Good Omens Streak--Fanish JMTorres
Poison
Closet
Weirds
Me
Out

Title: Feel the Devil in Me
Author: Juliette Torres juliette_torres@yahoo.com
Rating: NC-17 (sex)
Date: 30 March 2004
Notes: I'm of the belief that Good Omens fandom should have smut, even if angels are inclined to be sexless. So here it is, with footnotes and bells on. Thanks to out_there and cadetdru for rabid rapid beta.

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Aziraphale liked to cuddle. It drove Crowley crazy.

Crowley wanted to get Aziraphale off. He saw it as only fair. Mutuality, and all, because Aziraphale had invested a lot of time and effort in getting Crowley off repeatedly. But Aziraphale wasn't terribly interested in having the favors, of which there were now many, returned. He wanted to cuddle.

Crowley let him, but he felt disappointed by it. Occasionally, he wondered if Aziraphale felt the same way about the sex--that he was doing it because Crowley wanted to, but found it inadequate somehow. If this were the case, Aziraphale never said anything like it, whereas Crowley routinely grumbled about being cuddled. Mind, Aziraphale's silence wasn't necessarily proof of anything. His angelic nature lent itself more to politeness.

Aziraphale tried to be helpful. He suggested sexual activities which had the potential to get them both off. He would fuck Crowley, or Crowley would fuck him, or, on one memorable occasion, they attempted to sixty-nine and broke one of Crowley's wings when he came. Crowley did his level best to make Aziraphale come first--because he could never convince the angel to keep going and come second*--but he never succeeded in making Aziraphale come at all.

The problem was that, well, Aziraphale was an angel. Surprisingly enough, this was Crowley's problem, not Aziraphale's. Crowley's demonic instinct to rend, torment and defile all that which is holy, which he could hold in check in ordinary situations, would surface during sex if Crowley allowed himself any awareness of the fact that Aziraphale was an angel. It was a difficult thought to avoid, because Aziraphale tended to develop a halo of ethereal glow when aroused, but Crowley usually managed by blocking out thought altogether. If he could lose himself in sensation, and occasionally close his eyes so as not to see Aziraphale's heavenly aspects, then he could avoid ripping the angel's guts out.

Unfortunately, losing oneself in sensation and trying to outlast one's partner are mutually exclusive goals. When Crowley attempted the latter, he would almost immediately be reminded that he was having sex with an angel, and freeze mid-rut, so intent on controlling his basest instincts that his baser ones lost out. And Aziraphale would say, "Well, there's really no point in going on, if you're not even enjoying yourself," and that would be that. Crowley grumbled especially loudly during the cuddling that took place after these sex acts.

"You're insulting my manhood," Crowley complained. He was technically a man at the time, so this statement was accurate, if you accepted the premise that a lack of interest in orgasms was an insult to your partner's gendered humanity.

"I'm sorry, dear, I didn't mean to insult you," said Aziraphale to Crowley's manhood, and kissed it on its head. Crowley's manhood forgave Aziraphale almost immediately, rising to meet the kiss. Crowley himself held the grudge until Aziraphale had four slick fingers up Crowley's ass, and was working on fitting his thumb in.

The thing that worked best for Crowley, that made him forget everything and turn into a whimpering, shivering, sweating lump of pudding, was being fisted. He particularly enjoyed it in conjunction with being fellated, and Aziraphale was more than happy to oblige on both counts. Aziraphale found it terribly convenient, since neither act required him to go through the effort of manifesting genitals. It was extremely difficult to think with an angel's entire hand inside one's body (occasionally to the elbow, when Aziraphale was feeling daring and Crowley was wriggling around like he wanted it deeper) and it usually made Crowley dizzy even to try. If Crowley approached the state of having an actual thought, which was heralded by the ability to speak words and/or any two consecutive syllables of Aziraphale's name, Aziraphale quickly obliterated it by opening his hand inside of Crowley's body, taking care to press his fingers against Crowley's prostate on their outward sweep. He usually accompanied this by sucking particularly hard, but this was almost superfluous, as Crowley was generally already coming.

When Crowley came, he saw stars, and the earth moved, and he often passed out. Two of these things are exaggerations, but one is factual. What he saw was Aziraphale's ethereal glow, which tended to fill the room when Crowley came, for reasons Aziraphale had never mentioned to Crowley, and which usually completely burned out Crowley's retinas.** The earth also stayed put*** and what Crowley perceived as its movement was his wings snapping out to full extension. (This is how Crowley managed to break a wing during the memorable sixty-nining. Aziraphale's leg was in the way.) As he was lying on his back, this propelled him approximately three feet off the bed. Crowley did actually pass out during some of his orgasms, because lying on top of one's flexed wings forces the wingblades†† into the chest, compressing the lungs.

After his wings had relaxed in unconsciousness, Crowley would catch enough breath to wake back up. He could tell that he was done coming by the fact that the color before his eyes was the pale beige of his ceiling rather than the brilliant, divine light of Aziraphale's ethereal glow. Aziraphale always healed Crowley's retinas while he was passed out, and found time to nip off to the bathroom for a warm washcloth and an implement that had become an emery board by sheer force of Aziraphale's belief. And so when Crowley looked down the bed at Aziraphale, he would find the angel seated in a lotus position between his legs, buffing the nails on the hand he had just been fisting Crowley with.

At this point in the proceedings, Aziraphale was prone to saying completely obscene things in an utterly reasonable tone of voice, such as, "Have you been eating enough fiber? It does wonders for the colon. Or so I've heard."

Crowley couldn't help but laugh at such a thing. He would end up curled on his side cackling at the inappropriateness of such a remark, and Aziraphale would tuck Crowley's wings away and spoon up behind him. Crowley, impressed, once accused Aziraphale of saying such bloody hilarious things merely to manoeuver Crowley into the appropriate position for cuddling.

Aziraphale, affronted, said over Crowley's shoulder, "Well, it does. It keeps you regular."

*By the time Crowley recovered from orgasm, Aziraphale had annoyingly reverted to his natural, sexless state, the bastard.

**The retinas of humans, as well as demons and angels in primarily human form, contain no pain receptors, so it is entirely possible to burn them out without feeling any unpleasantness. This can be empirically tested by staring at the sun until you go blind. There, that didn't hurt a bit, did it?

This fact is interesting, but not necessarily relevant, since Crowley rather enjoys a spot of pain in his sex.

***No, really. All that stuff about revolving around the sun, and the solar system swinging along with the rest of the arm of the Milky Way galaxy--utter bollox. It's just a clever animation, like those spinny dome nightlights they sell to make your kid's bedroom look like a planetarium.

As angels and demons incognito among humans habitually keep their wings folded in a twelfth dimension known as k-space to keep them from being noticed, the simple at of unfolding them is actually far more explosive than it sounds to the uninformed.

††Er, the physiological equivalent of shoulderblades, not the feathers. Crowley's feathers were steely in both color and composition, and rather sharp to boot, but not blades in the traditional sense.

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