#mpreg crowley

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more mpreg crowley

Zachariah is a blessing.

Aziraphale is an angel, yes, but he doesn't use that word lightly -- only events that have occurred that are -truly- life changing and noteworthy have the honor of being called blessings.

His son is -truly- a blessing.

He's six, now -- hair's curly like Aziraphale's own, eyes as blue as the sky -- and so far their attempts at parenting have succeeded. Zach is a sweet boy; he has a big heart, but also the smart mouth of his father, and the angel can hardly believe the primary schooler running around the shop is the same child that used to peer up at him when he was swaddled with such an old soul's look in his eyes.

Aziraphale's daydreaming is interrupted by Crowley, who scoots a kitchen chair back (-god,- they make the most unholy sounds) and immediately slaps something in front of him that practically ricochets off the table. Before he can even ask what it is, Crowley opens his mouth, takes a deep breath and announces:

"I'm pregnant."

"... again."

Aziraphale's mind could be likened to a blue computer screen in that moment; they'd -talked- about other children, sure, had even tried for a while -- Crowley had thrown in the towel when it took him too long to conceive; the angel had shrugged, tried to console him with various success stories of human infertility, and the demon had promptly shut himself in the bathroom for most of the night.

"You're -- you said -- "

"Pregnant. Knocked up. Bun in the oven. Same shit as last time. I'm seven weeks."

-Unlike- last time, there is a small smile on Crowley's face, and he makes the most embarrassing squeak when Aziraphale wraps him up in his arms (Crowley is surprisingly light, when he wants to be.)

"-Anthony,-" Aziraphale whispers, makes Crowley's entire face flame red, and the taller man buries his face in the blonde's shoulder once he's practically scooped up from his chair. "We're having another -baby!-"

"I know," Crowley mutters, lets his hand tangle at the base of Aziraphale's scalp, winds tiny curls around his finger. "Maybe this one won't be a little terror all night like their brother, huh?"

He almost blushes again, when he pulls back and sees the smile on Aziraphale's face, that damned smile that has the fond practically dripping off of him and pooling around them onto the hardwood floor.

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third and final one mpreg crowley etc.

Crowley looks at his body in the mirror and hates it. He's used to having a lithe form, lean and sinewy, no matter if he's presenting as male -or- female -- extra weight isn't an issue for him, but he's never preferred it on himself, and he stands with his shirt rolled up under his elbows, trying not to scowl down at his stomach.

He's sixteen weeks, now -- he'd found out that this entire little problem existed in the early summer, when the city was hot and there were practically no people on the streets; not a surprise, he muses, that he got pregnant during the worst heat wave England had seen in the past seventy years. It's late autumn, now; early November, and he's glad that he'll be obviously pregnant when it's cold out. Not that he'll be going outside much, but a pregnant belly is easier to hide under a gigantic hoodie and overcoat compared to the tight black garb he usually wears.

There's hardly a bump; he doesn't know why he's complaining, really -- it's only obvious when he puts his hands on the small of his back and pushes forward, and the bump starts at the bottom of his pelvis, rounds out just below his navel. There's no stretch marks yet, but he knows they're coming (Aziraphale has already stocked up on countless amounts of lotion); and as he coasts his hand over his stomach, there's the tiniest shot of movement underneath of his hand. Crowley snorts.

Feeling the baby -- it's a boy; he knows, already, doesn't know how, but he can just -tell- -- move had been -odd- at first. It felt rather like a fish swimming in a bag, but inside of his belly; he's been feeling it steadily for two weeks now, and he's adjusted some, even if the trade off for feeling his son move is the sharp pain that runs up the sides of his stomach, a result of his ligaments thickening to support whatever little half breed is growing inside of him.

Aziraphale hates when he calls him names like that; but Aziraphale sees past the discomfort of this, sees the good in it, and it softens what heart Crowley has left every time he sees his lover between his legs, hands splayed on his belly, talking to the baby even though he can hardly hear them yet.

(Crowley -thinks- he can't hear, anyway; sometimes there's a strong flutter after he calls him a little terror, but he's not far along enough to be entirely -sure- yet.)

He sighs, drops his shirt and turns around, and of -course- Aziraphale is there watching him. How stereotypical of him. He still wonders how Aziraphale is usually so painfully -obvious,- but still manages to sneak up on him every single time that Crowley does -not- want to be snuck up on. Crowley doesn't say anything, not at first -- they both scan each other with their eyes, and then Crowley's embarrassed, because the angel's gaze -lingers- and all of a sudden he's terribly self conscious.

"... -what?-" Aziraphale shakes his head, says nothing; Crowley goes to shove past him, but the blonde extends an arm, settles it firmly on his shoulder to stop him, scans the demon with his eyes again.

"You look good, Crowley."

Crowley feels heat start to shoot up his neck, makes an awkward sound and does manage to get past him this time. His face is burning as he saunters down the hall, and Aziraphale watches him, wonders when he'll finally get the nerve to tell Crowley that his odd wobbly walk away is actually starting to look rather funny.

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mpreg good omens stuff

"You've got too many books," Crowley drawls, trails his fingers down the spines and tries to adjust so his gait so he doesn't look so damn -awkward- when he's prowling around the shop. "I'm -congested,- angel, all because of -your- bloody baby -- "

Aziraphale shushes him from across the store; he's on the phone, rambling with a regular about a new shipment of alchemy tomes he's gotten. Crowley slinks up behind him, wraps his arms around him and starts to undo the buttons of his shirt -- the angel makes an embarrassing squawk, bats him away ("Terribly sorry, Mrs. Dunham, a bird's gotten in -- ") and hangs up the phone with an aggravated 'tsk.'

"I'm -terribly- sorry your nose is stuffed up, Crowley, but can you -please- not fuss with me when I'm on the -phone- -- " Crowley ignores him, snakes his arms around his neck and presses into him, something that makes Aziraphale quiet more often than not.

"Dust your store, you old lazy bat," and the blonde brings his hand down to Crowley's stomach while rolling his eyes. The bump is still small -- Crowley's only fifteen weeks, if Aziraphale's math is anything to go by. You can only tell that anything's there by the tiny curve below his navel; Crowley tells him that there are tiny, flickering movements every now and then ("like a worm," and Aziraphale had looked at him with nothing but distaste) and to be perfectly honest, he can't wait to feel them -- the babe's too small at the moment, though, so he settles for keeping his fingers where they're at, stroking small circles against skin that's gradually getting stretched tighter and tighter.

Crowley smells -good-; occasionally his scent is bitter, like brimstone, but now he smells like some sort of fruity body wash (probably from their own bathroom, Aziraphale is addicted to Lush sales), and he presses his face into his head, sighs and brings a hand up to tangle in unbrushed red hair.

"I'll dust the shop later on."

"Mm," Crowley hums, and Aziraphale knows he's not going to be doing much of anything today if the demon has anything to do with it.