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An Angelic Disposition

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Being with Aziraphale - finally, really, properly being with him after six millennia of Crowley following him around like a baby duckling in St. James’ Park - was somehow both exactly how Crowley had pictured it and also nothing like he could have ever dreamed.

Aziraphale was an angel, for a start. It should have been no surprise that he wanted to please Crowley.

But he was also a bit of a bastard, so it turned out that when he was hellbent on giving Crowley everything he ever wanted, it was by any manipulative, duplicitous means necessary.

That would have been great if it wasn’t Crowley he was manipulating. It would have been perfect if what he gave Crowley didn’t include all of the embarrassing, very undemon-like desires that Crowley had spent six thousand years repressing. Desires that the blasted angel teased out of him with no trouble at all - just a dip of his pale eyelashes and Crowley was done for, damn him.

And then Aziraphale proceeded to deliver those things, unrelentingly, until Crowley was tongue-tied and pathetically besotted.

Truth be told, it was still perfect, but Crowley wasn’t going to go around admitting it. And it wasn’t as if Aziraphale didn’t know anyway.


Crowley would realize, when thinking about it much later, that it started on their first night together. They had been kissing - lovely, lovely kissing. Crowley was strongly in favour of kissing Aziraphale whenever and wherever he could, which was one desire he made no effort to hide. Crowley was too preoccupied with keeping his knees from buckling to try and categorize anything Aziraphale liked in the moment.

Aziraphale had no such problems. In the midst of their deep, extremely satisfying kiss, his hand slid into Crowley’s hair. Crowley groaned against his lips and clutched the wall for balance.

His whole body had been one sizzling nerve at the time, though, and he had a ravenous angel in his arms, so he barely paid it any mind.

But the next afternoon -

“Crowley, I don’t suppose...” Aziraphale began. “Oh, you’re going to think it’s ridiculous.”

“What?” Crowley asked, looking up from his mobile phone and suppressing a sigh.

He already knew that he would agree to whatever Aziraphale wanted. Crowley’s whole life was a scattered collection of Aziraphale turning those beseechingly wide blue eyes on him and asking for a favour, and Crowley tripping over his own two feet in his hurry to comply.

“You see, I’m ever so fond of your hair,” Aziraphale began. Crowley’s eyebrows jumped up. That was not where he was expecting the conversation to go.

“...and I thought, if you didn’t mind, of course, that we could sit together on the couch, and I could run my fingers through it while I read a book. That would be nice, don’t you think?” Aziraphale concluded, heart eyes cranked up to eleven.

Crowley was struck dumb by how very good that sounded. And fine, yes, by those stupid eyes that he had somehow not become immune to in six thousand bloody years. “Uh, yeah,” he said, mortified to hear his voice break in the middle of the word. Clearing his throat, he tried to answer again. “Yeah, all right. If you wanted.”

“Thank you for humouring me, dear. I know it’s an odd request,” Aziraphale said and gestured to the couch in the corner.

“What, now?” Crowley asked, feeling his heart hammer in his chest.

“If it’s not too much trouble?” Aziraphale answered.

“Oh, fine. As you like,” Crowley muttered.

They made their way to the couch where a thick, leather-bound tome already waited on one arm of it. That should have been Crowley’s first clue.

Aziraphale sat down and gestured for Crowley to join him, giving his lap a jaunty, very Aziraphale-like pat, as if doing one of his magic tricks: ta-da! Crowley snorted and crawled across the cushions, laying his head down on Aziraphale’s thigh.

“Do tell me if you get bored,” Aziraphale said.

The sound of the large book opening and paper turning sounded over his head, and Crowley could smell the distinctive, old book smell that always reminded him of Aziraphale. All of the worst tortures that Hell or Heaven could devise wouldn’t be enough to get Crowley to admit how many times over the centuries he’d slinked off to a marketplace, opened a book and just inhaled.

“Now where was I?” Aziraphale said to himself, pulling Crowley out of that maudlin reverie and back into the present. “Ah, here we are.” He appeared to get comfortable and locate where he’d left off in his book, and then his hand found its way into Crowley’s hair.

The first long stroke made Crowley’s eyes fall shut in bliss. The next one, a slow, deep scratch behind his ear, sent a shudder of delight straight down his spine.

Crowley didn’t recognize that whole charade then for what he knew it to be now: research. Aziraphale was carefully cataloguing each twitch from Crowley, noting everything that made him shiver and sigh. In another life, a normal life, Aziraphale would have been a stuffy old professor, studying Milton or Dickens. In this one, he was studying Crowley.

If Crowley had been paying attention, he would have noticed that Aziraphale never, not once, turned a page in his book. He would have noticed how, when Aziraphale hit the particularly sensitive, short hairs on the back of Crowley’s neck, he lingered there until Crowley’s hips began to shift restlessly, his hands clenching and unclenching on the cushions.

He didn’t notice any of those things, however, because he was focused on the intoxicating feeling of Aziraphale’s hands on him, his attention on him. Demons didn’t get treated gently, not ever, and most of them would rather swallow holy water than submit to that sort of treatment. If asked, Crowley would say the same about himself, with a swagger and a roll of his eyes for good measure.

But one night with Aziraphale, and he’d been sussed out, the evidence laid bare with almost no effort from the angel at all.

Crowley’s cock began to fill, tightening his already fitted black trousers. After another few minutes of Aziraphale’s patient, clever hands in his hair, Crowley gave up, dragging the heel of his hand roughly against himself.

When he looked up, Aziraphale was gazing back at him in naked adoration.

“You’re so lovely,” he said, his eyes flicking down the length of Crowley’s body. The praise made Crowley flush hotly.

With an unsteady hand, Crowley unfastened his button and zipper, not even taking the time to miracle the trousers away, and got a hand inside and around his aching cock, groaning at the release of pressure.

“What can I do for you?” Aziraphale asked. His thumb traced over the shell of Crowley’s ear and dragged another shiver out of him. “How can I help?”

“Don’t stop,” Crowley panted.

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, and carded his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “Whatever you need.”

Crowley turned his face into Aziraphale’s thigh.

“There you are,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley’s hand sped up.

With a cry, he came, heaving deep, laboured breaths as Aziraphale massaged the back of his neck, his thumb running soothing circles in Crowley’s tense muscles.

That was the first time.


Crowley was in the back of Aziraphale’s bookshop weeks later, watching the flat screen television he’d insisted on despite Aziraphale’s complaints. Crowley needed something to keep him entertained while Aziraphale worked. Plus, there were new episodes of Love Island on.

He had just settled in front of the telly when he heard Aziraphale’s raised voice.

“Excuse me! Exactly what do you think you’re doing?” he shouted.

Crowley jumped out of his seat and was up to the front of the store before he was even conscious of moving. Aziraphale had his hands raised above his head and two very large men were pointing two very large guns at him.

“Mr. Fell,” said one in a thick Eastern European accent. “Mr. Kuznetsov has made very clear his interest in acquiring this building. His offer was more than generous offer, but still you say no. Now there is no more ‘no.’”

Crowley had heard enough. This was the first time since the failed armageddon that anyone had threatened Aziraphale. If either of them got discorporated, they likely weren’t coming back. The blood pounded in Crowley’s ears.

With a snap of his fingers, the lock on the bookshop door clicked into place and the lights went out.

“What the…?” one of the men shouted.

“Don’t hurt them too badly, dear,” Aziraphale said.


That was the last thing Alec and Ivan heard until they woke up hours later in a damp alley. They were both unhurt and their memories of that evening’s events gone. All that remained was a bone deep, spiritual dread that would take months to fully fade.

Not until they stumbled back to their car in a horrified daze did they realize that both of their guns, which they were quite sure had been real that morning, had been replaced with replica water pistols that looked identical, save for the ornate set of angel’s wings that decorated each gun’s grip.


“Are you all right?” Crowley asked once the goons were dispatched with. He cradled Aziraphale’s jaw in his hands and tilted his head one way and then the other, looking for damage.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Aziraphale answered, but submitted to Crowley’s inspection without complaint.

“Who were those men?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale waved his hand. “Every few decades some enterprising new upstart criminal decides he wants my shop’s real estate for himself. They gave me quite a fright. I’m so grateful to you for taking care of it.”

A thought tickled the back of Crowley’s brain, but then Aziraphale pulled him in for a kiss, and it evaporated before it could fully form.

“That was enough excitement for the day, I think,” Aziraphale declared when they parted. “Time to close up and have a nightcap. Join me?”

“Always,” Crowley said.


Crowley brought it up to Aziraphale once.

It had been midwinter. Aziraphale was on his third cup of cocoa, and Crowley was enjoying the effects of a nice bottle of scotch. They were pressed together on the couch from shoulder to foot. And if the toe of Crowley’s boot was creeping up Aziraphale’s ankle, well. He was drunk. It couldn’t be held against him.

“You make it sound so sinister,” Aziraphale laughed when Crowley asked. “I’m not manipulating you. I’m loving you.”

That was sinister to a demon, which Crowley made very clear to Aziraphale by ensuring that his mouth was too busy to say any other sentimental tripe for the foreseeable future.



Crowley looked up from where he’d been idly perusing a magazine dated May of 1958. “Yeah?”

“There’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while now,” Aziraphale said.

“What’s that?” Crowley asked suspiciously. He recognized that tone of voice. It was Aziraphale's feelings voice. Any second now his eyes would get in on the action.

“I’ve been thinking lately that it might be nice to get out of London for a while,” Aziraphale said. “I know you love the hustle and bustle, but perhaps some time in the country air would do us both good. We could get a little cottage somewhere quiet.”

Crowley’s heart stopped beating and then raced to make up for lost time, hammering inside his chest. “You mean live together?” he asked.

“That was the idea,” Aziraphale said, and yup, there were the eyes. Oh, Crowley was done. “If it’s all right with you.”

“You know it is,” Crowley choked out. He’d wanted nothing more than to run away and be alone with Aziraphale for six thousand years now. “What about the shop?”

“It was always just a place to hold my books anyway. We’ll get a library,” Aziraphale said. Then, offhandedly added, “And a garden for you, of course.”

That, pathetically, was what did Crowley in. He pinched his lips closed and blinked his eyes, turning away from Aziraphale to gather himself. A moment later, he felt Aziraphale’s hand on his shoulder.

“I hate when you do this to me,” Crowley said gruffly without turning around.

“I know, my dear,” Aziraphale answered.

He took a deep breath. “When do we leave?”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the bookshop was suddenly empty. Crowley’s eyes burned.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Aziraphale answered.


Three days later, when they arrived at their new cottage, they found a little restaurant by the water. It wasn’t the Ritz, but there was raspberry cheesecake for Aziraphale and a decent wine selection for Crowley.

After lunch, they bickered about how to decorate the cottage, and then miracled an addition to hold all of Aziraphale’s books. Crowley got started on his garden. They saved the bedroom for last.


“Oh, fuck...”

Crowley was braced on his hands and knees on their new bed, arms trembling with the effort of holding himself up.

Behind him, Aziraphale wrapped a hand around Crowley’s dripping cock and gave it a slippery tug. At the same time, he twisted the two fingers inside of Crowley with just the right pressure and at just the right angle to make Crowley lose his mind.

If he wanted to, Aziraphale could get Crowley ready for his cock in minutes. But on nights like this, he drew it out past all sanity and forced Crowley to feel every excruciatingly slow twist of his fingers, in and out, over and over again.

Crowley had confessed how much he’d wanted this very thing from Aziraphale years back, after far too much wine. Aziraphale had listened to Crowley’s drunken yammering, a look of interest and contemplation on his face, before standing up and removing his coat.

The four hours that had followed ranked among the best and most frustrating of Crowley’s life.

In the present, Crowley’s fingers scrambled in the sheets and his arms were like jelly. “For fuck’s sake,” he panted. “I’m…please…”

It hurt Crowley’s throat to talk, which meant that he’d been making hideously embarrassing noises without being aware of it.

“You can come, darling,” Aziraphale answered in that sensible tone of voice he only used when he was at his smuggest. He pressed a kiss between Crowley’s shoulder blades. “We’ll just start again after.”

Crowley grunted - a sound entirely without dignity - and strained into the circle of Aziraphale’s hand around his cock.

The teasing Crowley could handle. It was Aziraphale’s infernal, overwhelming tenderness that did him in time and again. It reached inside of his heart and squeezed it into pulp without fail. Crowley craved that feeling, but when Aziraphale offered it so freely, it stirred something complicated and fragile in him that he tried not to examine too closely.

Aziraphale trailed soft, wet kisses down Crowley’s arched spine as he added a third finger, stretching Crowley open with infinite patience and devastating precision.

“You’re doing so well,” Aziraphale said. “You’re so gorgeous like this. ”

Crowley sobbed into the pillow. “Aziraphale...I…”

“Show me,” Aziraphale said and gave his cock a firm pull as his fingers twisted. “I want to see you.”

Crowley came, pumping his hips forward into one of Aziraphale’s hands and backward into the other, gasping as he felt a hot tear slide down his nose.

Aziraphale graciously miracled away the wet spot before Crowley’s arms stopped supporting him. He tipped over and made it onto his back, still gasping, and Aziraphale joined him. Wrapping an arm over Crowley’s waist, Aziraphale kissed his shoulder. Affection and gratitude poured off of him, shining bright enough for even a demon to see.

“I love you,” Aziraphale said.

“You’re a bastard,” Crowley answered, voice shaky.

Aziraphale's only response was a fond smile as he ran a thumb under Crowley’s eye and wiped an errant tear away.

Crowley surged up and grabbed Aziraphale by his unruly hair, hauling him in for a bruising kiss. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him, and Crowley swung a long leg over his hips. Aziraphale yielded control of the kiss to Crowley, going pliant beneath him and opening his mouth to welcome Crowley’s plundering tongue.

“We’re doing this my way now,” Crowley growled and began to bite his way down Aziraphale’s flushed chest.

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley glared down at him in disbelief before licking his own hand, getting it good and wet and then wrapping it around Aziraphale’s stiff erection. He could have easily miracled some slick, but Crowley was making a point.

“None of your romantic shit this time,” Crowley warned.

“By all means,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley pumped Aziraphale’s cock once before lining himself up and sinking down on it, taking him all the way in with one smooth slide. He gave an experimental circle of his hips and watched Aziraphale’s tongue peak out and lick his bottom lip.

Aziraphale took hold of Crowley’s hips as Crowley began to move in earnest. He shifted until he found the perfect angle, and his own cock awakened again under the onslaught of sensations, the refractory time for demons being non-existent.

“Ohh my,” Aziraphale breathed, and his lovesick expression made Crowley groan.

“Damn you,” he cursed, bending down to kiss the look off of him.

Aziraphale returned the kiss with equal fervour and took hold of Crowley’s renewed erection, pumping to match the desperate rhythm that Crowley had set. Soon enough, Aziraphale’s hand tightened on his hip, and he bent a leg for better leverage, thrusting in counterpoint to Crowley.

It only took one particularly devilish slide down from Crowley, and Aziraphale came, gasping, his eyes squeezed shut.

Crowley tucked his face into Aziraphale’s neck, enjoying the feeling of fullness, of being surrounded by Aziraphale.

His hard cock was trapped between their bodies in Aziraphale’s lax grip. It was throbbing, but Crowley would have happily stayed like that forever. After a moment, Aziraphale’s hand started to move again.

“Mm…” Crowley hummed happily as Aziraphale kissed the top of his head and continued to stroke him, helped along by the hitch and roll of Crowley’s hips.

Crowley’s first orgasm had slammed into him, but the second one built, slowly but inexorably, until it spilled onto his stomach and Aziraphale’s hand.

A snap of his fingers cleaned them up and then Aziraphale’s hand was in his hair, the other rubbing his back as Crowley nuzzled behind his ear.

“Yes, how very unromantic that was,” Aziraphale said in a droll deadpan.

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley replied.