It had been – hours, at least. Perhaps days, for all Crowley could regroup the scattered fragments of time and make them into anything measurable, linear, accountable. Minutes, seconds, infinitesimal intervals had been pulled apart, toffee-soft and suspended, then sped up all at once, so malleable and erratic that Crowley didn’t know if it was yesterday still, or tomorrow yet, or if he was reliving the sixteenth century, or had projected directly into the blink of an as-yet unborn star.
He was – all over the fucking place.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, and his voice shook only slightly. “Dearest, are you with me?”
“I – I’m—” Crowley trembled. He didn’t trust his voice. He was burning – had been burning for hours, for weeks, for maybe his whole lifespan – hot as the core of the earth, and Aziraphale’s handprints across the bare skin of his arse were hotter still, a branded grip that kept him from spinning away.
“I’m going to need you to move a little faster, love,” Aziraphale said, the softness of his voice belying the urgency there. “You can do that for me, can’t you?”
Crowley let out a whine and snapped his hips on command, his cock pressing deeper into Aziraphale’s heat, a steely-soft grip around him.
“Oh- oh, yes, just there,” Aziraphale gasped, arching back. “That’s perfect, keep – keep doing that.”
The angel’s neck was shining, damp with sweat, tendrils of hair stuck down the slope where it connected to his jaw. Crowley leaned down to suck at the bare skin of it, needing to feel something else, another point of contact, hungry for a multitude of connections. Aziraphale was perfect, blessed, incomparable, as he writhed on Crowley’s cock, but Crowley also felt a distressing emptiness inside himself, and he whined with a pitiful need.
As if he’d caught the tail end of Crowley’s thoughts, Aziraphale’s hands slipped from where they gripped Crowley’s arse to keep him buried deep, and dipped instead to spread him apart, and – oh. Crowley could feel how slickly the angel’s fingers traced his opening, wet with rivulets of sweat pooling in the valleys of his flesh, and leaking come from where Aziraphale had fucked him earlier, hours ago – or was it days, now?
“A-angel,” Crowley stuttered, bucking as Aziraphale slipped his fingers inside. “Az-Azirphale, please…”
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, as Crowley fucked sharply into him, a reflex, his body strung tight. “Is there something you want, Crowley? Do you want to come?”
“I – I don’t—” Crowley had already come, six, ten, twenty, maybe a fucking hundred times, he didn’t know. He couldn’t count, his grip on numbers had all gone out the window along with the units of time he’d stopped having any use for or understanding of the moment Aziraphale had held him down, hands tight around his wrists, and had fucked orgasm after orgasm out of him, lapping up everything Crowley could offer, gorging on his pleasure, taking his fill. Crowley didn’t know – he didn’t think he could come again, but he was hard anyway, achingly hard, and he felt the sparkling edge of it drawing up tight inside him.
“That’s alright,” Aziraphale said, soothingly, “you can come if you need to, my dear, although—”
Crowley didn’t hear the rest. He was coming, as soon as Aziraphale had told him he could, and he gasped and yowled his way through it, hips stuttering, cock pulsing inside the angel’s warmth, skin singing with electricity. “Oh God, oh Satan, oh fuck,” he said, weakly. Aziraphale’s fingers were still hooked inside him, and he felt his muscles contract, sharply.
Aziraphale looked down at him. “I was going to say,” he said, hand slipping away and running softly through the sweat-soaked locks that were slick against Crowley’s forehead, “that if you do come, I’m going to need you to stay hard for me, because I’m not done yet.”
“Sssstay – h-hard?” Crowley said, dazed. His cock twitched.
“Yes please,” Aziraphale said primly, and he wiggled a little, clenching his muscle walls around Crowley’s cock, still buried inside him. “I’m not quite finished, so if you wouldn’t mind.”
“A-angel,” Crowley said, hoarsely. “You – I c-can’t.” Strictly speaking, their earthly corporations could do almost anything within the logical boundaries of physics that governed this particular dimension. Their true ethereal and occult forms could do even more, should they decide to transcend, to occupy additional dimensions not contained by earthly laws. They didn’t have biologically-reflexive organs of any sort – lungs and hearts and stomachs worked only on the occasion their hosts chose them to. Most of the time, if they simply expected them to work, they did.
But it required some concentration, some minor miracle, some real fucking effort, to make their humanlike organs do superhuman things, and Crowley currently felt as spent and wrung out as a used flannel.
And yet – his skin was still hot, burning up and sensitive to every trailing touch of Aziraphale’s fingers, as if the angel’s expectation of him, his need, was keeping Crowley, beyond human possibility, on the edge, willing.
“I know you can,” Aziraphale murmured. “For me, my darling. Make an effort.”
With a groan, his thighs shaking, hands trembling where they fisted into the sheets either side of Aziraphale’s head, Crowley thrust his hips forward again, still incredibly, impossibly, hard.
“Oh!” Aziraphale threw his head back. “Oh, thank you, yes, oh my dear, you’re so good.” He ran his hand up over the dip in Crowley’s spine, up across the planes of his back, wet with sweat, onto his shoulderblades, to the place where his wings hid, and dug his fingers in there, hard.
“Oh ffffffuck, fuck,” Crowley hissed, fucking up into Aziraphale, hips locked in bruisingly tight, rutting in and out of the heat of him, pinned and pushed and filled all over – Aziraphale’s hand pressed to his back, Aziraphale’s body clutching tight around his cock, and then his fingers, back to circle and slip inside Crowley’s hole, rubbing inside him with every thrust forward, every roll back.
“That – that’s – oh, yes, yes,” Aziraphale said, breathlessly, and Crowley could feel the tremor running through him, Aziraphale’s thighs falling wantonly apart, feet trying to find purchase on the sheets. “Oh, fuck, my darling, fuck me – ah – fuck me until I come.”
Crowley moaned, a stretched, broken sound. He was long gone, a wild, wheeling mess of nerve endings and supernovas bursting behind his yellow eyes, surrendered and submitting to the demands of desire. Angels, Aziraphale had told Crowley on many occasions, were made to endure, to resist. They resisted questions, they resisted curiosity, and they resisted imagination, lest they be led to doubt and distraction, the temptation of possibility. (Angels, Crowley had told Aziraphale on many occasions, were extraordinarily fucking dull, and it was lucky Aziraphale was such an interesting exception to the rule, or he wouldn’t have decided to fall in love with him.)
But despite his pleasures, his indulgences, his choice to pick and pilfer and partake, Aziraphale’s angel-stock gave him a will of steel, when he chose to exhibit it – an underlying strength and rigorous immobility that you wouldn’t have guessed at under those silken, florid garments, that cotton-soft hair, the plush thighs and round belly.
Crowley, for all his sharpness and grim, stark angles, had a will of fucking jelly, where Aziraphale was concerned.
“Angel,” he said, bitten-off, desperate. “Angel, are you—?”
“Oh yes,” Aziraphale groaned, arching off the mattress. He was close, Crowley could feel the clench of him, the erratic way he fucked himself down onto Crowley’s cock, the way his head twisted to the side, his mouth opened in angelic ecstasy. “Oh, oh, oh, Crowley!”
Crowley whined at the feel of it as Aziraphale came, muscles contracting around his cock in gloriously decadent waves. The aftershocks rippled through the softness of the angel’s flesh, and Crowley was held in aching suspension at the edge of his own orgasm, so close, as Aziraphale wound down from his.
Dazed, exhausted, desperate, Crowley dragged his hands across the pale map of the angel before him, flushed red in luscious swathes across the expanse of skin, and buried his fingers into the meat of Aziraphale’s thighs, holding on.
“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale gasped. He sat up gingerly, and took Crowley’s hand, lifting it to his mouth to kiss it tenderly. “You did so well,” he soothed, impossibly kind.
“I—” Along with time, Crowley also seemed to have lost his grip on language. He was always more prone than Aziraphale – who put great stock in being well-read and almost showily coherent with his vocabulary – to losing his linguistic faculties in moments of stress, or intoxication. Sometimes, even without the relentless fucking that had shaken most earthly concepts from his head, Crowley still found himself expressing things through sounds and hand gestures instead of words, allowing Aziraphale to work with context clues and put the scattered pieces of his reptilian mind back together.
“It’s alright,” Aziraphale said, and he pushed lightly at Crowley’s hips, inching him backwards until Crowley’s cock, flushed dark, slick with his own come, came free of Aziraphale’s hole with an obscene sucking noise.
The loss of heat and pressure was both awful, and a relief. Crowley almost sobbed. He’d been hard for what felt like years, centuries, aching with tension, and he’d come and come and come so many times that he was almost afraid of doing it again, afraid of how far he could push this earthly corporation. Moving away from the tight, wet heat of Azirphale’s body was a respite. And yet – as they detached, he felt a curious cold under the burning of his skin, a clutching fearfulness of something else entirely, of being alone, incomplete.
“Ah-Az’raphale,” Crowley choked. He didn’t know what to say, what to ask for. He was hard, shaking with it, and he was empty. He swallowed, squirming, not sure if he needed to move away or get closer, reaching for Aziraphale with desperate, confused hands.
“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale murmured, and he crawled forward across the bed, easing Crowley down onto his back. “It’s alright, I’ve got you.” He leaned down for a kiss, soft as anything, like rose petals or dry leaves, falling autumnal and tender onto Crowley’s lips.
With a keening sound, Crowley arched up, yearning, lathing messily over Aziraphale’s mouth, too tired and muddled to use any technique or finesse, probing, tongue tangling sloppily with Aziraphale’s.
And then Crowley broke off with a gasp. Aziraphale’s hand had moved south, finger circling his hole again, and then, suddenly, it thrust in, just the one, but deep as it could go. “Shit! Ah, ah, ffffuck, oh, oh Angel—” The finger twisted inside, where he was slick and raw from his fucking earlier, and it was all too much and still not enough. “Angel – I – I, please!” Crowley writhed against the sheets. His cock was straining up, pearls of pre-come pulsing wetly down the side of it, running alongside the veins standing stark on the ruddy, flushed skin. His hole clenched, red-rimmed, loose, trying to catch Aziraphale’s finger even as it slid out and away.
“I know,” Aziraphale said, and he kissed Crowley’s forehead, which was wet with exertion. “I know, you’re all empty now, my darling. It’s such a shame, I do so love seeing you full, your delicious little hole spread open for me. We shall have to remedy that.”
Crowley let out a moan. He couldn’t – he couldn’t take any more, and yet his hips were thrusting off the bed, seeking contact, friction, and he could feel himself clenching tightly in anticipation, his confounded corporeal form begging wordlessly for something he wasn’t sure it could take.
Aziraphale was pushing two fingers inside him again, Crowley's loose, fucked-out muscles offering no resistance despite his writhing. Easily, Aziraphale added another finger, screwdriving three of them deep into Crowley’s arse. Then, slowly, he slipped in his pinkie finger alongside them, and oh, oh, it teetered on the precipice of too much, a stinging edge of pain under the uncontrollable rush of pleasure. Aziraphale held still, listening to Crowley’s broken, desperate noises for a moment, but Crowley only had a second to adjust before he felt the tentative intrusion of a thick, blunt thumb, pushing inside him.
Crowley wailed. He felt – he was so full, it was so much, too much now, his body bowing and bending toward and away from the breach, needing it, wanting it to fill the empty space that had been left behind, a space Aziraphale had carved out in him, but fighting it too, the overwhelming strain, the wheeling, wild careen towards an impossible limit.
“Oh, well done,” Aziraphale said, appreciatively, warmly, rotating his hand slowly, inching in further, Crowley’s hole spreading weakly from the push of his knuckles. And then he crooked his fingers, reaching deep inside, seeking, finding Crowley’s prostate and rubbing, hard.
And Crowley started to shake, and he felt tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, sticking his lashes together, eyelids gummy with exhaustion, and the tears trickled down the side of his face, into his hairline, salt and sweat mixing together, his body overheated and overstimulated, leaving a dark, soaked patch against the sheets. “Angel,” he whimpered. “Oh, Angel, I can’t.”
“You can,” Aziraphale said kindly, firmly, punctuating his command with a firm rub against the sore, sensitive nub, and Crowley twitched, sobbing. “What’s more, you’re going to come from this alone, and then I’m going to fuck you again, and you’re going to come again.”
Dazed, shuddering, Crowley shook his head. He didn’t know if he was saying no, or if he was just shaking from head to toe, but Aziraphale didn’t stop, two fingers pressed hard against his prostate, crooking back and forth, rubbing relentlessly, a bright, pain-edged spark moving from that centre point up Crowley’s spine, into his limbs. “I can’t,” he gasped, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” a mantra as he twisted and writhed, lifting away from Aziraphale’s fingers, then fucking himself back down on them, unable to control or decide which way his body wanted to go.
Luckily, Aziraphale knew. Him, and his will of steel. With his other hand, he pushed down against Crowley’s abdomen, holding him, pinning him, right there above the place where his thick fingers were buried inside Crowley, and when he was sure Crowley couldn’t twist away any more, he shoved in, fucking his fingers hard and fast, nailing Crowley’s prostate on every thrust forward, making an obscene slapping noise, and then he whispered, “Come for me, Crowley, darling heart, I know you can,” and against all the laws of human biology, Crowley did.
“Oh fffffuck, oh, oh, pleassssse,” Crowley hissed, legs scrambling against the sheets, soaked wet under him from the sweat that dripped from him, sticky, messy patches everywhere where his own come had been drawn out again and again, where Aziraphale’s had leaked from his raw, loose hole. “Pleassssse, angel, ssssto—”
“Stop?” Aziraphale said, all kindness and mild manners, his hand sweeping lovingly from Crowley’s flank to his belly, and even Crowley’s skin was over-sensitive, a sparkling soreness skipping across every nerve as Aziraphale touched him. “You know saying stop isn’t the way to get me to stop. There’s another word for that. Besides,” Aziraphale leaned down, put his lips to Crowley’s ear, breath hot against the shell of it, and Crowley fought another whine coming up his throat. “I think you want to show me what you can do. I think you want to do this, for me. Isn’t that right, darling? Don’t you like to please me?”
“I – I do, I do, I do,” Crowley whispered, breathless, choking on a violent rise of emotion in him, a full-body wave of heat coming from his chest, and he strained up and towards the angel, like a flower to the sun. He was – he felt ruined. Unravelled. He couldn’t. But he wanted to. “I wa- ah, I wannnt, I want it, I do, Aziraphale.”
“I know,” Aziraphale said, sweetly, dropping a kiss to Crowley’s open mouth, nipping his lips where they lay agape, unable to do anything except draw a gasp, slack and uncoordinated, not needing the breath and yet pulling the oxygen in anyway, fortification for whatever Aziraphale was about to do next. “My dear,” the angel said, “I’m quite ready to fuck you again.”
Crowley moaned, high and desperate, as Aziraphale leaned in over him, between Crowley’s legs, falling open as if on command, thick cock rubbing slickly against the inside of his thighs.
“Wonderful,” Aziraphale said, breath hitching as he rutted into the crook where Crowley’s thigh met his pelvis, and he trailed a finger up, pressing the back of one short, impeccably manicured nail against Crowley’s rim. “You poor thing,” he soothed, as Crowley bucked up, unable to stop. “You must be so sore, I’ve used you so very thoroughly today.” He paused. “Or is it this week? This month? Do you know, Crowley, I’ve quite lost track of time.” And then his finger was gone and his cock was there instead, pushing at Crowley’s entrance. “You’ve done so well for me, darling. You can do this, too. Let me in.”
The head of Aziraphale’s cock was fat and rounded, slick with sticky trails of translucence, spreading Crowley’s hole wider where it flared, catching on his rim as the tip slipped in. Hands gripping the sheets beside him, Crowley shook, bearing down, letting Aziraphale breach him, muscles clutching greedily despite himself to swallow up the rest, a thick, steel-hard length, snug and velvety inside him.
“Ah- A-Aziraphale,” Crowley said, wildly, desperately, fingers going up the angel’s shoulders and over his back, trying to hold on, trying to find a point of focus outside his own body, a handhold on his sanity. “You – are you – t-tell me, oh, how it – how it feelsssss.”
“Oh, marvellous, my dear,” Aziraphale said, punctuating the word with a thrust that made Crowley cry out. “Just divine, your beautiful body, taking me inside like this. You’re so good for me.” Dropping his head to Crowley’s neck, Aziraphale licked across his throat, a searing brand of heat, and when he spoke, his voice shook just slightly. “You’re – perfect, my darling, so good, so good, look at you, at what you’re able to do, at what you can endure, this pain, this pleasure, taking it all, taking it so well.”
Crowley mewled, fingernails biting into Aziraphale’s skin as his angel fucked him, long, slow thrusts that went all the way deep inside him, then pulled back shallowly, swollen cockhead catching on his rim before pushing back in again thickly, splitting him apart, filling him up.
“Y-yes, yessss, yes, yes,” Crowley panted, eyes rolling back, cock jutting up and leaking steadily against his belly, writhing and meeting the angel’s thrusts. And then Aziraphale slowed his movements right down, the fiend, grinding his hips in deep, making relentless, sinuous circles that lit Crowley up from the inside, and Crowley cried out again.
As if the sound had been a request, Aziraphale put his fingers up to Crowley’s mouth, and Crowley opened up, willing, submitting, babbling an incoherent litany of yesss as Aziraphale pushed all four fingers past his lips. With a broken moan, Crowley sucked, making it wet and messy, spit sliding from the corners of his mouth as Aziraphale fucked his fingers in and out, pushing past the tongue that lapped and laved at the intrusions, almost to the back of his throat. And then Aziraphale pulled them out and offered Crowley his palm, hand outstretched towards him like a priest offering benediction, and Crowley licked that too, tender and desperate, feeling more beast than human.
“Good,” Aziraphale murmured, and he transferred his hand, slick with spit, to Crowley’s cock.
“Ahh, ugnn!” Crowley choked, strangled, as the angel’s hand wrapped around him, around his cock that had been straining hotly, stiff and swollen and sore, for so long, too long, impossibly long.
“Crowley, look at me.” Aziraphale’s eyes were bright, star-scattered, galactic depths of agelessness and limitless love, and they were focused in that moment, on him, this demon, whose eyes were dark, fathomless slits in bruise-yellow circles, unworthy, surely, of the beam of unhindered affection that the angel emanated. But Aziraphale kept looking at Crowley, and he must have liked what he saw, because his expression was soft, frighteningly tender as his hand moved up and down. “Are you with me, love?” he asked, lightly.
“H-here,” Crowley said. “With y-you, with you, Aziraphale.” And then, because everything around the halo of Aziraphale’s edges was dark, impenetrable space, the negative inverse of the angel’s holy glow, because he existed nowhere in that moment except the places Aziraphale was touching him, he said, reduced only to sibilance and needfulness, “I n-need – clossser, oh pl-pleassse, close-clossser.”
Immediately and without hesitation, Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley, around his lower back to where it bowed up, skinny and lean and snake-boned, and he brought all his crushing weight down, so they lay chest to chest, belly to belly, concave to convex pressed together, Crowley’s spread thighs slick and slippery against Aziraphale’s, whose soft, plush flesh gave way to the desperate grip of his knees and ankles.
Crowley didn’t need to breathe, so it didn’t matter, but in that moment his lungs gave up the semblance of it, and he drank the air in through Aziraphale’s mouth instead.
This was it, this was everything. To be held, to hold, to know nothing except the existence of your own self through another, anchored in place while the world spun and flew and flung itself through space, the fabric of the universe peeling away like layers of ancient wallpaper on a centuries-old farmhouse that stands against the march of time until it, too, crumbles, and nothing is left but starlight.
And Crowley would have been happy, up there, among the galaxies. No body, no brain, no spine twisted into confounded corporations – just two souls, and two stars.
“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice came from far away, and Crowley blinked, the edges of his vision blurry, shadowy shapes in the dark bedroom illuminated by moonlight, angels and ghosts and things from dreams trailing through his mind as he floated, elsewhere. “Crowley, stay with me. You’re doing so well, love, just hold a little longer.”
And all at once Crowley was rushed back into his own body, the sensation like being hit chest-first by a runaway train, wrenching any lingering breath from him as his toes curled and his hands scrabbled at Aziraphale’s back with a hiss, coming back to the feeling of the cock buried deep inside him, deep as it could go, his own cock trapped in the furnace of heat between his belly and Azriaphale’s, rubbing slickly against the soft give of flesh.
Crowley’s throat felt raw, and he wondered if he’d been shouting, or if it had just been too long since his human mouth had had any water, and he couldn’t formulate any more words, could barely make a sound except for pitiful, subvocal noises that scattered from his throat, gasps and whines and croaked, voiceless moans.
“So good, darling, so good for me, oh yes, oh love – oh, oh I want to make you come, Crowley, I want to see you come again, just one more, one more.” Aziraphale was babbling, and Crowley could see the shine of sweat on his forehead, the crease of effort in his face as he repeated one more like he was asking for seconds, for dessert, for a brandy at the end of the night, just one more, always room for one more – and in that, like in so many other things, Crowley would never refuse him.
Crowley came, gasping, moaning and choking on his own erratic breaths, sobbing out in exhaustion and relief, hisses rattling behind his teeth, every part of him strung-out, fallen apart, as if the disparate pieces of him couldn’t remember how to be human.
And still Aziraphale fucked into him, wilder and less controlled now, just saying Crowley, Crowley, Crowley over and over, rocking his taut, desperate body up into Crowley’s loose, unresisting one. The mixed sweat and come on their bellies was slippery between them, a frictionless slide against Crowley’s spent cock, and Crowley let out a stream of low, incoherent vowels, overstimulated, unwound, wrung-out.
And then, oh, then Aziraphale was coming inside him once more, cock jerking and spilling his seed again, a searing, obscene emission that filled him, where he was already so wet, dripping with it, and against every possible, sensible reflex, Crowley felt himself shudder. Rubbed raw and stimulated to his limit, his body still reacted, desperate, needful, pleased, at the feel of Aziraphale taking his satisfaction.
Slowly, Aziraphale pulled out, and Crowley said nothing, not a word, not even a whimper. His eyelids fluttered, and he mouthed, voicelessly, a name.
“Darling,” Aziraphale answered. “I’m here.” His hand stroked through Crowley’s hair, teasing out the snarls of red that tangled around his fingers, matted with sweat and knotted where Crowley had thrashed his head against the pillows. “Can you turn over for me, love?”
Weakly, Crowley’s eyes flickered down, and he saw the angel blushing, as if now, suddenly, of all things, he had succumbed to reticence. He was sat back on his knees, legs under him, belly and thighs wet with come, and the soft accordion folds of him were dewy with sweat and moonlight.
He was the most beautiful fucking thing Crowley had ever seen. More beautiful than imposing stone castles in centuries lost, than steel-and-glass towers glinting in the eyeline of a city, more beautiful still than marble-white statues of the most exquisite human forms, or the soaring majesty of unconquered mountain peaks. He was beautiful, because Crowley loved him.
His heart constricting somewhere in his useless chest, Crowley turned over, and spread his legs.
“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale said, hushed, and then he said nothing, because his tongue was lapping, lascivious and indulgent, against Crowley’s hole, wordless sounds of appreciation echoing through his body. And Crowley shuddered, boneless, without even meaning or trying to, like he was a pool of warm water disturbed gently by a finger – or tongue – ripples moving inexorably outwards.
“Mmmm,” Aziraphale hummed, lips pressed in the split of him, pulling back to murmur, “darling, you taste, oh, like nothing else I’ve ever had, just – just delectable, and all for me.” He pushed back in with his tongue, pressing at Crowley’s entrance and meeting no resistance, flicking up and inside, making soft, wet, suckling noises. “Oh, look at you,” he breathed, his voice thick and low, hot against Crowley’s very core. “How beautiful you are, all loose and open for me, letting me in like this, letting me feast on you.”
Crowley jerked as Aziraphale screwed his tongue deep, keening, pushing back. “For you,” Crowley whispered, into the pillow, and he didn’t even know if Aziraphale could hear him. His nerves were singing. He couldn’t do it – he couldn’t get hard again, laws of biology or no. His own power extended only to the limits of his capacity, moment to moment, to focus on the task at hand – and in this particular moment, he was utterly broken apart, ruined and scattered in the best way, the only way he ever wanted to be, the pieces of him held in Aziraphale’s hands.
But his body still shook, the echo or the expectation of an orgasm that might have been, a grasping, cresting shudder that wracked him, focused not between his legs and the crook of his lower body, but spread all through him; a divine, ecstatic climax in his entirety. He felt the soft, searing edges of a minor miracle, Aziraphale’s palm on the small of his back, and it rolled through him, like he was coming again, and again, and again, untouched, nothing left to spill from his cock, just an intense tightening of all his muscles in hot, frayed pleasure, and the release from pain into bliss, from darkness into bright, blinding light.
When Crowley woke, he was cool, and dry, lying naked, he noticed as he cracked an eye open, on top of new, clean sheets; a deep, midnight blue instead of the rich, indulgent red they’d lain down on before.
“Ange—” he tried, and it came out an unpitched, voiceless crack. He wet his lips, tongue puffy and dry in his mouth. “Angel,” he said again, raw. “What’re you – how comes you’re all the way over there, hm?”
Softly, Aziraphale lay beside him, cautious in the curl of his body. “I wasn’t sure – you seemed – after all that – well, it was my doing of course, and I do hope I didn’t push you – but you seemed very sensitive, love. I didn’t want it to be too much. I thought I would let you—”
“No,” Crowley interrupted. He swallowed. “Come here.”
Looking relieved, and extremely pleased, face cracked into a buoyant, golden smile, Aziraphale moved to close the space between them, lying his head on Crowley’s shoulder, face turned into the deft slope of his neck.
“Come here more,” Crowley said.
Humming, indulgent, Aziraphale snaked his arms around Crowley’s middle, and then draped a thigh over him, wriggling it down between Crowley’s legs, letting it squash nicely in between them, a grounding weight and gentle comfort. He inhaled deeply, breathing in Crowley’s scent, letting out a contented little sound.
Crowley let his eyes fall shut again.
“Will you be sleeping, love?” Aziraphale whispered, featherlight words brushed into the shell of Crowley’s ear, on the edge of his consciousness.
“Mm,” Crowley answered, already floating, ethereal, shapeless – not some heavy, iron-footed demon dragged down in the hell-depths of the earth, but light somehow, unbound, aloft. “Deserve it, doncha think?”
“Yes, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, as Crowley fell softly away to the untroubled gentleness of his voice. “You deserve it – everything, love. Everything.”