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#aziracrow – @f0ul-f13nd on Tumblr
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Foul Fiend

@f0ul-f13nd / f0ul-f13nd.tumblr.com

she/her/47, writer. queer. Good Omens. ao3:Foul_Fiend
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Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. spread the self-love ❤

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Five Fav Fics

Thanks @snae-b for including me; I'm grateful... and I'm always up for a bit of self-love ;)

1 - Our Two Solitudes, Rated E, 36k words, complete.

Tags include: First kiss, First time, Wing kink, Gentle Dom Aziraphale, Crowley has a praise kink, & multiple "through the ages" eras.
Summary: Aziraphale has spent most of his long existence alone. First in Heaven, isolated due to his anomalous, sensitive wings. Then on Earth, a solitary angel amidst a world of Humanity. Likewise, Crowley, banished from Heaven and so different from his fellow demons, has spent his lonely millennia pining for the one Being he cannot have. In Central America, in 1986, they each will rescue the other, and perhaps discover that they are not so alone after all.
Excerpt: Crowley often dreams of Falling. The helpless spiralling descent followed by the cataclysmic impact that resonates in every atom of his corporation. The interminable burning pain. The smouldering odor of his charred wings biting at his sinuses, making him wrench his neck to and fro to escape the acrid fumes.  This nightmare is especially vivid, bright with the coppery scent of blood in his nostrils, and a heavy weight pinning him down, spiking his adrenaline with claustrophobic panic. Lurid noises add to the chaos: the roar of nearby flames, raging, devouring. Anguished screams. Not the howls of demons or falling angels — human screams. And gunfire, distant but coming closer.  And then a familiar gasping voice filters into his consciousness, barely more than a pained whisper. “Crowley, we have to move.”

2 - A Social Construct, Rated E, 120k words, WIP (likely to be over 200k, slow to update).

Tags (mind them please, this fic is heavy) include: AU-human, AU-university, Slow burn, Sexual discovery, Virgin Aziraphale, Past abuse, Past drug addiction, Past rape/non-con, Past underage, Permanent injury, Sexting, Dating app, Mistaken identity, Lying by omission, Power imbalance (not between main characters), Unless you mean the fun kind of power imbalance
Note: The first few chapters of this fic do give a bit of a romcom vibe and it's fun. Newt, Anathema, and Tracy are prominent players and will continue to be. But the vast majority of the fic explores recovery from various past traumas, as well as other dangers I won't spoil for you. And the sexual discovery tag ;)
Summary: Aziraphale Fell, 23, PhD student, has one short, miserable relationship under his belt and is still quite inexperienced. With the encouragement of his friend Anathema, and against his better judgement, he joins the hookup app Lustr. Anthony Crowley, also 23, is working to finish his junior year after a troubled youth. He doesn't date, but he has spent the last few months pining after the angel in the library - the one with the bow tie and the kind smile - and trying to find the courage to speak to him. Crowley hasn't swiped anyone on Lustr in months... But he looks. And seeing an unexpected face might spur him to action.
Excerpt: Crowley is no stranger to panic attacks. When his anxiety grows larger than life, clutching him in its massive hands - (trapped like the poor little frogs he used to hunt in his back garden: damp skin, straining limbs, heaving lungs, drumming heart) - Crowley needs to move. For a long time, he wasn’t allowed. Locked in Luke’s room or in rehab, or drugged into submission, or stuck in a hospital bed. Tonight, he can.
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A Social Construct Chapter 15: honey gold

…The conversation had meandered between topics but had remained comfortable and relaxed, and now that the wine bottle is empty, the plates cleared, and dessert ordered, Crowley is feeling quite comfortable and relaxed himself.

Until he notices the way Aziraphale is looking at him across the empty table. Hungry, and… Possibly a bit feral. Crowley’s body reacts to it even before his mind processes what it might mean, his heart rate ticking faster. Breath quickening in his chest.

“What? Angel? Wha-” he swallows, his throat feeling tight.

Aziraphale doesn’t seem aware that he’s licked his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. “I’m only thinking of what I hope to do to you later.”

“Ngk,” says Crowley.

“Only if you’re amenable, of course,” Aziraphale adds, with a subtle tip of his head. As though this were a perfectly reasonable negotiation.

Crowley swallows again. Wets his lips. “I think you’ll find that I am, Angel.”

The angel simply gazes at him, his mouth twitching up at one corner.

Crowley doesn’t want to know. Not now. Not here, in this restaurant.

Yes. Yes, he does. He scoots closer to the table, where the long white tablecloth can hide whatever’s about to happen in his godforsaken lap. “What - erm… What did you have in mind?”

Instead of the direct answer Crowley had been expecting, Aziraphale answers with a question. “Do you enjoy being teased, dearest?”

Crowley very nearly swallows his tongue. He can only nod. Yes. He does.

Aziraphale nods as well; he knows. “Yes, you do enjoy it, don’t you,” he says warmly - and yet there’s something predatory in his gaze, something accusatory in his tone when he continues. “Personally, I don’t care for being teased. Which is why it’s been particularly difficult for me, sitting across from you all evening, suffering the provocation of your body beneath that damnable shirt.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, eloquently.

“Yes,” the angel agrees. “Quite.” He smiles then, open and clear-eyed, inviting Crowley to share in the humour of his misfortune. Poor Aziraphale, thwarted by a £21 secondhand top from Oxfam.

Crowley doesn’t feel like laughing; he feels like his cock might be in danger of splitting the front of his trousers. Or sounding a klaxon alarm that calls the attention of the restaurant patrons and staff alike.

“Which is why,” Aziraphale continues mildly, “I plan to keep it on you for as long as possible, while I touch you in all the ways I’ve thought about, this evening. Even after I’ve removed your trousers and whatever you’re wearing under them, that top will stay on. Again… if you’re amenable.”

“Fuck.” Crowley knows that if any other diners were to look at him, they’d know something’s amiss. His breathing is laboured. His hands are in fists on the tablecloth. “N’then?” he asks, because he’s never made a bad decision that he couldn’t take a step further down the road to Hell. Or in this case, down the road to embarrassment in a public space.

“And then, I’ll unbutton it with my teeth, dear. Not to worry - I won’t put my mouth anywhere I shouldn’t. But I can taste your hips, can’t I? Your iliac furrow? The inside of your thighs?”

“Mmm-huh,” Crowley answers, delirious.

“Why don’t you put your hands there, darling?”

Crowley blinks. The question does not compute.

Aziraphale smiles, so soft and patient. “Dearest. If you like, place your hands on your thighs. Only if you like. We can stop this at any time, if you’re uncomfortable.”

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