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They’re on the couch, which means that within a few minutes they’re somehow in Aziraphale’s bed, which also probably didn’t exist twenty seconds ago. But neither of them is very bothered by that considering the state of things.

The State Of Things: Aziraphale on top of Crowley, his hands bunched in Crowley’s shirt with his hips rolling fluidly against him, his arousal very obvious and also very nice, if Crowley can say so (which he can, and he will, thanks very much), the kiss they’re sharing slow and sweet, and when they pull away after what might be forever, Aziraphale leans his forehead against Crowley’s, their noses touching softly.

“Dear,” he breathes.

“How would you feel about being, um,” Crowley starts to say, except it’s slightly difficult to pay attention because Aziraphale still hasn’t stopped rolling his hips down, “topping?”

That actually gets him to stop. “What?”

“You know—”

“No, I know what topping means,” Aziraphale says, pulling back to look at Crowley properly. Crowley immediately misses the closeness. “I just mean…you’re alright with that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He gives Crowley a look, something between exasperation and quiet understanding. “You’ve not been open to the idea before, is all.”

“It’s not that I’ve not been open,” he says. “I’ve been plenty open.”

“Are you intending for that to be an innuendo?”

“I just think that maybe I would like to—” He waves a hand around vaguely, offering a gesture that leaves much room for Aziraphale to interpret on his own. It really isn’t that Crowley hasn’t been interested in the idea of being topped. It’s just that—well. It’s a vulnerable position to put yourself in. And Crowley has a complicated relationship with being vulnerable.

Besides, it’s not like he doesn’t like topping Aziraphale. Quite the opposite, actually.

But the thing you have to understand about Crowley is that his body is—it’s a difficult subject. Gender and sex and the like. Because angels and demons don’t really have a sex, generally speaking, unless they want to, and gender for them is even less of a concept, if that’s possible. But somewhere between falling and his time in the Garden, Crowley had discovered that the human concept of gender was actually quite interesting, and that “man” and “male” fit him nicely. Crawly changed to Crowley and he started presenting with a human form more often, and so on.

The only issue, then, was the matter of sex.

If he really wanted—and he has—Crowley could, in theory, just magic up whatever parts he decided.  A quick thought, and he’d have a flat chest, a dick, a prostate, all those lovely things that he discovered during his time on Earth to be traditionally associated with the label “man” (at least in the white, European circles—it varies, of course, in other cultures, and the spread of “man” or “woman” as a biological certainty when it comes to a specific set of genitals is a part of all that colonialism. But he digresses).

But the thing he’s discovered about magic is that you can make whatever you want, do whatever you please, but it’s not quite the same as the real thing. He could magic himself a glass of wine, but it would be different. He would be able to tell.

It happened, then, that around the time that he was discovering the human concepts of gender, that his form was leaning towards the presence of estrogen and a vagina. He tried, for a while, to switch it up, but that didn’t feel quite right, either. It was all a big fucky mess, honestly.

What he discovered, after literal centuries of experimenting with different combinations and different expressions and different what have you, is that what fits him best is this:

A vagina (thank you very much), the presence of Testosterone similar to the kinds of Hormone Replacement Therapy humans might go through (which includes the enlargement of said sexual organ’s clitoris, also thank you very much, and which Crowley proudly refers to as his cock), and what-used-to-be-but-are-no-longer breasts. He had top surgery sometime in the eighties, leaving behind twin horizontal scars.

Aziraphale asked him about that when he first got the procedure—“Why not just miracle the scars away, or miracle the exact chest you want?”—but it’s was the same answer as everything else: it’s not the same if he does that. Of course, he did a little meddling during the healing process, reducing the pain to nothing (because who would want to deal with that if they can avoid it?) and adding back feeling to his nipples once fully healed (because he wasn’t with Aziraphale at that time but he knew from his own, um, experience that feeling there was, well, nice). But for the most part, he’s come across his current appearance the way human trans men would.

The only semblance of an issue proposed by this was that it meant, the first time he wanted to top Aziraphale, Crowley had to go about magicking up materials. Much easier than changing his body, though, and he likes how it is now; he doesn’t want to change. The addition of a harness and a prosthetic when they want to get down to it is a small price to pay for comfort.

But. Well.


If demons can experience dysphoria, Crowley might. Don’t ask him to explain, but the overall feeling that first came up when he thought about bottoming, having something inserted in him, was discomfort and something else nausea-adjacent. He was quick to ask Aziraphale, when they first got to that point in their relationship, if he could be the one on top.

It’s been years now since they first moved their relationship beyond we’re-in-love-with-each-other-but-refuse-to-say-it-even-though-it’s-been-six-thousand-years-so-we-just-dance-around-the-topic-and-pretend-it’s-not-there and solidly into we’re-annoyingly-in-love territory, and Crowley is finally thinking, maybe, that he would be okay with that.

Because lately, the idea of being the one underneath isn’t nausea-inducing—the opposite, in fact.

“So,” Aziraphale says, “you think you would be alright with bottoming for me?”

Crowley nods. Then adds, “More than alright.”

More than alright?” Aziraphale repeats, and a small smile forms on his lips. He kisses Crowley gently, which is both very nice and also irritating because he immediately pulls away again just to ask, “And you’re sure? One hundred percent?”

Yes, angel, I’m sure,” Crowley says, exasperated, because he is, actually, and he thinks he might want to get down to it now, if Aziraphale doesn’t mind.

He pulls Aziraphale into another kiss. It’s deeper this time, more intentional. There’s a goal, now. He kind of likes that thought.

Aziraphale kisses like he’s trying to say something with it; he always has, ever since the first hesitant brush of their lips, just hardly considered a kiss, back during those few days after the world didn’t end when they were still high on the knowledge that they had more time. They’d kissed so gingerly, then, like something might happen if they did, a crash of thunder or flames or whatever. But Heaven and Hell were very quiet, the same way they have been since Armageddidn’t, and once they’d realized this was real and there was nothing to keep them apart, they’d kissed like they were trying to make up for all six thousand years in one evening.

They’re doing that now, with Aziraphale’s hands in Crowley’s hair, fingernails dragging against his scalp just enough to be pleasant, and Crowley’s hands on Aziraphale’s thighs, squeezing through his pants’ fabric. Aziraphale is a messy kisser, which Crowley finds to be very, very endearing and also kind of weirdly hot?

Aziraphale’s hands move away from Crowley’s hair and instead to his shirt, fumbling for the buttons. He’s back to grinding, which is also very hot.

Crowley pulls away from the kiss enough to say, a laugh in his voice, “You’re going to ruin my shirt.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Aziraphale gets the first two unbuttoned, then gives up and instead starts at the hem of Crowley’s shirt, trying to get it over his head.

“Hardly,” Crowley says behind the shirt, tugged over his head. It gets stuck there because of course it does, and Aziraphale snorts a laugh at him. Frustrated, Crowley just magics the shirt away completely, sent off to somewhere else in Aziraphale’s shop to be discovered at a later time (possibly by an unsuspecting shopper during the few fickle hours that the place is open).

“I liked that look,” Aziraphale says, setting his hands on Crowley’s shoulders, then running them down, over his collarbones, down his chest, pausing at the pale pink scars. He drags his fingertips over them, one scar at a time.

Crowley, trying to hold on to the delicious heat in his stomach at the same time as he holds this inane line of conversation, says, “Me with my shirt stuck halfway over my head?”

“That’s the one.” Aziraphale’s touch is feather light. It’s clear that he’s pouring all the love he can into the way he traces the bumpy lines, then the small, round scars on Crowley’s sides where the drains had been post-operation.

“Not very sexy, I imagine.”

“On the contrary.” Aziraphale readjusts himself; no longer on Crowley’s lap, he gets between his legs, tugging at Crowley to move until he’s laying down and Aziraphale is eye level with his crotch. “You are very sexy when you look ridiculous.”

“I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment,” Crowley mumbles, but he’s losing patience for the conversation because Aziraphale is tugging his trousers down and off his legs, and then the boxers, and then he’s pressing pointed kisses at Crowley’s thighs, moving inward, just lingering there, and Crowley says, “Are you ever actually going to blow me, or—” before Aziraphale cuts him off by doing just that.

Crowley doesn’t actually forget that oral is, well, pleasant to receive, but he does forget that Aziraphale is very deliberately good at it. He’s not sure how, or why, or if there even is a how or why beyond exuberance and natural skill, but Aziraphale always manages to leave Crowley a trembling wreck within minutes. Crowley is less sure in his ability to return the favor, but Aziraphale has never complained, so he guesses he does alright. Maybe he just makes up what he lacks in technical skill in pure enthusiasm.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, gets high scores on both. Crowley lets out an embarrassing noise when Aziraphale mouths at his cock, two fingers moving in him rhythmically.

“Fuck, okay, angel, you’re doing wonderfully, but—” Crowley starts to sit up, gently pushing Aziraphale off him. Aziraphale retreats, and Crowley is briefly upset at the loss of pleasure. “I do still want to get fucked today, you know.”

“Sorry, dear.” Aziraphale wipes off his mouth with the back of his hand, which is a sight that, if Crowley were not already harder than he’s been in quite a while, would certainly push him towards that edge. “How do you want it?”

“Oh, I don’t care. You choose.” He lays back down on the bed, sprawled out, and lazily strikes a pose. “How do you want me, angel?” he says theatrically, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “No need to be an ass.”

“I’m not,” he says. “I mean, I could be, if that’s what you’d like. I could certainly dial up the theatrics.”

“This isn’t already ‘dialed up’?”

“Definitely not.”

“Riding me, then,” Aziraphale says, and there’s an obvious change in demeanor. Crowley swallows thickly and pulls himself up as Aziraphale lays back against the bed, settling in Aziraphale’s lap.

There’s something very—wrong, almost, or maybe just plain weird—about being completely naked and very much aroused while Aziraphale is still fully dressed. But Crowley also thinks he might like it, a little. The physical indication that he’s the more exposed of the two, in more than one way. He puts a pin on that thought and promises to come back to it as he starts on Aziraphale’s shirt buttons, fumbling for them the same way Aziraphale had his.

It’s weirdly romantic, the undressing bits, even though Crowley is eager to get down to it. For the most part, they tend to at least try to undress themselves instead of waving it all away. It’s like—it’s this moment of just them, where they’re vividly aware of what they’re doing and who they’re doing it with, and it’s just a small, self-awareness-filled part of this whole ordeal that Crowley can’t help but kind of loving. Aziraphale laughs at Crowley as he works on undoing Aziraphale’s belt, and Crowley is vividly aware of how in love he is.

Then Aziraphale’s sliding his pants off, then his underwear, and they’re both very naked and very turned on, and Crowley is suddenly very aware of just how much he has never had anything like this inside of him.

“Oh,” he says, which is kind of a stupid thing to say, probably.

“You’re alright?” Aziraphale asks, sliding his hands to Crowley’s hips and pulling him closer, just enough that Aziraphale can kiss his shoulder, such an open, comfort-filled action.

“I’m alright,” Crowley agrees.

“You still want to—”

“Yes, yes.” He puts his hands in Aziraphale’s hair, then decides against it and trails his hands down Aziraphale’s chest instead. He focuses on what he knows: moving his hands over Aziraphale’s chest, down his stomach, lingering at his hips, moving inward and touching Aziraphale, stroking him gently. Crowley’s rewarded with a breathy Oh. Aziraphale is vocal, but he mostly whispers or breaths or moans, no screaming. Which Crowley kind of loves. It’s quiet and just for him, the sounds. Just his.

“Sorry,” Crowley says. “For the…hesitance.”

“You’re fine, dear.” Aziraphale presses a kiss to the corner of Crowley’s mouth, and Crowley leans forward as if chasing the kiss, and twists his hand a little. “We, ah, don’t have to do anything if you decide not to…”

“Oh, I’m certainly doing something with you like this.”

Aziraphale laughs.

Crowley magics more lube than probably necessary, spends more time preparing them than is probably necessary, before taking Aziraphale much slower than is, strictly speaking, probably necessary, but at the end of it, Aziraphale’s mouth drops open a little, and once Crowley has allowed himself a second to adjust, the feeling of being full is—nicer, than he imagined. There’s definitely more pleasure than pain involved, which he’d been surprised about. He’d always imagined there was supposed to be a lot more discomfort at this point in the process, but it’s just heat, and that curling in his stomach, and the desire to move or get something to happen as soon as he can because oh, that’s—again, and for lack of a better word—nice.

He leans forward. Kisses Aziraphale—deeply, and embarrassingly messily.

“Alright,” Crowley mumbles, “alright.”

Then he moves, up, just a little, hesitantly, then down again, and that felt good, so he follows it, and follows the line of pleasure, thinking about the way Aziraphale’s ridden him before and the way he moved his hips then, and Crowley tries to mimic that.

It’s somewhat successful, if the way Aziraphale’s fingernails are digging into his hips is anything to go by. They meet in another kiss, and Crowley goes down a little harsher than necessary, and Aziraphale makes a noise like a growl, if angels could do such a thing.

After that, it’s just the rhythm they’ve set so many times before, of sex and heat and love. It doesn’t even feel strange to be on the receiving end of things, honestly; it just feels…good. Not like Crowley was made to be here or anything as ridiculous as that, but like they’d been missing out on a whole other way of reaching pleasure all these years, without even realizing it.

At some point, Aziraphale decides that this position isn’t quite going to do it, and after a quick mumbled suggestion and hurried agreement from Crowley, he’s flipped them over so Crowley’s on his back, legs wrapped around Aziraphale in an effort to get as close as possible as they move, pulse, the in-and-out forcing the bed back and into the wall again, a telling noise that would certainly alert the neighbors if Aziraphale had any, and Crowley isn’t thinking anymore about how this is new for him, or how he hopes he’s doing what he can to make Aziraphale feel good, or how odd it is to have something so fully inside his body—he’s just thinking yes and more and there and almost, and then Aziraphale is touching him, rubbing him off, until the almost becomes the final shove over the edge and he’s shaking, eyes closed, as he climaxes.

He doesn’t even register that Aziraphale has followed after him until, after he’s come down, he opens his eyes to see Aziraphale with his own closed. They stay there for a moment, not speaking or doing much of anything but catching breath that neither of them actually needs, strictly speaking.

“Was that alright?” Aziraphale finally says. They move apart, and Crowley is surprised by the empty feeling that follows.

Yes,” Crowley says. “Did the amazing orgasm I just have not tip you off on that?”

Aziraphale gets out of bed and goes about clean everything up, throwing away the condom he miracled into existence earlier, tossing a rag towards Crowley to wipe down the sweat. Crowley does, then waves it away to be dealt with later.

“I suppose it should have,” Aziraphale agrees. He returns to bed, sliding under the covers, and Crowley follows suit, even though he’s burning up. He’ll put up with a little extra heat if it means that they’re going for postcoital cuddling. “So…it was good for you?”

“Surprisingly? Yes.”


Crowley gives him a teasing grin. “I only meant—”

“Oh, I know what you meant, you old serpent.” Said so fondly.

Aziraphale ends Crowley’s half-hearted attempts at explaining himself with a kiss, indicative of everything they’ve said out loud and more.

And, Crowley thinks as he cups Aziraphale’s cheek, it’s more than alright.