It began, like most memorable events in Crowley’s life did, with a bad decision; like most bad decisions, it involved poor impulse control and copious amounts of alcohol. The Antichrist had been born, and he put on lipstick and kitten heels to deal with it, but knew that the clock was ticking, and at times when time was slipping away, it helped to hold onto a bottle of gin.
If Aziraphale had been there, he would’ve sobered up sooner, would not have found himself on Amazon, of all cursed places, and would have not purchased art in a desperate, drunken stupor. It was a statue: Evil’s triumph over Good. The future cast in stone. He felt some guilty satisfaction looking at the angel’s defeated face. He wouldn’t mind stomping the twats down; was actively working up some enthusiasm for it, but the reminder that Aziraphale would be one of the angels pillaged by the armies of Hell never let him indulge in the fantasy for long.
The package arrived the next day. He wasn’t expecting it. The memory of the order was lost when he’d miracled his hangover away. He squatted down in his uninviting hallway, still wearing nylon stockings and a stuffed bra, his cigarette unlit. He used his nails to open it, which could be quite sharp if he so fancied, and peered at the box's contents in utter bewilderment.
"'The fuck I order an angel and a demon shagging for?” he muttered to himself. There was no mistaking it: nude, muscular figures wrestling, the demon pinning his enemy to the ground, triumphant, hips snapping forward.
He could appreciate the...craftsmanship. It’d be a shame to return it. He made a solemn vow that he’d never let Aziraphale see it.
The vow was broken on the night of the Apocalypse-that-Wasn’t, when he invited Aziraphale over, they shared a bottle of Château Margaux, and plans, and laughter, and Aziraphale said, pointing his crystal glass towards the statue dominating the dimly lit hallway, “Who made that, if I may ask?”
“An amazon,” Crowley lied, cursing himself. He’s gotten so used to the statue’s presence he didn’t think twice about it. “A rather creative lady.”
Aziraphale gave him a smile that was entirely too cheeky, his eyes gleaming; he so loved to embarrass him.
“Well,” he purred, “she got it wrong. Angels are tops, of course.”
Crowley spat out his wine.
Winter rolled in with thunder and rain and he couldn’t forget that passing remark. He thought about it every time he entered the flat, greeted by his mistake of a purchase. Suffice to say his curiosity had been…piqued. Aziraphale had to be taking the piss, naturally. Angels were—well, it didn’t matter what angels were like, did it; Aziraphale was different, and he was—fairly cautious, still, the fact that he had gone rogue not really changing a thing. He was a sodding little hedonist, but one that knew measure, and one whose interest in intimacy had been fairly limited. (Or his interest in Crowley had been fairly limited. He used to think that, thanks to 1862, but now he wasn’t quite certain.)
If Aziraphale mingled with mortals, he never told him, and Crowley loathed to even consider that possibility. They were friends, for Heaven’s sake—they were ought to share everything.
To be fair, there were things Crowley didn’t share, chief among them the recent interest the statue evoked. It was gobsmacking to think that Aziraphale was well-versed enough in the terminology to use it so offhandedly. It made one wonder. Made one think. Think of...triumphing.
On December 13th, a quite unremarkable date if it wasn’t for what followed, he passed the statute the same way he always did, keeping his back to it, hips swaying as he tossed his keys down at random (they’d find their way to their hook). He shed his coat, shimmied out of a stylishly ragged sweater, mildly cursing the weather. It made him sluggish; all he wanted to do was to get home and watch telly, but he wasn’t going to waste the new life he’s been given (the new life he’s taken for himself) on binging The Crown. He hadn’t abandoned his demonic activities: he liked to keep busy, but there wasn’t much to do on a day like this. The freezing rain did his job for him: people woke up irritated to its hard splatter, and their day gradually worsened as they trotted through slippery roads, squinting in the mist. Given the circumstances, tempting them to have loud conversations on public transport, walk slowly, or set their kids loose in a restaurant would’ve been just cruel and sadistic. He had an afternoon free, unexpectedly, and didn’t know what to do with it.
He could always nap. Or call Aziraphale. But Aziraphale would call him later, at four o’clock, as usual. He wouldn’t want to look too eager, would he. He glanced at the statue as he lowered himself down to his velvety throne. Yes, his intentions, or hopes, rather, had been—expressed. No need to be pushy. That was an unattractive quality. Not like attraction mattered too much; angels didn’t experience anything of the sort, unless they specifically wanted to.
The angel of the statue had definitely been up to it. Must’ve begged for it.
Crowley drummed on his knees.
He wondered, idly, if he could—do something about it. That certain tightness in his stomach. To beat boredom and handle the situation, give in to the temptation of Sloth without slipping back to old routines—do what humans were wont to do on rainy days when they ran out of better ideas.
He kept looking at the statue.
He’d never even had an erection.
(Angels are tops.)
He never had one, because he had no reason to. His body had been equipped with a cock, but it didn’t see much use. He didn’t have to use the loo. Needn’t even shower, he could just wish himself clean. The only connection he had with his penis was adjusting it whenever it got in the way, but that could be done with a thought. It lay limp against his thigh now, even with Aziraphale’s words echoing in his mind. He’d always felt—a certain way, about Aziraphale; had been pulled to him since the Beginning. It was an emotion that didn’t have a name, that was unutterable (ineffable) but which could have been translated to Earthly terms, to the language of love and desire. Crowley had made attempts to do exactly that, but Aziraphale remained politely disinterested in that form of bonding, and Crowley was disinterested in romancing with anybody else.
But he had himself, didn’t he?
And he had a whole afternoon, an imagination, and a functioning cock.
Well. He hoped it functioned.
When he opened his trousers, it was really just to check.
It was there. It was present. It looked like any other human cock would. Not too big, not too small. Fairly long. Meaty. Equipped with foreskin, which Crowley had always considered a distinct advantage. He tried to get it out, and hissed as it caught on the zipper. Right. Bad idea. He pushed the trousers and his underwear further down, then kicked them off altogether. The socks remained: he read somewhere that keeping the feet warm could lead to swifter orgasms, but was vaguely aware it was considered rude; all the better. He pulled up his undershirt, and pressed his cock to his flat belly, determined. It didn’t make him feel any which way. Wasn’t different from touching his elbow (which he could absolutely do).
He rubbed a thumb over the tip, and concentrated. He needed to circulate blood down there. He knew this wasn’t how humans went about the business. They thought sexy thoughts. He didn’t quite know what counted as such—would Aziraphale eating be considered sexy, since it always thrilled Crowley to watch him find pleasure, or would Aziraphale have to dine naked for it to work? He peered at the statue for inspiration. Pictured it with Aziraphale’s correction, the angel atop the demon, and felt his cock fill.
Actually felt it.
The sensation was surprising, but less electric than he was lead to believe by first-hand accounts and erotic films. It had a pleasant buzz to it, but an ache too; the ache was rubbish. He ran his long fingers over the shaft to soothe the pain, and a shocked hiss escaped him. It felt nice. Intensely.
So. That was a good thing to know about nerve-endings.
He furrowed his brows, and pushed his sunglasses up his forehead. The experiment needed further inspection and his utmost attention. He even stuck his tongue out in concentration. He knew the motions; had seen it more than he cared to and always found it faintly embarrassing, like watching someone blow their nose.
If blowing your nose was anything like this, he’d need to get the fucking flu.
“What the hell,” he muttered. His voice had gotten—breathy. And he was just getting started.
He shifted on the throne, the cushion’s caress on his arse not unnoticed. His thighs tingled, and he kicked out a socked foot as he stroked his cock luxuriously.
Entirely too many nerve-endings.
He rolled his cock in his left palm, and caressed up the length with his knuckles, then made a fist like he learnt, and pumped.
His mouth fell slack.
“Shit,” he hissed. Just wait until he told Aziraphale—but should he? This was—something private. He’d have to make sure Aziraphale was interested before bombarding him with details, but he still catalogued every sensation, the frantic thrust of hips, his toes curling, cock throbbing, just to tell him about all of it, should he ask, should he—
Maybe it’d be far more interesting if Aziraphale was there with him. If he was sitting on the red marble desk, legs crossed, in his Sunday best, watching Crowley make a mess of himself, allowing him to demonstrate; rewarding each pull with an observation or compliment. Aziraphale could hush him as his thighs trembled, offer comfort as a gasp escaped his dry lips: it’s quite all right, my dear.
You’re doing great.
He’d want to show him how it felt, legs spread to offer a good view, the glory of his erection, he made it himself, and maybe his arse would be part of the offer as well, and every inch of naked skin, burning, the echo of each whimper in the vast chamber—
The rain kept falling, drumming a pulsing rhythm on the windows as he curled forward, legs pulled up, sunglasses dropping to the ground. He was panting open-mouthed, stroking his cock and picturing he was doing it in Aziraphale’s presence, his actual presence, rings of fire and three pairs of wings, the eyes on each feather watching him, and Aziraphale would be bigger than the room, bigger than London, Crowley on his knees for him, a tiny figure tormented by pleasure—
And he’d feel it: calm wash over him, harmony, the sense of acceptance, approval, even, as he worked on himself, you figured it out, such a clever boy, Aziraphale would tell him in Enochian, in a voice that sounded like the whisper of stars, so full of love—
Breath was punched out of his lungs, his body was seized by a powerful tremble, and he soiled his hands.
He blinked, once, in bewilderment.
“So that’s that,” he said. “Bob’s your uncle.”
Hell. Semen was hot, sticky, and it smelled weird. All that trouble just for this. He was staring at his hands, a part of his mind unimpressed, even slightly offended (but what did he expect? glitter?), while his body was still doing little jerks, and his cock felt every sort of amazing, thoroughly stimulated.
Still. A few pulls and one second of grandeur. What a load of cobblers. He was a demon. He was ought to have far better stamina, and if he just found the pleasure centre of his brain, he could, theoretically, elongate the duration of the orgasm—
Theories were to be tested.
It was just science.
He was completely starkers when the phone rang, and he was no longer sitting in the chair. He was hanging in it, if anything, legs hooked over the backrest, shoulders balanced on the cushioned seat, his cock sliding through his firm grip (summoning lubricant had been a great call). He paused when the answering machine beeped, caught red-handed, his entire torso soaked in come and more dripping to his stomach as Aziraphale said, “Hallo Crowley, how are you on this gloomy day?”
He hissed, let go of his cock, let go of everything, and slithered down to the ground, cleaning himself with an afterthought, but he forgot to wish away his erection—his hard cock swayed when he got to his feet, twitching painfully.
“I shan’t hold you up,” Aziraphale chatted. “Please phone me back at your leisure. I’ve discovered the loveliest little patisserie we must visit, and just wait until you hear how they make your favourite angel cake! Pip pip!”
Crowley reached for the receiver. “Don’t hang up,” he croaked, putting his left hand over his groin as if Aziraphale could spot his indecency. He was acutely aware of his nakedness; he had never answered the phone in this state before.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale said, delighted; it made something clench in Crowley’s chest, that burst of admiring joy, and he wondered, not for the first time, if he deserved to be greeted like this.
“Angel cake, you say?” he said roughly, fighting with his rigid cock. It was far more complicated to make an erection go away than to summon it.
“My dear boy, are you ill?”
“Rather,” he croaked. It was easier to agree than to explain his current situation.
Aziraphale let out a worried gasp. “Oh, no! Poor darling, I’ll be with you in a blink—we’ve got to miracle it away, you know the NHS.”
“Wait!” Crowley cried, but Aziraphale had hung up. “Shit,” he hissed, and snapped his fingers to get some clothes on—leather trousers materialized, and a flowing dressing gown, but he couldn’t for the life of him think of a shirt to fit the ensemble, and rushed to the windows, barefoot, to air the room. A sharp blast of gale blew in; of course, the bloody rain. It was freezing, and his treacherous nipples peaked—their sensitivity had been a recent discovery. He hugged his chest, offended, and danced away from the window, looking for his sunglasses.
It was too late. The doorbell rang.
Trust Aziraphale to teleport when Crowley needed a minute.
“Coming!” he yelled, then shot a guilty look to his chair. Well. What happened had happened. He tied the dressing gown’s belt, and sauntered to the hallway, thinking about a good excuse to shoo Aziraphale away. He passed the stone angel and demon doing the good old horizontal gavotte, snarling at them, then opened the door, casually ruffling up his hair.
“I came prepared,” Aziraphale said, holding up an emergency kit that had somehow survived World War One. He was dressed to the nines, his fluffy hair combed to irresistible curls, thin lips lifting to a conspiring smile, the determined set of brows making it quite obvious that Crowley had no choice but to heal from whatever ailed him, which was, right at that moment, another bloody boner. Completely unprompted.
Aziraphale had always been beautiful, all right. But when had he gotten handsome?
(Attraction, he realised. You wished away the erection, you didn’t turn this off.)
“You need to go,” he said, and attempted to shut the door. Aziraphale put his palm against it and stopped it—he was stronger than he seemed; Crowley had really been pushing.
“Crowley,” he said softly, and maybe hurt, a bit, which was—not worth it, not worth his dignity. “What is the meaning of this?”
“This flat had been transformed into a den of sin,” Crowley said, gesticulating vaguely behind him. “Enter at your own risk.”
Aziraphale peered in over his sagging shoulders, and his face lit up as he spotted the statue. “Oh! They’re still doing the rumpty-tumpty wrong!”
“Quite,” Crowley muttered, defeated. That fucking word should’ve tampered his erection, and yet.
Aziraphale brushed past him, and the smell of his cologne, his skin hit him—sunshine and peaches, the salt of far-away beaches, and something of the desert…
“What have you done?” Aziraphale asked cheerfully as he headed for the office, caressing a leave as he passed Crowley’s disobedient ficus. Crowley kicked the door shut behind him, and put his back against it.
“I started masturbating,” he said, arms crossed over his chest.
Aziraphale half-turned, and looked him over. “Ah. I hear it’s pleasurable.”
“I didn’t want… without your consent.” He stepped forward, and indicated the door weakly. “So you can leave if it makes—”
Aziraphale looked confused, still lingering by the office’s entrance. The deluge of rain was deafening. “Were you planning to continue?”
“I’m… still figuring stuff out,” Crowley said, then hastened to add, “I’m very good at it.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Aziraphale said, something flicking over his face—pride, maybe? Trust Aziraphale to celebrate every pathetic success, hand out attendance trophies as if— “Just please save your energy, seeing that you’re sick.”
“I’m not,” Crowley said miserably. He dragged himself across the floor, seeking out Aziraphale without thinking much about it, without considering if his new hobby had changed anything—because whenever he was feeling poorly, Aziraphale had always been there to cheer him up, coddle him, and he needed—
“Come here,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley pressed his forehead into his shoulder, but kept some distance between them. Aziraphale patted his back. “There, there. What’s the matter?”
“Overthinking,” Crowley mumbled. “Who the Heaven invented brains? Sick bastard.”
“Careful now,” Aziraphale said, caressing his nape. He put up with a lot of blasphemy. Crowley wasn’t sorry. “Did you want me to help you out? Give a hand, perhaps.”
Crowley pulled back. Glared.
“Did you,” he said, “did you just offer to jack me off?”
Aziraphale blinked a few times, but his face remained pleasantly impassive. He also continued to be astonishingly attractive, hot, even, a snack. He would’ve hated to be called that. Or maybe—
“I meant it figuratively,” Aziraphale said, “but I wouldn’t be opposed.”
“You wouldn’t be opposed to touching my dick?” Crowley shot back.
“Well, darling, it’s just your—dick.”
“Go around touching dicks a lot?”
“No pressure.” Aziraphale held up his hands, the medkit creaking as he yielded. “I just wanted to let you know—”
“That you wouldn’t mind stroking my cock,” Crowley finished for him.
Aziraphale’s gaze dropped to his crotch, then looked back at his eyes. It was just a second, but it was unmistakable.
“If it’s something I could help you with.”
“Angel,” Crowley said. “I’ve been in need of urgent sexual assistance since—”
“No,” Aziraphale said. “Not the guilt-tripping, please.” He turned on his heels, and headed for the office. He wasn’t leaving. Crowley’s head was swimming.
The rain kept falling and falling.
“I’m just saying, I never knew it was on the table.”
“Well, neither did I,” Aziraphale said primly, and closed the window with a wave of his hand. Turned towards the desk and the velvet chair, gave him a look as if he could tell exactly what happened there.
“That makes the two of us,” Crowley said, not sounding quite as combative as he planned. It had to do with the fact that Aziraphale was—right there. Right where he wanted, where he needed him. Late, yes—always late—but here.
“Shall we, then?” Aziraphale asked, standing up tall—going to his tiptoes in the effort to summon an air of authority. Crowley growled at him. “I didn’t catch that, sorry.”
“Bed,” Crowley repeated. “Bed’s this way.”
“I recall,” Aziraphale said. He sounded rather pleased with himself—or maybe with the memory: that night, after they survived everything. The best nap Crowley’s ever had.
It didn’t make any difference that his arse had been pressed into Aziraphale’s lap. They had swapped bodies, so he’s been technically rubbing against his own limp dick. Being held had seemed more out of the ordinary. They’d never been—touchy. You couldn’t have explained that away. Heaven or Hell had always been watching. Now they had turned away, turned a blind eye on everything in defeated shame.
Aziraphale stepped up to him, and interlaced their fingers. “Lead the way,” he said. Crowley squeezed his hand, as if in question. A happy nod was the answer.
The bedroom was exactly how they left it months ago, how Crowley always kept it: the same haunted emptiness, as if no one lived there, and the sole piece of furniture, a queen-sized canopy bed always neatly made and cold.
Crowley liked all the blank space, just feeling the chilly air on his skin after the stifling crowds of Hell, where you never went everywhere, you were carried in a current of bodies. He stepped up to the bed of his own free will, and Aziraphale followed by his own volition.
They were never supposed to have a choice.
They’ve tricked destiny.
They chose this.
“How do you want me?” Aziraphale asked, squeezing his hand before letting go of it.
Crowley eyed the dark cover, the fat pillows, as if measuring his options. (He didn’t know what to do with options.) He settled on, “Surprise me.”
Aziraphale smacked his lips, thinking, then sat down to the bed with hurried determination—and stayed there, with a mischievous, accomplished glint in his eyes. Not making any move to be rid of clothing.
“Well,” Crowley admitted, “I did not expect that.”
“I’m comfortable like this,” Aziraphale said. “Won’t you be joining me?” He patted his knees.
“I was thinking I’d perhaps lie down,” Crowley muttered, slithering down to the mattress with exaggerated casual swagger. He lay his head in Aziraphale’s lap, expecting the position to be awkward, but was surprised by how right it felt. He had the benefit of staring up at Aziraphale while the comfort of the bed welcomed him (the mattress had horse-hair in it; the only thing Crowley liked about horses was how well they worked as filler). He decided he could get used to the view, as well as the sensations: Aziraphale’s thighs were softer than any of his pillows, and his scent had gotten even more intense.
“Good?” Crowley asked, throat getting dry again.
“Good,” Aziraphale said gently.
“Touch my hair,” Crowley begged. It was—an intense need. Attraction was the oddest thing. He felt like he’d die without Aziraphale’s hands on him, and whimpered when his hair was combed back from his forehead. The scratch on his scalp was exquisite—he felt it at the root of each individual hair, shooting through his body with a rush of pleasure. How his cock got involved, he had no idea. Maybe it had to do with reflexology.
“I’ve been wondering—” Aziraphale said, then cut himself off; Crowley could feel the timbre of his voice in his belly. “Like feathers. It feels like feathers.”
“They’re pretty much the same thing,” Crowley mused, thinking, remember? I used to have red wings. “Do you prefer my hair long or short?”
“I like that you keep changing it,” Aziraphale said, tugging lightly.
I used to have red wings and they burned black. You offered to groom them for me in Eden. Must’ve hurt, you said. You cared.
“Gotta keep being devilishly handsome,” Crowley said. “Part of the job description.”
I was turned into a serpent and sent into Eden. I had a reason to be there. They wouldn’t tell me what it was. A role to play. I met the Angel of the Western Gate. She had a sword that could slice through the air, summon thunder. I never told you this, but she called me a worm and stepped on my neck, said she would chop me into pieces. It was just luck that I escaped. I think it was luck.
I saw the flame of your sword. Climbed up the Tree of Knowledge to take a look at it. I heard you were guarding East. I knew you wouldn't hurt me. I saw you sitting there, feet dangling from the wall. That was when Eve first sang. You were watching her and Adam, and you smiled. You liked them very much, didn’t you? You never cared that the Almighty loved them more than any of us, ever. You were never jealous.
I offered Eve the apple and went up the wall. It didn’t even occur to you to strike me down. You waited for me to introduce myself.
You wouldn’t call me Raphael. I appreciated that.
You remembered me, and my red wings, and wanted to learn my new name.
“You keep changing, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, running tender fingers through his hair, “but it’s you. I’d recognise you anywhere. Show me that new thing you learnt.”
Crowley stared up at him with hooded eyes, reaching for the fly of his leather trousers; they didn’t have a zipper (he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice) so he unlaced them with the practiced ease one got used to with breeches. He could pretend, if he wanted, that they were back then, in the 16th century, maybe, and Aziraphale had asked him to undress; but if that happened, that’d change their history, and he didn’t wish to change a thing, not really, not even for the better.
Aziraphale tilted his head to watch, caressing Crowley’s hair idly. A flutter of a butterfly’s wings, and it could’ve all gone—differently. The thought was terrifying, all the versions of reality where he didn’t get to present his hard cock, never heard that soft inhalation. Their fate was no longer scripted. It was alarmingly unpredictable, but exhilarating as well. His heart was beating fast as Aziraphale’s hand slid down to his throat, gaze fixed on his cock.
“Stunning,” Aziraphale said, captivated. “How lovely you are, my darling.”
“You mean to tell me you didn’t peek when you were in my body?” Crowley stroked himself, just with the tips of his fingers.
“That would’ve been a violation of your privacy.”
“But you were quite eager to strip for your bath in holy water,” Crowley teased, just to see him get flustered.
“I wouldn’t want to ruin your clothes! You summon them so carefully—always so fetching.”
The compliment was unexpected; the jab Crowley prepared remained stuck in his throat as Aziraphale’s hand drifted further down, slipping under the silk dressing gown. His palm was soft and warm, and its teasing weight was very welcome on his chest. Crowley growled, and gripped his cock harder, tugging at it sharply.
“Oh, you liked that,” Aziraphale noted, charmed. He found his nipple again and pinched, the bastard, making Crowley trash and turn his head sharply, neck craned. “My, my. Are nipples this sensitive when you turn them on?”
“You turn me on,” Crowley muttered, probing Aziraphale’s soft stomach with his nose. “You have no idea how much I want you. Zero.”
“You have me,” Aziraphale told him gently.
It was the oddest thing: his whole body was awash with pleasure, his cock merely the centre of it all. His hips kept twitching up into the tightness of his slick fist without having to consciously think about it, as if something possessed him—as if he possessed himself, occupying places in his body that used to be vacant, acutely aware of every inch of heated skin, the blood rushing.
He didn’t know when he’d started panting.
“Yes, just like that,” Aziraphale said, palming his chest with his clever hands. “There’s a love, you’re doing just fine.”
“I didn’t know you’d, hah, be into it,” Crowley said, not quite certain whether it was an accusation, a taunt, or a way to say thank you for going along with this, thank you for accepting me.
“Well, of course,” Aziraphale said in a conversational tone as he continued to take him apart, word by word and touch by touch. “I’m ‘into you,’ therefore it follows I’m ‘into’ whatever you do.”
Crowley groaned, head rolling to the other side as his cock pulsed. His breathing had gotten really weird, and his skin was prickled, thighs trembling. He started panicking, slightly, that he was going to finish too soon, that he wouldn’t get to show off all of his moves, but then again—it’d been implied, hadn’t it, that there might be more of this, that Aziraphale didn’t mind indulging him; enjoyed it, in fact, if how he pushed his dressing gown down was any indication, exposing his freckled shoulders.
It also meant that the movement of his hand was slightly restricted, the silk tight around the crease of his elbows.
“Are you ‘into’ rope bondage?” he whimpered, yanking at his hot length, telling himself, don’t picture it, don’t you dare vividly imagine—
“They do remarkable things in Japan,” Aziraphale mused. Crowley hissed and cursed, hips canting up and back arched; it was a false alarm, but a close call.
“Kinky fucker,” he said, breathless.
“I’m not the one pleasuring myself in my lover’s lap,” Aziraphale reminded him, stroking his exposed arms, delicious kisses of fingertips peppering his skin. “You’re doing so well, by the way.”
“Lover,” Crowley said with a scoff to disguise the tremble of his voice. “Are you—”
“I’m aware of the connotations, yes.”
“Well, you should call me husband, we’re practically married.”
“Husband,” Aziraphale repeated admiringly, tasting the word as if it was brandy, rich on the tongue and lighting up something within. As always, the irony was lost on him; as always, Crowley didn’t dare to mean it in the first place, was just furtively hoping to be proven wrong. “Yes, I like that,” Aziraphale decided, bending down to press a quick kiss on his shoulder.
Crowley moaned, picking up the pace, the embarrassing sounds of skin on slick skin be damned; Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind them at all, nuzzling him and whispering praise. It felt like he was all around Crowley, surrounding him and keeping him warm, keeping him safe. Protected by his presence, Crowley still felt exposed: as if his chest was open, thrumming heart visible, and all the ugly things bared. But he had never hid them, had he? Aziraphale, that right bastard, knew everything he could possibly confess, and recognised the revelations readily, even if he couldn’t endorse them: he knew Crowley like Crowley hardly knew himself.
And now this, too: this was shared—the pleasure he found in himself, frivolous secrets revealed.
“I expect a wedding ring,” he croaked. “Made of stardust and gold—”
“Noted,” Aziraphale said. “Just give me three thousand years—”
Crowley whined, and Aziraphale gathered him up in his arms. There was something tentative in his touch, ever-so-cautious even as he pulled Crowley to his chest, kissed the top of his head. “There’s some discussion to be had. Will you come for me, love? Will you show me how it’s done?”
Crowley pulled his legs up, trying to look unassuming, unthreatening, certainly not an old-old enemy as he brought himself to a climax, with Aziraphale’s name on his lips, lost to a scream. It felt like he was expanding beyond the boundaries of his body, his orgasm surging through him, gripping his muscles, halting his heart for a beat. He didn’t realise he’d opened his wings until he heard them rustle, felt the air on them, and the warmth Aziraphale emitted, balmy like the waking sun. Crowley was curled in his lap, feathers standing on an end, and his heaving abdomen absolutely drenched.
“Crikey Moses,” Aziraphale whispered into his neck, his breath hot and wet.
“Really?” Crowley scoffed. “That’s what you’re going to say?”
Aziraphale fluttered his eyelashes, apologetic. Damn him that it always worked. Crowley was trembling, pilant in his embrace. If he hooked his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, that was just for balance.
“I was actually about to ask,” Aziraphale said carefully, “whether you’d mind it terribly if I, ah. Got a taste.”
“A taste of—” Crowley repeated, trailing off. His ears began ringing.
“I’ve been wondering,” Aziraphale confirmed.
Crowley was very still as Aziraphale touched his stomach, but grunted his approval as his hands lingered. Aziraphale dipped a finger into his come, and Crowley’s brain short circuited. It was still not working properly as Aziraphale brought a sticky finger up to his lips and sucked on it blissfully, eyes closed.
“Mmm,” he sighed. “Does it always taste of pears?”
“Made an effort,” Crowley confessed, watching blankly as Aziraphale licked at his finger again, not willing to let a single drop go to waste. Crowley was still cradled in his lap, trousers undone, dick hanging out innocently, and he just couldn’t deal with it. He was a demon all right, but he could only take so much.
As it was his habit when life got a tad overwhelming, he turned into a snake. An affectionate one at that: he slid up a pleasantly stunned Aziraphale’s torso, and draped himself over his shoulders.
This was so much easier.
“Well hello, you beauty,” Aziraphale cooed at him. “A lot to process, is it? It’s quite all right, love. You just rest now.”
Crowley flicked out his tongue. The room reeked of sex. It was a pleasant scent. Especially mingled with Aziraphale’s cologne; it gave it notes of fruit, flowers and ‘I’d die for you.’
Aziraphale was soft, and comfortable besides, and his touches felt really nice. Crowley tried not to squeeze too tight as he held him in a full-body embrace. This was the part when humans said goodbye, wasn’t it? A bit of cuddling, then cheerio, sod off.
He was decidedly not human, was he?
He wouldn’t have to kick Aziraphale out just to follow tradition but miss him instantly, grab a bottle of gin, and a spend days of staring at the statue and thinking about shit like love.
Please ssstay? he thought at him. Unlesss you’re busy, are you busy, can you ssstay just a bit—
“Of course I’ll stay, darling boy,” Aziraphale said, stroking his head. Crowley’s vision wasn’t the best in this form, but he could feel Aziraphale press his nose to his snoot (how mortifying; how lovely). “As long as you need me. I’m done running away.”