Crowley always starts by teasing himself. Unbuttons his shirt, one button at a time, exposing more and more of his chest until he can slip his hand underneath the fabric. He pinches his nipple, twists it, tugs at it, groans, as he lets his other hand run down to his jeans. He presses firmly against himself, thrusts into his palm, imagining that the hand is not his own. Eventually, he unzips his jeans and takes himself in hand. Crowley wonders, sometimes, if Aziraphale ever does this. If he ever runs his hand across his soft belly, then down, down, fingers carding through tight blond curls, until finally he wraps his hand around himself and gasps. Crowley strokes himself languidly, as he always does when he begins. His fantasies, too, start slowly.
Aziraphale has always dressed so modestly, no matter what was in fashion at the time; long sleeves and trousers, collars buttoned up and secured to cover even the line of his neck. It was maddening. Fuck, Crowley had wanted nothing more than to tear off the ruff, the cravat, the bowtie, it didn’t matter what. He’d kiss his way down Aziraphale’s neck and across his shoulder, drag his teeth down Aziraphale’s collarbone and nip at his chest. Taste his skin. Did Aziraphale sweat, like Crowley? If he did, would it burn Crowley’s tongue? He felt himself salivating at the thought, and brought his hand up to his mouth to slick his palm with spit.
In the beginning, Crowley wondered if Aziraphale had even bothered to give himself a cock. This didn’t stop his fantasizing, of course. It only provoked a different sort of curiosity as he thought about exploring Aziraphale’s body. Then they visited a Roman bathhouse together, and this had not only answered Crowley’s question, but had also given him far too much fodder for his habit. Since then, he’s known exactly what to imagine when he thinks of Aziraphale touching himself.
Crowley imagines that Aziraphale would start off slowly, hand moving at a leisurely pace, allowing himself to enjoy every bit of the sensation. The angel was one for earthly pleasures, after all, and when he indulged himself, he indulged completely. His eyes would close, his lips would part in a sigh, his head would roll back, his other hand would stroke its way up his chest and down his neck. Crowley likes to imagine himself watching, moving his own hand in time with Aziraphale’s, touching himself at the usual loose and lazy pace with which he does everything in his life, but he can never keep it up for long. While Aziraphale’s hands move slowly, Crowley’s picks up speed.
He remembers the look on Aziraphale’s face when the angel is enjoying some particularly good bite of food. The way his eyes close, the soft sound of contentment, the little smile, the way his tongue slips out to lick his lips. Crowley imagines those soft, wet lips wrapped around his cock, imagines that same blissful look on Aziraphale’s face as he licks up and swallows Crowley’s come. Damn, Crowley wants to take him hard, wants to make him cry out God’s name in vain, no, in ecstasy. Would She hear him? And if She did, would it be a sin? Crowley had never seen the problem with any sort of indulgence in moderation. Besides, neither angels nor demons were allowed the sacrament of holy matrimony; there was nothing to save himself for.
Crowley slicks his hand again, then fucks into his fist. He whispers Aziraphale’s name in a soft gasp, takes a shallow breath, says it louder. He imagines Aziraphale, tight and hot around him, and thinks of the sounds his angel might make. Aziraphale whines, short and soft and oh, so sweet, and digs his fingers into Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley’s hand runs up to where he imagines Aziraphale’s to be and grips, hard, as his other hand grips his cock harder. Aziraphale’s moans and gasps begin to mix with his own, and he’s shameless and loud, so loud for Crowley. He imagines Aziraphale tightening around him as he comes, overwhelmed, shuddering and swearing, all while Crowley continues to thrust into him. That’s it, ahh that’s it, and Crowley gives himself over to fantasy. He spills into his own hand, slick and hot, and keeps stroking himself for as long as he can stand it. He wishes Aziraphale could hear him as the angel’s name tears out of his throat, but he’s also so, so glad that he can’t. Perhaps this is why Crowley tends to call him angel, because Aziraphale’s name feels too intimate, too sacred.
Crowley slumps onto the bed, his shirt clinging to his back with sweat, and lets out a deep sigh. Tomorrow he’d see Aziraphale again, and again he would feign disinterest, would pretend that this hadn’t happened, that it never happened, that it hadn’t been happening for thousands of years. And Aziraphale would smile, as sweet and warm as anything in Crowley’s fantasies, and the heat would pool in his chest, and the world would be right again.