TheCortex

@the-cortex.bsky.social

495 Followers 1136 Following

A mostly NSFW author currently infected with untreatable Good Omens brainrot. Also Sandman, Firefly, The Magicians, BG3, and a handful of other, even tinier fandoms AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCortex/works

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said in a voice that made Crowley tense behind him. His gaze didn’t dare stray from the three other demons sat in his living room, but it was obvious which one he was speaking to. “Told you I didn’t want anyone else’s hands on you,” Crowley said, face hidden in the naked flesh at the juncture of Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder. “And this was your compromise?” Aziraphale sputtered. He flung a hand towards the Crowley on his right, who at least had the good grace to flinch. “Good Lord! The effects on Time alone–” “All came from different timelines. No temporal instability or memory paradox,” Crowley said, but his argument seemed brittle. “You– That is what you’ve been toiling away on?” Aziraphale goggled. And then he twisted in Crowley’s embrace in order to better goggle at him. “You took versions of yourself from other timelines?”
He was a lit match, hovering so close to a well of kerosene that Aziraphale could almost see the moment of his impending immolation. The separation was such that it was only a matter of atoms, that dancing flame’s caress both promise and inevitability.
Crowley delivered a peck to his temple and then Aziraphale was curled on the table, alone, in front of three dear faces that were all shades of a stranger.
Crowley turned his full attention to Aziraphale, who bit back a pitiful noise. Crowley’s gaze was scorching, flaying skin and burning fat until it seared straight into Aziraphale’s core and wrapped around his True Form. “Go to the bedroom, angel. Undress and kneel for me. Me and Hob here need to have a discussion.”
Crowley tilted his head as if trying to catch the sound of far-off music, smirk fastened in place and hands slipping into his trouser pockets. He was the picture of nonchalance, an image that raised the small hairs on the back of Aziraphale’s neck. When he spoke, his words were dangerously mild: “Then have a nice night.” ~*~ Aziraphale did not have a nice night.
“Well that isn’t your decision!” Aziraphale jabbed an accusing finger into the centre of Crowley’s chest, his own rising and falling with breaths that could nearly be considered panting. That seemed to be entirely the wrong thing to say because the consternation melted off of Crowley’s face, replaced by a slow, lazy smile that always twisted Aziraphale’s insides into delicious knots. “Oh, it’s not, is it?” he purred, voice dropped to its most tempting register. “Could have sworn that this little number—” Crowley hooked a finger in the delicate silver chain that lay in the hollow of Aziraphale’s throat "—means I can do whatever I want with you.”
When he turned his head to kiss his relief into Aziraphale’s mouth, Aziraphale pressed a hand to his chest and shoved him away. “Really, Crowley. Is that all you think about?” Crowley let himself be pushed, though there was no hiding his confusion—or the flash of hurt. “What are you on about?” “I’m not always here for sex. I do have other matters to attend to.” “Could’ve fooled me,” Crowley muttered as Aziraphale made his way to the kitchen. He followed after and propped one hip against the counter, folding his arms while Aziraphale sipped his tea. “Fact is, I remember the last six, seven times you were here, and it always ended with your mouth around my cock.” He leaned closer with a serrated-edged grin. “I think someone is just feeling bratty tonight.” Aziraphale huffed derisively. “Hardly. I am here on business. I shouldn’t expect a demon to understand the distinction.” Some other time the bite of Aziraphale’s ridicule might have gotten lodged beneath his sternum. But he knew Aziraphale, and all this… peacocking was covering something much deeper. “Mm. Might be right,” Crowley purred as he straightened. “Us demons do get to mix business and pleasure.” He stepped behind Aziraphale, arms coming up to cage him in against the counter, the barest sliver of space left between them. Crowley ran his nose along Aziraphale’s hairline, towards his ear, breath turning into a growl when Aziraphale subtly shivered. He dropped his voice low and gravelly—the voice that always made Aziraphale come undone—and let the words drip from his lips as pure Temptation. “Bet I can get you on your knees and gagging for it, O Supreme Archangel.”
The steady, sacrosanct brightness pressed to his abdomen was altogether too much. It shot through his middle like a knife, seeking everything that was hollow and empty and demon. Crowley hadn’t much cared for being an angel, never wanted to return to the cold, sterile halls of Heaven, but even he couldn’t deny that he ached for something to fill the void where the Almighty’s Love used to be. The consecration radiating from Aziraphale’s blessed halo reached into that bleak place, catching against its raw edges and sinking in with a euphoric agony. He groaned, the weight of Aziraphale’s body warm against his cock, the thrilling pulse of almost-pain and almost-bliss pumping into a pool that he’d spent six thousand years trying not to acknowledge. Now it had gone and runneth over, all this backed-up arousal a lit match dangled over a well of kerosene.
Less than a decade ago, Crowley had found a quaint little building in Soho; it, and the surrounding block, had been PERFECT for an arboretum. And now his plants, flora from around the world, were flourishing HERE, in the heart of London. He’d installed floor-to-ceiling windows that had cost nearly his entire Earthly savings; the rest had gone to the enormous domed skylight, spilling the sun’s rays across the floor in bursts of colour. Every penny had been worth it, too. While technically considered an embassy of Heaven, this place, and everything in it, were HIS. He was HOME.
And in his hand, glowing with holy fire, was Aziraphale’s halo. If Crowley squinted, he could almost make out the ancient Enochian script around the rims. He couldn’t read it anymore, the knowledge of it torn from him along with his Grace, but the sight of it still stirred something deep inside, in the place where a single spark of sanctity still lived. It was that spark which had allowed him to do so many blessings in Aziraphale’s name—and which now allowed him to cling to proof of Aziraphale’s Divinity without being immolated.
Oh, but this was a DANGEROUS road. Crowley brought his gaze back up to Muriel’s, where they met his stare with a raised chin. The part of himself that he despised was darkly thrilled; it fucking PURRED at the look they cast him, full of confidence and heat—and Crowley didn’t have the strength to chase it away. He inhaled deeply, looking for the comforting scent of raspberries and rum, toasted almonds and a pleasant note of spent gunpowder. The ratios of it were different in Muriel, but close enough to coalesce three years of loneliness into one long, throbbing stream of WANT.
“On your knees, just as I said,” Crowley rasped during a lull in Aziraphale’s struggles. “But *not*, as you said, ‘*gagging* for it.’” Aziraphale spat, blue eyes turned almost slate as they slashed back towards Crowley. “*Yet*.” Dark promise filled his voice as he cupped a hand around Aziraphale’s throat and pulled the panting angel flush against one hip.
The little place in New Zealand was almost perfect. And, Crowley pondered with a smirk over his afternoon coffee, something about a demon living in Christchurch tickled him. While the filthy back alley he’d accidentally flung himself into hadn’t been in the city proper, it hadn’t been far from it either. Christchurch wasn’t London—nothing ever was—but there had been more than enough temptation to foment that almost three years had slipped by without his notice. Once he’d stopped marking his time by That Day, life had even become something approaching normal. What WAS normal about the day was Crowley taking his latte on the balcony, dressed only in soft, clinging trousers and an unbuttoned shirt, watching the glow of the sun in the distance. He braced his elbows against the railing, sipping deep as a slight wind toyed with his hair and coffee burned a line down the middle of his chest until it spread in the pit of his stomach. What was NOT normal were the three echoing knocks on his front door.
“Need a change of scenery, hmm?” he pondered aloud, more for Aziraphale’s benefit than his own. Though, this bare white room did make him itch and, well, Crowley had always been a showman. He flicked his fingers at the walls. The plaster dissolved into nothing, revealing stone, rough-hewn and soot-dark, extending far beyond the bounds of the club and lit with torches that cast ominous, dancing shadows. When Aziraphale inevitably turned, he’d find no doors, no windows, no light streaming from the high, vaulted ceiling. No escape for the holy and penitent. The darkness above was absolute, a reflection of the smaller, blackened bricks that pushed up from the concrete floor, slashed down the centre with a blood-red carpet. Aziraphale couldn’t see the obsidian dais that was raised behind him, nor the molten light roiling in its imperfections, but he could feel the heat from the two black-marble braziers that Crowley summoned on either side of his golden throne. And for the coup de gras…