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Ecstasy and Exorcism

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Sleeping had always been one of Crowley’s favorite indulgences. He wasn’t sure if it was the philosophically enigmatic, trifold separation of the subconscious entity from the conscious entity from the physical entity that so enraptured him, or perhaps it was merely the thought of lying still for as many minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, or centuries as he wanted, undisturbed while the world's noise and discord carried on without him. He certainly didn’t need sleep, not like humans need it.

Then again, demons didn’t really need much of anything.

Now that the Big One (that was not so big at all) was over, or averted, at least, Crowley wasn’t even sure if he still, technically, was a demon. He probably was, considering he still had all of his hellishly-gotten powers and senses, but the lot downstairs had allowed him to fuck off on his own for quite a bit now, hadn’t they? Did it matter? He didn’t spare it a thought, for the most part.

Nor did Aziraphale, more importantly.

Apocalypse or no, demon or otherwise, Crowley still deeply enjoyed his bouts of rest. They never tended to last very long, not more than a day or two, considering he couldn’t bear to be apart from Aziraphale for much longer than that. Not now that they were finally together without any grumbling or obstacles from either side. Who knew how much time they had, at least like this? Best to savor every moment of what Crowley was certain to be borrowed time.

But, they both had to allot time for each other’s earthly indulgences (“hobbies,” Aziraphale kept saying), especially the ones that did not overlap. For instance, Crowley could read for ages, but not as long as Aziraphale. The angel could consume entire Dewey Decimal classifications in one sitting, for fuck’s sake. Crowley would leave him to it for as long as he pleased, preferring to putter about the house with a watering can, make tea, or compel his favorite contemporary rock bands to make tour stops at the local dive.

Conversely, Aziraphale would frequently join Crowley for a bit of a lie-down, but he didn’t tend to make it beyond a few hours, really, so he, too, would leave Crowley to it. Sometimes, Crowley would truly disengage himself completely from the world (“lights out,” as they say). Other times, he would keep a fire burning in the back of his mind, the subconscious, and leave it, hoping to dream organically.

Today, he chose the latter. Crowley had been out for what he presumed to be 9 hours or so, peacefully drifting in darkness, enjoying the nothingness of sleep, when a dream began to take shape. It wasn’t visual as much as it was entirely sensory: a palpable presence, warm weight at his back. The smell of vanilla cream and mahogany and old books, deeply comforting, devoid of the loathed night terror’s trademark fear. Crowley sighed in contentment. Aziraphale. For as utterly horrifying as his subconscious could be, it could be just as lovely.

Uncalloused fingertips ghosted up Crowley’s arms, brushing against the thin skin of his neck before carding through his thick hair. Crowley had a vague awareness of the softness of the pillowcase beneath his head as gentle hands soothed down his back, rubbing sweet circles into the dimples at the base of his spine. Then, they slipped lower, lightly squeezing handfuls of Crowley’s bum. He shifted his weight and bit his lip. Cheeky bastard.

Oh, darling. A barely-there whisper hung somewhere in the space above him.

Yes. Oh, this was shaping up to be delightful. Crowley pushed his rear back into familiar hands and relished in the arousal that he could feel pouring off of his angel, who he couldn’t stand to be parted from even in sleep, to the extent that his own mind had conjured him in a dream.

Aziraphale’s hands yanked him up onto his knees by the hips and pushed his thighs apart. Crowley’s breath caught in his throat.

At the exquisite, wet, warmth of a talented tongue lapping against him, Crowley turned his face into the pillow and let out a deep, shuddering moan.

Aziraphale’s echoing vocalisation of pleasure rumbled through Crowley’s body, and he found himself making a very real effort that he was certain he would find translated, aching and hard, to his physical form when he awakened. Fascinating, all this mind-body stuff.

Or it would be, if dream-Aziraphale weren’t voraciously licking into Crowley’s arsehole like it was the last remnants of the most divine tiramisu in the universe.

Angel. Crowley didn’t know if his voice was working, or if it mattered, as his fingers twisted in the bedsheets, overwhelmed at the powerful onslaught of sensation, far beyond what he had imagined possible for his subconscious to produce. This seemed to spur Aziraphale on, hands spreading him wider, tongue wriggling deeper, spit-slick lips brushing against sensitive flesh as he used his entire mouth to pleasure Crowley, so hot and wet and good and almost real. He carried on until Crowley was drooling into the pillow, pressing back against his angel’s beautiful face, heart racing, cock dripping onto the linens as though he were about to come in his sleep.

Nocturnal emissions, that’s what They call it, he thought deliriously as Aziraphale circled his rim with his tongue before pressing a wonderful, slick finger into him. Only the tip at first, but that was enough to make Crowley arch his back and cry out.


Oh, that’s it, just look at you, my dear, so perfect. A dry, warm hand closed around Crowley’s aching prick as the finger slipped deep enough to hit that glorious fucking spot, causing a great spasm to quake through his entire being. He pushed back slowly against Aziraphale, then rocked forward, fucking into his loose fist, slicking it with his desire.

The gorgeous pressure of a second finger sliding deep inside his body had Crowley shaking incessantly, moaning shamelessly, torn (as he always was) between wanting this to continue for as close to eternity as they both could stand, and wanting Aziraphale to finally, finally fuck him. It’s not like he needed all this fussing about, this preparation, but, oh, how he loved it—a fact that his subconscious was, of course, privy to, and now exploiting in the most delicious way.

So perfect, so wonderful, my darling. Aziraphale’s whisper was reverent, far off, as though he were musing to himself. He pulled away, then, leaving Crowley vibrating with the acute sensation of longing, bereft at his emptiness, at aches left unattended.

Not for long, luckily. A hot wave of anticipation thrummed through Crowley as his angel rubbed his prick against him, just as hard as Crowley’s was (if not moreso), teasing, not quite pressing in...just as maddening in Crowley’s dreams as he could be in reality.

Angel, please, get on with it!

A faint chuckle reverberated around him, through him, then Crowley was gasping and clutching at the sheets as he was stretched gloriously wide, his body making room for Aziraphale.

Oh, darling, came a strained murmur when Aziraphale was fully seated, soft hands stroking reverently over Crowley’s bum and low back. Crowley bit his lip and pressed his hips back, movements thick and slow as the pleasure-pain radiated throughout his body, somehow both earthly and perversely divine, as it always was when they joined in this way.

Time, little more than the construct it was, slowed to a suspension that is only present in dreams as Crowley laid his chest against the sheets, arse-up, biting his lip and groaning as he let Aziraphale fuck him slow and deep, the desperation of their foreplay fading into a sweet, languid push and pull. When they fucked in real life, Aziraphale loved to watch Crowley’s arousal build as much as he loved to watch himself finally wrest orgasm after orgasm from his body, and Crowley loved to see who would break first.

It was no different now, in this hazy, underwater state of subconsciousness.

Heat coiled in Crowley’s belly, the sticky stuff leaking steadily from his cock commingling with the perspiration on his inner thighs. It was so much, it was not enough, it was perfect. Aziraphale’s fingernails dug into the meat of Crowley’s hips, and if he weren’t so gone, Crowley would have smirked—his angel was caving.

Oh, my darling, oh, fucking hell, whispered Aziraphale, thrusting erratically.

Yes, that’ssss it, oh, fuck, right there— A spike of pleasure hit Crowley like an atom bomb, bone-deep and all-consuming, and then another—fuck, could he discorporate from a dream alone?

I can feel how close you are, that’s wonderful, I want you to come—oh, fuck, yes!—that’s it, I know you can come for me.

Crowley let out an inhuman noise as Aziraphale’s hand found his prick, dripping with the effort of staving off what promised to be an earth-shattering orgasm.

So wet, so hard. The hand disappeared, giving way to the sound of wet lips parting, saliva, a hum of approval. Of Aziraphale savoring Crowley’s taste. So delicious.

Crowley whimpered and his cock drooled at his angel’s depravity; he was close, so close. Aziraphale leaned forward, his little belly rubbing sweetly against Crowley’s back, their sweat sliding together in the most visceral dream connexion yet. That’s it, sweetheart, I know you want to come untouched for me.

And, as if on cue, Crowley’s synapses caught up with his body. He spiraled quickly into oblivion, heat rushing between his thighs as his angel thrust into him, hitting that spot, whispering filthy encouragement, until finally, finally, everything stopped for the barest of moments, a half-heartbeat--


Crowley wailed his angel’s name as he came in deep, shuddering waves, a violent force of compounded lust, an ecstatic release--

His eyes shot open, mouth slack, awakened as though he’d been exorcised from slumber by pleasure. Panting hotly, he slowly became aware of the drool-sodden pillow against his face, the dying afternoon sunlight filtering through the window and warming his forearm, and the very real angel who was decidedly not a figment of Crowley’s most explicit imagination.

Crowley looked over his shoulder with bleary eyes, arching his back and biting his lip at the sight of Aziraphale, flushed red with his effort, sweating profusely, lips parted, gasping and moaning as he roughly pulled Crowley back onto his cock.

“That’s it, darling, yessss, come on, then,” cooed Crowley. Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open, widening in surprise as he met Crowley’s gaze. In that moment, he groaned, thrust deep, and released copiously, so lovely and wet and warm.

After several moments of panting, Aziraphale gently pat Crowley’s arse and pulled out, bending to plant a kiss on his lower back before flopping ungracefully beside him.

Crowley stared at him, eyebrow raised, smirking.

“I suppose I ought to apologize,” said Aziraphale after a moment, without meeting Crowley’s eyes.

“Well, yes, I should—er, come again?”

“I...I’m sorry.” The charming blush of Aziraphale’s arousal deepened into embarrassment. “The thing is, love, I was so overcome by your beauty while you were sleeping that I couldn’t help but make an effort, and, well, I didn’t want to wake you, so I—“

“Just got on with it without me?” Crowley grinned, resting a hand on Aziraphale’s belly.

Aziraphale looked away. “I’m terribly sorry, my darling, it appears as though I was utterly incapable of controlling myself. I should have woken you, or waited for you to wake so I could have gotten your consent—“

Crowley covered Aziraphale’s mouth with his hand. “Come, now. No need for any of that, angel.” Curious bright blue eyes met his, and he could have just melted into the sheets. “You know I’m always up for a romp with you. Don’t you?”

Pale eyebrows were furrowed, and Crowley sensed the next overly thoughtful, needlessly concerned question before Aziraphale even had the wherewithal to form it. “If you were somehow unaware of that fact before this moment, know that it’s true. And before you say anything else, I rather enjoy it when you lose control. An angel so overwhelmed by his carnal urges for a demon? It’s all very ssssssalacious and sssssexy, isn’t it?”

When Aziraphale breathed a chuckle against his palm, Crowley removed his hand. “And frankly, darling, I’m quite flattered.”

At that, a wide, relieved grin broke across Aziraphale’s face. “Oh, thank goodness. I was so worried you’d be angry with me, and when I saw that you were awake I—”

“Nah.” Crowley rolled on top of him, straddling a thick thigh and pressing their stomachs together. “Why don’t we say that you’ve got my undying, unwavering, unyielding consent, hmm? For literally anything you want to do with me or to me, forever and ever, until...well, I think 'forever and ever' ought to pretty much cover it.”

There was that lovely blush again, yet another thing over which Aziraphale had complete control, yet chose not to—or forgot to—exercise it. “Well, I suppose that’s fair, although you must know that I would never want to force you, and you could always tell me no, and this truly doesn’t have to occur again if it wasn’t to your satisfa—ah!”

Crowley silenced him with a deep kiss. God, Satan, whoever, this angel of his! He pulled away and waggled his eyebrows. “Oh, it was very much to my satisssssfaction, as you can see. Or, rather, you can--” he picked up Aziraphale’s hand and plopped it in the wet spot with a devilish grin “--feel. And I do hope you’ll be overcome with your unbridled lust for my resting form again sometime ssssoon, angel mine. Perhaps during my nap tomorrow afternoon?”