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In Flagrante Delicto

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“Ohhh, ‘ziraphale,” Crowley slurs, his entire world narrowed down to one specific point: the hot, wet slide of Aziraphale’s mouth on his cock, his fingers twined in the fine, soft down of Aziraphale’s hair.

If being cut off from both Heaven and Hell has this as his eternal punishment, he’s fine with it. Joyful, even. Ready to do it all over again, maybe twice on Sundays just to stick it to them.

Aziraphale had snuck in earlier while Crowley was on the phone, slipping under his desk with an impish smirk and a wink, and Crowley had to quickly end the call before the sharp intake of his breath gave him away to the wine merchant on the other end. There are things you just don’t share, even with a descendant of a man you knew in Greece during the Bronze Age.

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale had whispered, then slid his palm up Crowley’s thigh. “Get your trousers all the way off, darling, and let’s see just how much of you I can reach from under here.”

Crowley had whimpered, then immediately terminated the call with an excuse about an urgent call on the other line (++ call waiting. Crowley had received a golden throne for that one.) Aziraphale is so good at this, good at finding all Crowley’s little weaknesses and spinning them into liquid desire, good at slipping under Crowley’s hard edges and prying them wide open and wanting.

He shoves his trousers down past his knees, and Aziraphale takes care of the rest, until he’s half-nude in his chair, legs over Aziraphale’s shoulders, cock deep in his throat and Aziraphale’s finger circling his hole.

“Yes, angel, yesss. Fuck me,” he pants, and just as Aziraphale’s finger slips deliciously inside of him, the television on the wall flickers to life.

“Crowley,” a voice booms.

“Oh shit,” Crowley squeaks in response, his body jerking involuntarily forward, slamming Aziraphale’s head into the underside of his desk. Aziraphale yelps a protest. “Sorry, sorry,” he whispers.

“Who in blazes is that?” Aziraphale asks, voice hot against Crowley’s inner thighs, finger still deep inside.

“Ah, hello, Moloch, how - how are you?” Crowley says, for Aziraphale’s benefit. He endeavours not to squirm, but Aziraphale really does have him at a disadvantage, and dear Satan he hopes whatever the demons are seeing in this room, under his desk isn’t part of the view.

“Miserable, of course, no thanks to you and that wretched angel,” Moloch says. “Proper war was on, and then you go...fucking it all up.”

Crowley tries to flick his fingers dismissively. “As we should have. And if you forgot, I said don’t bother us. Don’t you make me go back down there with a bucket of Holy Water. I can do it, you know.” Aziraphale gives him a sharp bite on the inside of his knee in some sort of reprimand, and Crowley gasps.

“What the hell are you doing over there?” Crowley freezes as Moloch’s eyes narrow suspiciously. He blinks at Crowley a few times, who has learned very well to stay casually and carefully cool under scrutiny, even if he’s got an angel now two fingers deep in his arse under his desk. Moloch finally shrugs. “Whatever, I don’t care. I’ve been asked to pass along a job proposal. America is working on some ridiculous legislation regarding nuclear warheads and Iran. Go to New York, cause some chaos, and let us deal with the rest.”

Crowley wraps one hand back into Aziraphale’s hair, and glances down to see him delicately lap at the end of Crowley’s cock. Crowley grits his teeth and takes a breath.

“That’s nice, not for hire, have a wretched day!” He snaps his fingers and the screen goes dark.

“You’re insane,” Crowley hisses. Aziraphale giggles and just slides down on his cock again, mouth working in long, slow pulls as Crowley gasps and writhes between the twin pleasures of his mouth and his hand.

Aziraphale pulls off with an obscene pop. “I don’t care, because they can’t have you.” They lock eyes, Aziraphale’s clear and blue and endless, and Crowley feels that strange little jump in his chest again, that shuddering reminder that his existence carries more grace than he honestly deserves.

Crowley nods, and wonders, distantly, what they thought they could offer him that he doesn’t have right now: his Bentley, his flat, and his… “Angel, oh your mouth, Jesus Christ.”

“He’s on holiday in Malta and isn’t available,” Aziraphale quips. “And I think you’d better come soon, my dear.” Crowley gasps and swears as Aziraphale crooks his fingers just so.

Crowley grips the armrests of his chair and whimpers; two more deft strokes of Aziraphale’s fingers and yes, there it is, he’s coming, unable to resist when Aziraphale issues such an excruciatingly polite command.