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Better Than Wine

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He fidgeted in Crowley’s apartment while Crowley went somewhere to scrounge for a second glass. “I have one,” Crowley had snapped. “I bought a set in the 1940s, and they’re nice.”

Aziraphale, needing to not think but unable to rush Crowley when it seemed so important to him that he find the dishware, went to the plants. “Hello,” he said from the doorway, feeling uncomfortable peeking in. The plants were the only other living things in the vast and cold flat, and yet he had no desire to touch them.

“Don’t bother with those,” Crowley shouted from another room. “They’re too ugly to be looked at.”

“Oh, don’t be modest!” Aziraphale said, still not getting close. “They’re very beautiful.” He waited a second, and then cleared his throat. “They must have been worried about you. They’re terribly anxious.”

“This is why you haven’t been over,” Crowley was muttering as he came back into his dark, sparse dining room. “You’re already filling their heads with nonsense.”

“What are you talking about?” Aziraphale happily went to sit in a nice enough chair beside Crowley’s throne. Crowley poured the wine.

“Ahhh.” Crowley slid the glass—and it was a rather nice glass, with some slight detailing on the base—to him. “Don’t worry about it. Sorry the place is a mess.” Crowley went on while Aziraphale took a sip of the wine and judged it fit for their methodical, rapid consumption. “I, uh, used that holy water. Right there.” He pointed at a pile of clothes Aziraphale had stepped over on his way in. “Ligur,” he explained, but Aziraphale wasn’t quite listening to that part.

“You used it,” Aziraphale restated.

“They were going to kill me, so if you could save your judgement – ”

“All of it?” he cut in, glancing around as if he might spot a half-full thermos lying about.

Yes,” Crowley said. “I’d ask for more, but I think your side will probably be getting me some soon.”

Aziraphale winced, remembering that they were both on the line. Playing with fire, he thought and took a drink of wine that didn’t allow for much taste. In labored and rambling terms, he explained his theory and his plan. Crowley didn’t seem horrified at the idea, but Aziraphale had picked his words carefully, not wanting to let on just how dirty he felt about it.

Wearing the skin Aziraphale had coveted so long was simply too much. He had a sinking, wretched feeling, like he’d concocted the whole thing just to get inside Crowley. He felt like an absolute letch. It certainly didn’t help that he kept thinking of it in those terms: being inside of each other.

“So I guess,” Crowley said, “I might be asking you for another thermos.” He smiled, like it was just a naughty joke. Aziraphale put his hands together tightly to keep them from wandering, picking at things, or trying to smack some sense into his friend. He didn’t want to do this again.

“I suppose you will,” he agreed, staying carefully noncommittal. “But I’d rather not do it, if you think you could go without.”

“It’s just nice to have it, in case.”

“In case of what?” Aziraphale’s knuckles were going white. It shouldn’t be so hard to do it again. After all, it’s not like anything had changed between them. Crowley gestured vaguely at Ligur’s clothes, sipping. “Of course,” Aziraphale said. His heart beat in the hollow of his throat, making it hard to think well. He hesitated before he asked, “And were you ever tempted—I mean, it never did occur to you—what I’m trying to say is, you never got close to using it on yourself, right? You would have told me something like that?”

Crowley put his drink down. He stared at him from behind his glasses, although Aziraphale could feel the sting of it regardless. “What.”

“When I gave you the holy water, I thought it might be just a matter of time. Before you unmade yourself.”

Anger flashed, electricity crackling as Crowley said, “It was never for that, and I told you so! I told you it wasn’t for killing myself, and you ignored me. You never listen to me!”

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale swallowed. He hadn’t been expecting Crowley to be so upset. “You do lie sometimes.”

“And all of that bullshit about it being too dangerous for you to help me: that was the truth?”

“A-ha,” Aziraphale said weakly. “Yes—I mean, no. That was a lie too. Sort of.” Crowley didn’t seem to have the patience for any more, absolutely furious, nearly baring his teeth. “I panicked!” Aziraphale tried to explain. “It felt dangerous to me.”

“You are so selfish,” Crowley sneered.

Aziraphale felt some kind of relief at the word. “Yes,” he said. “Exactly. I’m trying to tell you! Heaven wouldn’t mind me giving a demon a tool of his own destruction. But I couldn’t do that for you. Even if you didn’t use it to kill yourself, if something had gone wrong with it—if there had been an accident, and it had been my fault.” Aziraphale didn’t want to give voice to it if not pressed. Crowley looked silently enraged, still processing. He’d put down his sunglasses and was pinching at the bridge of his nose. “But I realized it would be just as bad if you died, and I’d had nothing to do with it. I used to have this – ” Aziraphale laughed franticly, the memory making him twitch in a very human way. He put a hand over his mouth, trying to hold back the sharp, breathless giggles. He managed out: “This fantasy about you in the church, accidentally knocking the font over, and—well, it’s not worth sharing.” He couldn’t quite stop laughing, though. “It’s not that I think it’s funny.”

“I know you don’t,” Crowley said, graciously not making him continue. Aziraphale took a deep, shaking breath. He poured himself another drink. Without asking, he poured for Crowley too. “Thanks,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale felt eyes on his hot cheek while he drank. Aziraphale couldn’t return the gaze, even after he put the glass back down.

Crowley’s fingers brushed the back of his hand, startling him. In his almost-boozy state, the touch sent a flare of heat, adding to an already whining fire he was desperately trying to calm. Crowley held his palm in his cool hands. The pads of long fingers tickled against his wrists, and Aziraphale felt sweat pooling, shamefully wet and hot and needing.

“I wish you had said something,” Crowley said, not sounding very stern at all.

Aziraphale hesitated. “What could I have said?”

“Anything. You can say anything to me.” He guided Aziraphale’s hand up, toward his mouth, pulling beyond the slight resistance Aziraphale couldn’t help but give. Aziraphale wanted to draw his hand into a tight fist, tuck it into his jacket sleeve, and keep himself safe. As he ventured to look at Crowley, there was something tender and something predatory about the way he pressed his lips, and then his tongue, against the hot skin of his palm. He nipped at the meat of his thumb, kissed down to his inner wrist. Aziraphale watched his own fingers curl uselessly, like that hand had never been an instrument of God.

Crowley’s eyes flicked up to his face, and Aziraphale realized too late that he’d unsuccessfully trapped a whine in his throat.

Aziraphale wet his lips. He couldn’t quite muster the strength to clear his throat, so the stop he finally got out was soft. Crowley let him go, and Aziraphale gingerly placed his hand back on his lap. “I know we almost lost everything,” he said, once he could, “And I know we might die tomorrow. But I can’t do it recreationally. I thought I could but I—I can’t.” He nearly apologized. After a moment, he opened his mouth to apologize.

“That’s all right, then.” Crowley said. “You’re—important—to me.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, feeling so exhausted. “Oh, dear boy, I know that.” This time, he took Crowley’s hand, although he politely kept it away from his teeth.

Crowley made some frustrated sound. “You’re impossible.” Quick as a strike, he tugged Aziraphale’s hand, jerking him forward so he could catch him by the collar and haul him toward his lips. In the jarring motion, Aziraphale knocked over the wine glasses, one of them breaking and both spilling. Before he could fully articulate his surprised, distraught cry over the mess, Crowley’s mouth was on him. Aziraphale was awkwardly inclined toward him, bent and leaning between the table and Crowley’s lap in that gaudy, gold and velvet throne.

“Crowley,” he managed to say between kisses. “My dear,” he tried. It worked, and Crowley pulled back enough that he could say something, looking like he expected something specific. He looked hopeful, like he too wanted to be close. Aziraphale figured he probably did.

They’d almost lost each other, and everything else as well. Even if the coupling was only friendly, it might not be too bad. Crowley cared about him, and he wanted to be together that night. Aziraphale could justify it later, if it hurt him, that it was better to let out some of his love for Crowley before they were potentially executed. He could always say he’d been drunk, although not in good conscience.

“Oh, all right.”

Crowley was on him again in the next second, nipping at his ear and sucking on his jaw, clearly unsure what to do first. “Over the table?” Crowley breathed out against his skin. He leaned in to kiss his mouth again, seeming too worked up for proper communication. “Can you take me here?”

Aziraphale flushed. On a certain level, he liked the idea. But he thought if they got too nonstandard with the encounter, he might get overwhelmed and lose all of his nerve.

“Maybe the bed?” Aziraphale had only got it half out when Crowley was on his feet, tugging him out of the room, panting yes, of course, getting them to his bed as quick as he could. There, he stopped them just inside the doorway, clutching at Aziraphale’s upper arms, beginning to kiss him again, mostly with his tongue, licking into his mouth, sharing spit and a single breath.

“Off, take this off,” Crowley said, pulling at the beige coat. Aziraphale did as asked, and then helped Crowley out of his own shirt, while Crowley got in the way, tugging at his bowtie, trying to undo his waistcoat. “I swear if you don’t—I’ll rip them,” he hissed, so Aziraphale miracled the buttons to save time and the garment. Crowley worked it off his shoulders, his hands coming to grope his sides, his back, his chest, pinching one nipple while he bent in and sucked the other into his mouth.

Aziraphale’s legs very nearly gave out, and the noise he let out was pained, wounded, like Crowley was hurting him terribly, even if it didn’t quite feel so. Aziraphale had read about people liking their nipples touched, but he’d never considered what that might mean for his own soft chest, with its pale pink buds growing harder and aching as Crowley latched and bit them with his teeth and nails.

Crowley pulled back, and he thumbed down Aziraphale’s blushing nipple, his soft side, his navel. “You weren’t lying about the mole,” he said. It took Aziraphale a long moment to realize what he was talking about, his little spot under his nipple that he’d mentioned once a thousand or so years ago. “I never stopped thinking about it.” He scratched a finger over the tiny thing.

With the strength of a newborn, Aziraphale reached up to grasp Crowley’s biceps, finally allowing himself a glance at his wild expanse of skin. His knees quivered, completely overwhelmed at the hundreds of freckles on Crowley’s shoulders, the light dotting on his chest. All of that pale skin, marked only by the sun.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale begged, reeling.

“Let’s get in bed,” Crowley said, leading him once again to safety. He laid Aziraphale back on black silk, covering him with that skin, draping over him, like Aziraphale’s shaking was simply an issue of being cold. When Crowley kissed him then, it was slower and deep. He sucked his tongue. He bit his lower lip until Aziraphale batted at his chest to stop.

Crowley reached down, nudged his fingers underneath Aziraphale’s belly, and started to unbutton his trousers. Aziraphale stopped breathing, lifted his hips when bade, and helped start to shimmy it all off. Crowley stopped just above his knees, pulling his hands back, eyes snagged on the slit between his legs, the baby blonde curls, the glimpse of coral pink.

All of a sudden, Crowley was laughing.

Aziraphale could feel his mind shorting out. It was too quick for him to process how he felt about what was happening. “What’s so funny?” he asked, thighs pressing together defensively, heat blaring.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Crowley was saying, out of breath with delight. He hopped off the bed and started to scramble at his own pants and belt, sliding them down just enough to show off his own red landing strip and mons veneris. “We match,” he said.

Smiling back, Aziraphale still didn’t quite get what was so funny. “Should I go home and change?” he offered lightly.

“No, no, no,” Crowley said, rambling it senselessly a few more times as he half-leaned on the bed to kiss his mouth and chin and cheeks. “It’s perfect. I just didn’t expect it.”

Satisfied enough, Aziraphale kicked his trousers and underwear off the rest of the way. Crowley did the same, still clearly tickled but mostly under control. Aziraphale watched as Crowley stood, facing away, stepping his legs out of too tight pantlegs and bending over, giving a peek of his flushed cunt. Aziraphale couldn’t help but roll over on his stomach, get closer, reach a hand between Crowley’s thighs, and touch where he was fire.

Crowley made a noise, and Aziraphale didn’t categorize it as a squeal only because it would embarrass. “Warn a guy,” he hissed over his shoulder, his face red and his eyes bright yellow.

Aziraphale didn’t apologize, because he wouldn’t have meant it. Instead he pulled his slick fingers back and stuck them in his mouth.

“Oh, goat-headed inverted Christ, give me strength,” Crowley babbled, climbing onto the sheets with him. “Of course you’d be like this.”

“Like what?” Aziraphale asked around his fingers.

Crowley didn’t clarify, instead asking a conversational, “Is this the effort you made for that Oscar Wilde guy?”

“Mr. Ballard?” The fingers popped out of his mouth. He’d cleaned the sweet tang of Crowley off anyway, and it was quickly becoming more of an infantile soothing gesture. “I didn’t make an effort for him—but I guess I had this at the time.”

Crowley put a hand on Aziraphale’s chest, keeping him against the plush pillows, his index finger tapping over the mole without rhythm. He looked down at him. “What did you like him to do?”

Aziraphale scrunched his nose. “I liked kissing.” Crowley’s hand trailed down his stomach, his side, groping his flank, testing the soft give of flesh there. Aziraphale searched his face for clarification. “I’m afraid that’s all we really did, my dear. Is that all right?” he asked, suddenly a little nervous that Crowley had been expecting some level of greater experience. “I’ve read manuals,” Aziraphale rattled on while Crowley stared at him very hard, clearly thinking it through. “I know it’s not the same,” he rushed, “But I‘m not ignorant to pleasure.” The only sign that Crowley was still with him was the hand at his hip, curling down and cupping the back of his knee. Crowley pulled his legs spread so he could come between them. Aziraphale kept talking, saying, “I’ve tried it with myself. Plenty of times.”

“You’ve never with anyone else?” Crowley asked evenly. “In all this time?” He watched Aziraphale’s face, gauging his reaction as he put a palm on his pubic mound, touching the soppy, wet velvet of the curls there.

“I thought I’d made that clear,” Aziraphale said with some evident tension in his voice. Crowley looked away, eyes flicking to where he’d just curled his hand up, shifting the fat of his mons so he could tug at the labia with his thumb, split him open, and lightly drag his fingernail up. He pressed in just under his clitoris, smiling when the frustrated look on Aziraphale’s face melted into a flushed discomfort. Aziraphale’s knees pressed in without a thought, bracketing Crowley in his place.

“No one’s been here?” Crowley asked lowly, leaning in.

“Oh, honestly.” Aziraphale’s thighs were getting pushed up by Crowley’s upper arms, his stomach rolling as he was nudged in half.

“This sweet thing?” Crowley’s free hand came to grip one of Aziraphale’s thick thighs, pushing him even more open, baring his fat little cunt to the chill of the room. “It’s all for me?”

“It’s all for the glory of God,” Aziraphale snapped. “If you’d like to enjoy it, you have about five seconds before I kick you off and take care of it myself.”

“I don’t mean to tease.” He did, Aziraphale decided, but he seemed kind enough about it. “I just feel bad for the poor thing. Poor kitten.” he cooed, pulling back to look at it. Aziraphale tried to kick his leg out, because really that was too much. The grip on his thigh dug in, Crowley clawing at his flesh and sending a not very soft grin at him. “You liked kissing your Mr. Ballard?”

The confusion Aziraphale felt over the question, or maybe just having Crowley constantly bringing up Edward like he mattered at all when they were in bed together, left him feeling upset. He felt hurt, and he wasn’t quite sure why. It felt almost like Crowley was accusing him of something, like he had done something wrong and Crowley wouldn’t allow it to leave his mind. “I just like kissing,” he tried to explain.

“Can I kiss you then?” Crowley asked.

“If it’ll keep you from going on with all this nonsense,” Aziraphale said, inclining his face as much as he could in that position. He expected Crowley to put his leg down and cover him with his body. He expected Crowley to press him firmly against the pillows. He expected Crowley to kiss him on the lips. He was pretty sure what Crowley did with his mouth next wasn’t technically referred to as kissing.

Crowley put his mouth—

Crowley put his tongue—

Crowley put it all on him. Aziraphale’s knees gave a jerk, his thighs shaking, his mouth falling open. There was a moan out of him before Crowley had even finished licking from his hole to his clit for the first time. It felt so strange, so nice, that Aziraphale hardly believed Crowley would do something like it for him. He had to cover his mouth with his fingers, scared of what he might say. Crowley sucked his clit, which was terribly cruel because all Aziraphale could do was curl his toes next to Crowley’s shoulder, the muscles in his legs twitching uncontrollably as Crowley licked at him. Aziraphale felt himself bearing down on nothing and threw his head back. He felt so empty. He was so empty. If he didn’t keep his mouth shut, he’d admit to it.

The only thing that pulled Aziraphale from the absolute central sensation was the low sound of Crowley groaning against him as he lapped down to his cunthole, nose pressed sharp against the scent of him, and his tongue licked once, twice, and then started to fuck in.

“Oh, please, that’s – ” Aziraphale wasn’t sure what it was. “That’s it,” he settled on, voice mumbled and high from behind his hands. Crowley reached up and pulled at one of his elbows until Aziraphale allowed himself to be rearranged, his left hand placed on Crowley’s short, red hair. Crowley brought his own hand back down to poke at Aziraphale’s lower lips, pull them apart so he could force himself in deeper. Aziraphale threaded his fingers through Crowley’s hair, gripped tighter when it was too good, and pushed his face in. Crowley, in turn, ate with a ferocity Aziraphale had only seen in starving predators.

The sighing and crying only got worse, got louder, got higher, because Crowley was relentless. Aziraphale’s body was getting so tight, he thought he might split open with every heaving sob. Crowley’s ear was pressed flat against his thigh, and Aziraphale had a vague, panicked thought that he was going to lose control of his legs and crush him by accident, because Crowley was so thin and delicate and Aziraphale couldn’t stop his thighs from notching together bit by bit.

“I’ll,” he tried to warn. Crowley hummed against him, seemingly unconcerned about the impending dive. Aziraphale tugged on his hair until Crowley was forced to stop, to surface and look him. His face was covered in it, in him, he realized, and the sight of Crowley flushed and panting and wet between his legs did him in as much as Crowley’s incessant teasing of his clitoris. Aziraphale was unable to hold Crowley back anymore, his strength shocked out of him. Crowley dove back to his task, eating him through his climax and then some.

When Crowley pulled up again because Aziraphale started shoving at him and whining, his mouth was still slick, and Aziraphale noticed that the mess was dripping down his chin and throat. Crowley’s ear was pressed red from where Aziraphale had tried to take his head off with his thighs. He eased Aziraphale’s shaking leg down onto the bed, pressing a wet kiss to the side of his knee. Aziraphale couldn’t quite see it, but he could tell that Crowley had a hand between his own legs, cupping and rubbing his sex slowly as he kissed up his hip and belly, over his chest, all the way to his mouth.

Aziraphale felt dizzy with how good Crowley’s breath smelled. His lips and tongue tasted even better, although the kiss was sloppy. Aziraphale reached a hand between them, wanting to help. Crowley gave up his own search, instead taking Aziraphale’s hand and guiding him, showing how he wanted his clit pet.

Crowley’s arm, which held him over Aziraphale, started to strain, and so he shifted onto his side, throwing a leg over Aziraphale’s thighs and not looking away from Aziraphale’s gaze as they rubbed him off together. The slit in his eyes had dilated so much, his pupils were dark, fat ovals, and it gave him a hazy expression that Aziraphale figured he was mirroring.

The only sound was their shared breathing and the soft slick of Crowley’s pussy getting massaged. Crowley was quieter than he’d been, which would make Aziraphale feel embarrassed later. Still, Aziraphale didn’t need to ask if it was good, because there were slight hitches, tiny sounds that were impossible to not adore. If they didn’t die, he’d beg Crowley for it again and again if he had to. Whatever skills he had to learn or whatever changes he had to make to his body, in that moment Aziraphale knew he would gladly annihilate his very sense of self if it meant Crowley would look at him and kiss him softly and roll his hips against him like that.

Finally closing his eyes, Crowley let go of his hand to instead clutch at the meat of his arm. His whole face opened, lifted, changed into something young and distilled and lovely. Aziraphale didn’t dare to kiss him; he would have ruined the picture. But he couldn’t help a soft, “Oh, dear,” meant both as an endearment and an expletive. Crowley was the dearest thing in the entirety of existence. Fuck. What was he going to do?

Crowley rode his hand over the edge, teeth snagging his bottom lip and his eyes peeking open, as if to ensure he was still being watched over. When he came, his fingers dug into Aziraphale’s arm, and Aziraphale didn’t stop until Crowley squirmed his hips back and his chest forward, wanting to be kissed again, which Aziraphale facilitated.

Aziraphale very nearly told him everything in that moment: that he loved him, that he’d always loved him, that it broke his heart when Crowley hadn’t loved him back, that it would shatter him to pieces if Crowley didn’t want his love after this. Aziraphale had been so arrogant to think he would be able to forestall pain by keeping him at a distance. Crowley’s death would be like the death of his soul, whether or not he fully accepted Aziraphale’s friendship, love, and service. Aziraphale could only hope that, if they were to die, they did it simultaneous.

“All right?” Crowley asked, grinning because it was obviously better than all right. “Your legs still shaking?” he needled, although the hand which cupped his hip was gentle. “I’d hate for it to bother you.”

“Best not to fuss,” Aziraphale decided. He said, as Crowley continued to look smug, “I can’t seem to help it. I’m sure they’ll be shaking again in no time anyway.”

Crowley rolled onto his stomach and pressed a kiss against his shoulder. “Something you have in mind?”

“If it’s no trouble,” Aziraphale said. He watched Crowley stretch out, draw close, and breathe him in. Crowley threw an arm over him, one hand groping Aziraphale’s soft chest. “I just thought we could make a night of it.”

Crowley groaned, pressing his forehead against Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale got an eyeful of the expanse of his back, dotted and fawn. “Insatiable, angel,” he said. “That’s what you are.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale hummed, daring to run his finger down Crowley’s spine, to touch the dip of his back, and cup him lower. “I don’t think you have any idea.”


Sometime later, after he’d had his mouth on Crowley and kissed and sucked him through a few orgasms, his jaw was aching and he thought it might all be okay. Crowley had his legs spread wide, his head thrown back, his eyes bleary and face red. He was propped against the pillows, although he’d pushed himself up on one elbow, which could barely support him as he was getting so weak and shaky. The other hand was braced on Aziraphale’s leg, scrambling at his thigh as he twitched and choked.

Their legs were tightly interlocked, Crowley’s tight right thigh flat over his soft hip. Aziraphale gripped his freckled knee, rocking their bodies together. Vulva pressed against vulva, Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure who was wetter. The thought made him moan, or maybe it was the way Crowley fucked his hips in, chasing after him.

In those moments, and for the last hour maybe, Aziraphale existed as a pinpoint between the burning bath of Crowley’s body and the itch of the rest of the universe between his shoulder blades. He thought of himself as the center. His cunt was the center’s center, and it was pressed and rubbed so perfectly that he thought he really might start to cry.

“Shh, shh, shh.” Crowley was reaching for him, and Aziraphale must have been making another one of his high, hysterical sounds. “I’ve got you,” Crowley said and let go of his grip on Aziraphale’s hip to reach over and cover the hand on his knee. He interlinked their fingers, offering some kind of support. In turn, Aziraphale arched his hips more, leaning back and using that hold for better leverage, getting Crowley to twist against him.

It was that slight snap which had them coming, the wings, a celestial outpouring which Aziraphale hadn’t even considered he might need to control. And yet, they were there, stretching and fluttering, as Aziraphale did his blessed best to ride Crowley’s slit home.

“Oh, fuck,” Crowley was gasping. His arm gave out, and he’d have fallen back if Aziraphale hadn’t taken the opportunity to haul him into his arms, to hold him tight against his chest. In the angel’s lap, Crowley cried and came apart very quickly, clutching around him, fists buried in feathers.

Just as Crowley was coming down, Aziraphale laid him on his back, sliding down his body to put his mouth on his twat. The shocked sounds Crowley made were high, warbling and stilted. Aziraphale lapped at him through it, one hand spreading him open, the other hand feeling himself idly. He’d come with Crowley and wasn’t in a rush to do it again, his whole body buzzing. His sex tingled hot, though, and needed some kind of attention. He could barely form a thought.

All he knew was that he’d never tasted anything like this before, and he didn’t quite mean the warm tang of Crowley’s cunt or the salt of Crowley’s thighs as he sucked a trail down to mark him. He felt so entirely full of love, of devotion, of subjection, and of purpose that he thought he might melt and happily live at Crowley’s feet for the rest of his life. Or he might break down the boundaries of their bodies, live inside him, become a part of him, make an almighty them which could span into the corners of the universe and fill in every empty space and fill all things with what they were.

“You’re gonna kill me,” Crowley said in absolute agony. Aziraphale finally pulled back; he’d read lovers say that to each other in books before, but it had always seemed romantic. Crowley sounded certain of it.

“Am I hurting you?” he rushed. He took stock of Crowley’s body, his face. He was flushed, but not overly so, Aziraphale thought.

Crowley buried his face in his hands. He shook his head, although Aziraphale couldn’t be sure that meant no. “You’re just so damn much,” Crowley ragged out. Aziraphale sat back, putting his hands in front of him. “It’s too much.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to do. He tried putting his wings away, but he felt a little like he was leaking all over. “When did the lights get turned out?” he asked. It was so dark outside, it must have been a new moon. Everything out the window was pitch black. He had no idea how long they’d been at it.

“You blew them out.” Crowley ran a hand through his hair, still not looking at him.

“What?” Aziraphale glanced up to where the ceiling bulbs were still smoking. “Oh, no.” he said and miracled a fix. It was only because the street lamps outside the window flicked back on that he realized he must have blacked out the whole block. “I’ll go,” Aziraphale said.

“No,” Crowley hissed. He reached a hand out, his whole body trembling. Aziraphale allowed himself to be pulled back down beside him and curled around, Crowley shivering and a little clammy. Aziraphale would have covered him with his wings for warmth, but he was worried it might be an overstep. “Are you all right?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale blinked. “Me?” A swell of fervor surged in his chest, and Crowley’s lightbulb popped again. The street lamps stayed on though, which was probably a good sign. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he said. Crowley pressed against him tighter. “I’m so sorry for—for scaring you.”

“No,” Crowley’s teeth were chattering. Aziraphale decided enough was enough, maneuvering them under the covers. “You didn’t sssscare me,” he said.

“I was hurting you,” Aziraphale clarified, sick.

“No, it was good,” Crowley said, nestling under Aziraphale’s arm. He sighed, a tremor running through him and then subsiding as he breathed into the notch of Aziraphale’s throat. “It was just too much.” Aziraphale took a deep breath, and Crowley said, “Don’t say you’re sorry. You didn’t mean to do it. I know.”

“I don’t know what I did,” Aziraphale said again. Crowley’s arms were trapped between their chests. His fingers twitched slightly, but things were returning to normal. Aziraphale was finally able to hide away his wings.

“I need to sleep,” Crowley said, blinking slowly. “We’ll talk tomorrow after we don’t die.”

“Yes, okay.” Aziraphale prepared to extract himself from the bed.

“Stay.” Crowley’s eyes snapped open. “Please. Can you stay with me?”

There was a flutter in his stomach, and the lights outside flickered once. “I’ll stay as long as you want.”