure had never been in his shop before that meoment) with the angel in his lap, both of them thrusting and grinding and doing all manner of fervent sexual actions.
Now, angels and demons, both being immortal, have monsterous stamina even at the very worst of times, so things continued in this vein for quite some time until both of them were positively at the breaking point. The aftermath was very messy, sticky, and included bits of pastry somehow stuck in Crowley's hair. Aziraphale was very cheerful about the whole ordeal and crooned and cuddled with the panting (he had begun breathing sometime during their coupling and forgotten to stop) demon. Any good resource will tell you that demons, by their very nature, are neither cuddly nor affectionate, but Crowley supposed he could bend the rules for a companio--frien--lov--decent chap like Aziraphale. Just this once.
Aziraphale was quite in-like with Crowley, indeed, and was humming an old church hymn while drawing romantic words in French on Crowley's bare stomach. He was secretly thankful that Crowley had taken to the Spanish instead of the French, for he would have been embarassed for Crowley to know the extent of his infatuation. "This whole business with having our own side might not be too bad after all," Aziraphale admitted aloud. It would be less boring than feeding the ducks at St. James' Park while complaining about the dullness of humanity, good, and evil, at the very least.
"Indeed," replied Crowley sleepily.
THE END (YES, KEEP READING)
Mr. William T. Bruce was a fine, upstanding man with the occasional foray into women's lingere and dirty magazines. Mr. Bruce had heard from a friend of a friend of a friend that two men, Mr. A. Phale and Mr. A. J. Crowley, had opened up a shop selling various odd bits and bobs near his neighborhood. So he decided to pop on over and pay the shop a visit.
The aisles were so crowded with merchandise that he could barely see the check out counter. He swiped a few dirty magazines (which to any observant person reading this would obviously be Crowley's fault), glanced at the good luck charms (Aziraphale's doing), and procured a bottle of wine that should have been twice as expensive (a joint effort). He sauntered up to the counter where two men were conversing quietly with one another. He caught bits about angels and demons and Down There and figured it must be a religious conversation. Well, that wasn't too uncommon these days, what with all the odd things that had happened a year or so back.
"Oh, hello there," said the second man, a curly-topped blonde with blue eyes and the look of a homosexual (not that there was anything wrong with that, Mr. Bruce thought) when he noticed Mr. Bruce.
"Hello, gentlemen. Fine shop you have here," replied Mr. Bruce politely. And it really was.
"Let me ring you up," said the first man, who Mr. Bruce thought was a bit odd for wearing sunglasses indoors, but to each their own.
The first man pushed some buttons on the register and frowned to himself. "My dear, really," said the second, with seemingly infinite patience, and moved to take over the machine. "How many times do I have to teach you?"
"You've got damn near forever to do it," muttered the first man, a bit gloomily, thought Mr. Bruce.
"Language, my dear Crowley. We have a guest," replied the second man, who must be Mr. Phale if the first man was Mr. Crowley (but we all knew this, didn't we, and are probably thinking that Mr. Bruce is very slow to catch on). Mr. Phale completely ignored Mr. Crowley's complaint. "Oh, there you go, sir," said Mr. Phale. His goods were packaged in a brown paper bag, even though Mr. Bruce hadn't remembered Mr. Phale or Mr. Crowley either packaging them or handing them to him. "Have a good day."
"Cheerio," muttered Mr. Crowley sullenly.
"Good day," said Mr. Bruce, glancing sideways at them.
If Mr. Bruce had paused to glance back once more on his way out of the shop he would have noticed that Crowley had snagged one arm around Aziraphale's waist and was worrying at the angel's ear with his teeth. If Mr. Bruce had been a bit more attentive he would have noticed that Aziraphale's protestations that 'distractions during business hours' really were unfair to the customers. If Mr. Bruce had been in the shop he would have noticed that Crowley could, without fail, tempt Aziraphale by doing that with his tongue.
In the end, they weren't really any more good or bad than they were before. Crowley still caused mischief and Aziraphale still performed minor miracles and moped about collecting books in secret. The only difference was that there was a lot more sex.
A whole lot more.
So... to break the ice, I come bearing a gift. I hope you all like it. There's sex very strong innuendo action. But it's not terribly explicit. C/A, of course. Enjoy!
IN THE NOT-SO-BEGINNING
The ducks at St. James' Park circled conspicuously in front of two conversing figures, being connoisseurs of secret meetings and the bread that accompanied it, gak-gaking expectantly.
The first figure looked like a banker or a lawyer (a profession with which he had experimented back in the early 1800s, but in the twenty-first century there were simply too many laws) but with better cheekbones and shiny black hair that would have instantly labeled him as an American hippie with the local bridge club. He was decked out in full battle regalia--a tuxedo with a broad, aggressive tie, designer shoes which looked to be snakeskin oddly enough, and dark sunglasses even though the day was damp and gloomy. If one could see his eyes, they would have pointed out that they were yellow (brilliant contacts, mate! was a compliment he'd once recieved) and sometimes he did not blink at all.
The second figure was one of those odd people that you don't particularly notice at first glance, but if your eyes happen to slide back over them a second time they're actually quite handsome; he was precisely like this, but having accumulated a bit more dust and tartan than most people found normal was less likely to get second glances. He could be labeled as a delicately handsome man of vaguely indescribable age who perhaps could benefit from losing a couple of pounds. But only a couple.
"I've always thought The Sound of Music was one of your side's inventions," the first figure said conversationally, breaking off a peice of bread for the ducks--who were not pleading, thank you very much, but asking very insistently in polite tones.
"My dear Crowley, no. Humanity did that on it's very own," replied the second figure, who could only be Aziraphale, since it was even theoretically impossible to find Crowley feeding ducks without him. "We did, however, inspire Gone With the Wind."
Crowley seemed to ponder this for a moment, adjusting his stylish tie as he did. "Wasn't Lawrence of Arabia the longest, though?"
"Only by two minutes. It was a Buddhist joke, anyhow," Aziraphale said, sounding slightly peevish. Noticing Crowley's puzzled look, he said, "Never mind. It's a long story."
"We have all of eternity, you realize," Crowley pointed out as if it were the most obvious thing in Creation. Which it should have been, considering that they were both immortal and has been for the past six thousand or so years.
"I'm more interested in what you've been up to for the past few weeks," Aziraphale said with the great enthusiasm of someone who is changing the subject to avoid an embarassing topic.
Crowley, not without his own embarassing topics and therefore an understanding of self-preservation in a matter he would have otherwise pursued relentlessly, replied, "Nothing terribly worth smiting, if you were hoping for a bit of excitement. Turning off alarm switches in whole neighborhoods, leaving windows open on drafty nights, the like."
"My dear," said Aziraphale, not particularly scolding but managing to convey a half-hearted protestation of Crowley's feeble sinning. Oh well, it was to be expected of a demon, really.
"Well, what have you been doing?"
Aziraphale's cheeks flushed faintly (and it is rather becoming when an angel flushes, to be perfectly honest) and he said, "Well, I can't say anything much more amusing. Giving visions to vicars and religious charity workers--the preapproved ones, of course."
"Did you ever thing that maybe we needed to make a side of our own?" Crowley asked after a long, blinking pause in which the two merely stared at one another, contemplating.
"Oh, dear, I don't think I could do that. The whole 'lack of free will' thing and all," said Aziraphale, looking sensibly alarmed. "It's not part of the ineffable plan, I can safely assume."
"Bugger lack of free will; you've got oodles of it. And besides, how would you know if it's not part of the ineffable plan if the plan is ineffable?" Crowley argued.
Just when it looked as if Crowley were going to have to bust out the big guns of temptation, so to speak, Aziraphale sighed and asked, "What would I do with all my books? I assume you'll be wanting to use my place as a base of operations."
"You could sell them--" Crowley suggested, at which the angel made a strangled noise rather like a human might if he had part of a biscuit lodged in his throat. "And donate the money to charity?" The word left a funny taste in Crowley's mouth but it seemed to content a momentarily discontented Aziraphale. At least a little.
"Oh, well, all right then."
AFTER THE NOT-SO-BEGINNING, BUT STILL NOT THE MIDDLE
Aziraphale looked at the empty, but still dusty, shop with more than a bit of remorse. Though neither of them were quite sure what their operations were, they were fairly certain that there was to be a base for it if any operations were ever to commence. Crowley had been rather specific about their base of operations and his specifications definitely did not include dusty first edition books in mint condition. So Aziraphale had rid the shop of them and donated a large sum of the proceeds to local charities, though Crowley had insisted that they keep a decent amount for 'personal funding'.
Aziraphale had a good idea that personal funding consisted of several forms of alcohol and pastries. It was almost a chore at first to not protest, but he liked both alcohol and pastries and couldn't bring himself to deny celebration of their recent sashay into relative neutrality. Though he was slightly miffed that Crowley had been suspiciously absent during the whole affair.
Five quick seconds after Aziraphale became miffed, the object of his irritation sauntered (he was very good at that) through the still-dusty door carrying two large bottles of the finest wine and grinning like a fool, or a snake, or a fool snake. Aziraphale's face lit up with delight, seeing that the demon had procured, as well, his favorite pastry--mille feuille.
Until she walked in. She was a leggy blonde with harlot-red lipstick and a dangerously tight skirt. She leaned against Crowley and gave her most seductive look in Aziraphale's direction (which was her job, if the description of the color of her lipstick were any indication).
Aziraphale wasn't sure whether he was experiencing jealousy or covetousness, or even very sure which was a sin and which was not. Both of them were pretty bad, thinking briefly upon it as Aziraphale had a tendency to do at the very least when he took action.
Even then he winced delicately at the blonde's yelp as she landed on her rear and the door to the shop slammed closed in her decidedly plastic face.
APPROXIMATELY THE MIDDLE
"What the bloody hell was that for?" Crowley snapped immediately, setting down the wine bottles on a nearby counter before he did something drastic, like throw one at Aziraphale's stupid head, for instance.
"I will not abide harlots in my place of residence. Horrid things," the angel replied grouchily, avoiding Crowley's glower like it were the angelic equivalent of the black plague.
"She wasn't a harlot. She was a call girl, and the best I could afford out of my own pocket," Crowley hissed.
"Bloody wench, still," Aziraphale replied.
Uncharacteristic snippishness, cursing, and downcast eyes were never a good sign where Aziraphale was concerned, considering he had rarely displayed the first, even less frequently done the second, and tended to look up instead of down (a tad wistfully).
Crowley was immediately worried. Something was wrong. He said so.
Aziraphale replied with a sputtering, "Of course! You bring a harlot into my home and expect me to just be all fine and dandy? Honestly!"
"I wasn't aware that call girls were the Origin of All Evil," Crowley said drily. "I've known you six thousand or so years and you've never protested the profession before today. Pardon if I'm a bit baffled."
"Well, they're... dirty. And they tempt men to adultry and carry diseases and--" Aziraphale broke off, realizing that his argument was rather fragile, considering that he had once before protested to the bigwigs Upstairs that they were unfortunate souls who really had no other way to go in their life due to years of opression by men.
And Crowley had been there when he'd written the letter, reading over his shoulder and ticking off a list of sinful things that men did to their wives. Aziraphale was quite sure that Crowley had a soft spot for women in general regarding those sorts of things.
"She was just for celebration of our recent liberation from the wiles and smiting of old," Crowley muttered half-heartedly.
"Hmph," said Aziraphale, still giving Crowley that disapproving look. And blushing.
It dawned on Crowley that the blushing angel might be jealous.
"Huh," he said, blinking his slitted yellow eyes at Aziraphale from over his sunglasses. "Fancy that."
THE PART AFTER THE MIDDLE AND BEFORE THE END
It was after much deliberation and, of course, the prefabrication of the essential bodily structures and passageways, that Aziraphale allowed Crowley to push him up against an empty bookcase and have at him, so to speak.
Except that there wasn't very much speaking going on, though there was quite a good deal of noise. And they hadn't even gotten past kissing.
Crowley's sunglasses had fallen off at some point in his motion, which he had intended, as those with glasses very well know that they can interfere with kissing. His tie was mussed (entirely Aziraphale's doing), his jacket discarded (his own doing), and his pants were around his ankles (they both suspected gravity, which has a funny way of getting around things like erections and even the most determined belts). Aziraphale found himself completely nude in a matter of milliseconds with Crowley hissing against his throat. He was about to complain about the wishing away of actual clothing, but found himself too enraptured by Crowley's sudden discovery of his left nipple (which was rather new and still very tender).
One could say that his new state of liberation (which Aziraphale didn't take too seriously--Crowley had caught him performing a miracle to rid a child of a spring cold) freed Crowley's options as to whom he could fraternize with. Not that he was normally afraid of the conseqences, seeing as it was a noteworthy achievement to tempt an angel to sin.
The way Aziraphale dug his long, graceful fingers into Crowley's back, however, could be nothing but pure, heavenly ecstacy. And he hadn't even gotten past the angel's chest. Any moment Crowley expected him to burst into holy song, which would have been rather inopportune, seeing as Aziraphale really couldn't sing. He would have to fix that.
"Oh, oh dear, oh Crowley," murmured the angel between gasps, clutching his fingers in the demon's hair. "You've been holding out on me, I dare say."
Crowley pulled back and gave Aziraphale his most snake-like grin and did something very odd indeed with his tongue. Aziraphale tasted like strawberries, one of the few fruits that Crowley had a certain passion for. "You've never asked, old friend," he murmured in reply.
"I must ask after this more frequently, if it's not such a bother," Aziraphale gasped, clutching tighter. He'd not had such an interesting experience since he was electrocuted fifty or so years ago.
"Oh not a bother at all," said Crowley, fiercely pursuing the flesh on Aziraphale's left hip, leaving a nice, dark mark in the relative shape of a snake when he finished.
"Can we--" started Aziraphale.
"Of course," Crowley answered, cutting him off with another interesting kiss as he stood up.
It didn't take terribly long to coax Aziraphale's legs apart and slick him up back there with custard from the mille feuille, the remnants of which Aziraphale licked off his fingers. Crowley situated himself inside with minimal adjusting and discomfort for the angel, which Aziraphale privately believed was the demon's doing. Even for immortals those sorts of things were generally uncomfortable at first.
When Crowley drew back Aziraphale shuddered, and when the demon thrust back in, growling, he was reduced to a gasping, clutching mess. Crowley ended up sprawled in a broad chair (which Aziraphale was quite sure had never been in his shop before that meoment) with the angel in his lap, both of them thrusting and grinding and doing all manner of fervent sexual actions.
Now, angels and demons, both being immortal, have monsterous stamina even at the very worst of times, so things continued in this vein for quite some time until both of them were positively at the breaking point. The aftermath was very messy, sticky, and included bits of pastry somehow stuck in Crowley's hair. Aziraphale was very cheerful about the whole ordeal and crooned and cuddled with the panting (he had begun breathing sometime during their coupling and forgotten to stop) demon. Any good resource will tell you that demons, by their very nature, are neither cuddly nor affectionate, but Crowley supposed he could bend the rules for a companio--frien--lov--decent chap like Aziraphale. Just this once.
Aziraphale was quite in-like with Crowley, indeed, and was humming an old church hymn while drawing romantic words in French on Crowley's bare stomach. He was secretly thankful that Crowley had taken to the Spanish instead of the French, for he would have been embarassed for Crowley to know the extent of his infatuation. "This whole business with having our own side might not be too bad after all," Aziraphale admitted aloud. It would be less boring than feeding the ducks at St. James' Park while complaining about the dullness of humanity, good, and evil, at the very least.
"Indeed," replied Crowley sleepily.
THE END (YES, KEEP READING)
Mr. William T. Bruce was a fine, upstanding man with the occasional foray into women's lingere and dirty magazines. Mr. Bruce had heard from a friend of a friend of a friend that two men, Mr. A. Phale and Mr. A. J. Crowley, had opened up a shop selling various odd bits and bobs near his neighborhood. So he decided to pop on over and pay the shop a visit.
The aisles were so crowded with merchandise that he could barely see the check out counter. He swiped a few dirty magazines (which to any observant person reading this would obviously be Crowley's fault), glanced at the good luck charms (Aziraphale's doing), and procured a bottle of wine that should have been twice as expensive (a joint effort). He sauntered up to the counter where two men were conversing quietly with one another. He caught bits about angels and demons and Down There and figured it must be a religious conversation. Well, that wasn't too uncommon these days, what with all the odd things that had happened a year or so back.
"Oh, hello there," said the second man, a curly-topped blonde with blue eyes and the look of a homosexual (not that there was anything wrong with that, Mr. Bruce thought) when he noticed Mr. Bruce.
"Hello, gentlemen. Fine shop you have here," replied Mr. Bruce politely. And it really was.
"Let me ring you up," said the first man, who Mr. Bruce thought was a bit odd for wearing sunglasses indoors, but to each their own.
The first man pushed some buttons on the register and frowned to himself. "My dear, really," said the second, with seemingly infinite patience, and moved to take over the machine. "How many times do I have to teach you?"
"You've got damn near forever to do it," muttered the first man, a bit gloomily, thought Mr. Bruce.
"Language, my dear Crowley. We have a guest," replied the second man, who must be Mr. Phale if the first man was Mr. Crowley (but we all knew this, didn't we, and are probably thinking that Mr. Bruce is very slow to catch on). Mr. Phale completely ignored Mr. Crowley's complaint. "Oh, there you go, sir," said Mr. Phale. His goods were packaged in a brown paper bag, even though Mr. Bruce hadn't remembered Mr. Phale or Mr. Crowley either packaging them or handing them to him. "Have a good day."
"Cheerio," muttered Mr. Crowley sullenly.
"Good day," said Mr. Bruce, glancing sideways at them.
If Mr. Bruce had paused to glance back once more on his way out of the shop he would have noticed that Crowley had snagged one arm around Aziraphale's waist and was worrying at the angel's ear with his teeth. If Mr. Bruce had been a bit more attentive he would have noticed that Aziraphale's protestations that 'distractions during business hours' really were unfair to the customers. If Mr. Bruce had been in the shop he would have noticed that Crowley could, without fail, tempt Aziraphale by doing that with his tongue.
In the end, they weren't really any more good or bad than they were before. Crowley still caused mischief and Aziraphale still performed minor miracles and moped about collecting books in secret. The only difference was that there was a lot more sex.
A whole lot more.