So last year, me and @ouidamforeman did a fun little AU that we love terribly with Vampire Crowley and Human Aziraphale. We’re working on a sequel, but in the meantime, all the Dracula Daily stuff got me thinking silly thoughts and thus here those silly thoughts are! There’s a short snippet of the fic below, the rest can be read on AO3 (as it is NSFW).
If you haven’t read the first fic, “I won’t have a life (until you’re dead)”, consider checking it out if you enjoy this one! If for no other reason to see the gorgeous illustrations that Ouida did for it <3.
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Aziraphale tapped the blunt edge of his straight razor against the little bowl of water, droplets dripping into the pool from the blade. He laid it aside on top of the dresser, now satisfied with its cleanliness, and set about lathering the soap.
He always felt better after a fresh shave, more like himself. Something about the repetitive motion cleared the mind and dulled the senses. A relaxation, a “self-care moment” as the kids liked to say.
There was a brief shift in the air, as though someone had just walked behind him, close enough to leave a breath against his neck. “Who’s there?” He called as he turned, but met nothing more than his empty room. He shook off his unease, of course no one was there, there had been no one in his small shaving mirror save for himself. A trick of the wind, in these drafty old manors.
Aziraphale took up his razor, gliding it as smoothly as he was able against the grain of his skin. Straight razors were quite finicky, one wrong move and he could slice into the skin of his neck. One hopes, if that is to happen, that the cut is small and not enough to cause concern. But given the whims of his host, Aziraphale was starting to think that any slight wrong move would be quite a big cause for concern.
Long spindly fingers closed over his shoulder, a soft hiss in his ear. He jumped, nicking the side of his neck in the process, blood trailing down and staining his white shirt.
“Oh no, I appear to be bleeding, and directly from my neck, oh dear me.”
“Fuck, shit, Aziraphale; I’m sorry, hold on, let me just…” Crowley’s tongue, with its strange healing saliva, pressed against his neck, a warm and comforting wetness that sealed the wound just as easily as it appeared.
Which, of course, made Aziraphale petulant.
“Dear, you are supposed to ravish me.” Aziraphale leaned against the dresser, crossing his arms.
“But… you were hurt?”
“Crowley, I thought you told me you had read Dracula?” He had to admit, Crowley looked rather silly at the moment. He’d donned a billowy white shirt and a satin cape. The cape was still creased from where it had been in the plastic package, and was clearly extremely cheap. But Aziraphale always gave Crowley points for effort.
