Surprisingly busy in Aziraphale’s bookshop, given that it’s Friday and close to tea time. Bell jingles and Crowley enters . . . Makes An Entrance might be more accurate. All heads turn, and several books drop to the floor. A wave of temptation and desire roils through the room as if someone has uncorked a bottle of a particularly lascivious perfume. Were Anathema here to employ AuraVision, she’d see a storm of flaring shades of purple. Crowley’s hair is now a russet mane flowing to his shoulders. The angel Raphael would have immediately started looking for a new stylist had she been there to see it. Black shearling and cashmere overcoat so haut it could sail into the stratosphere all on its own power. Black silk scarf in Escher’s snakes pattern, tied in a Parisian knot. Tailored Italian black striped slacks perfectly meet tasseled snakeskin pumps. Maroon silk socks. Black gloves worthy of a serial killer. Carrying his cobra-headed walking stick from the 1800s. Oscar Wilde joins the Mafia. But it works.
Crowley? Oh good Lord . . .
Aziraphale gets control of himself and approaches.
There’s a bottle of chenin blanc on the table in the back room. I just got it today. Perfect for an autumn evening. You’re welcome to go back and open it. If you’d like.
Sounds just “tickety-boo,” Angel. See you there shortly?
Crowley unbuttons his overcoat as he saunters toward the back room in a manner that would have had a top catwalk model chewing the carpet. All eyes follow him as if attached by latex strings. A tall black woman and her shorter sandy-haired companion regard one another speculatively after this vision has gone into the back room and out of sight. They link arms as they leave the shop, possibly to plan a weekend of apparel shopping.
I’m very sorry, everyone. I must close now.
Aziraphale starts shooing reluctant customers toward the door. A portly gray-haired Minister claps Aziraphale on the shoulder as he passes and murmurs,
You’d be a fool not to, my lad.
After making a quick search to be sure no one is hiding somewhere in the stacks, Aziraphale locks the doors, flips the sign to “Closed,” and pulls the shades. Hustles into the back room . . .
Crowley is sprawled atop a dainty Victorian horsehair settee as if it were a park bench, glass of wine in hand. Overcoat is tossed to the side, revealing Crowley wearing a charcoal v-neck pullover (probably from an Italian designer and knit from some sinfully rare and fine fleece) that softly hugs his body before dropping in a gentle fold just short of his favorite belt, the one with the carved black jade snakehead. A touch of color from a maroon silk undershirt. Still wearing the Valentino glasses that he likes so much, but now also sporting a large oval onyx signet ring engraved with his serpent sigil, and a black Patek Philippe chronograph, with a special dial for that one place where the time is always Too Late.
Decided it was time for a new look. Thought I’d try something more Oscar Wilde-ish this time around. (Takes off his glasses and gestures with them toward Aziraphale’s collection of Wilde first editions on a nearby shelf.) Do you like it?
Aziraphale says nothing, but walks over and drops to his knees between Crowley’s legs. Encircles an arm around Crowley’s hip and lays his head on Crowley’s thigh. Crowley drops his glasses to the carpet and runs his hand through Aziraphale’s fluffy lambswool hair.
I take it that’s a “Yes?”
Aziraphale doesn’t answer. Instead, he flicks his fingers and his and Crowley’s apparel now appear on the other side of the room, neatly arranged upon two furniture valets. Gives the tip of Crowley’s cock a large icy kiss.
Crowley’s back arches and his body goes rigid. His hand clenches Aziraphale’s curls. The wine glass falls to the carpet. Crowley & Aziraphale had discovered that angels don’t wait around for orgasm, but get right to it if they feel one coming down the track. And they can keep it up for hours. And without any unpleasant secretions or messy stains. Aziraphale continues trying out various entertaining tricks with his lips and tongue to keep Crowley aloft, idly moving his hand up and down to caress Crowley’s thigh and flank. That hot skin feels so good. It’s going to be a long night of Divine Ecstasy.
Chapter 2: Snake Hips
Crowley and Aziraphale are sitting on his lounge, watching a documentary on his flat screen about the history of jazz dance. They had a nice light dinner at the one of Mayfair latest interesting restaurants, and are now working their way through a sumptuous vintage port. Show ends. Crowley clicks the remote.
Absolutely incredible, the things humans get up to, eh, Crowley?
Age does not wither, nor custom stale, their infinite variety.
You came up with that nifty when we were at the Globe, helping out Shakespeare with his Hamlet, didn’t you?
Shakespeare liked it so much he used it in Cleopatra.
Let’s hear it, Aziraphale. What’s a “nifty.”
Just a bit of slang from (Thinks a moment) . . . early 20th century. Means quick-witted. Stylish. A bon mot. It’s a compliment, Crowley, so don’t get shirty.
Crowley leans over, puts an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, gives him a hot peck on the cheek.
Don’t mind me. You can spank me later, if you like.
Really my dear.
Crowley leans back and has another sip of port.
They don’t dance much in Heaven, do they.
Not at all.
Hell really got into disco. Gruesome. They were all churning about like maniacs on the floor for a couple of decades. Seemed as if I had to dance, or else, every time I checked in. Not as bad as having to sit through The Sound of Music, but damned close.
They sip their way through their port. Crowley’s face gradually takes on the expression of a boa constrictor eyeing a plump little monkey. He gulps his last bit of port and magics his glass onto the table. Gets up and kneels astraddle Aziraphale, balancing his backside on Aziraphale’s always closed thighs.
Crowley . . .
Crowley speaks while he’s undoing Aziraphale’s belt and fly. Aziraphale, surprised but willing, leans his back into the lounge. Looks at the port in his hand and magics it onto the table.
Remember the bit about Snakehips Johnson in the show we just watched? Saw him many times, you know. At the Café De Paris.
Saw his show once myself. An amazingly lithe performer, although I was never into bebop.
Crowley, a man on a mission, gets control of himself before he says anything about “bebop.” Reaches into Aziraphale’s boxers and extracts the angel’s penis. Gives it a light little caress.
Crowley, I could simply undress.
We’ll get to that soon enough.
Crowley has undone his snakehead buckle and unzipped his own fly. Aziraphale’s erection is almost there . . . Crowley gives it a bit more massage with his wonderfully heated hand and fingers.
Check this out, Angel.
Crowley withdraws his own penis and tilts it toward Aziraphale’s. As if it has a life of its own, his erection coils and snakes around Aziraphales in a gentle spiral. So muscular. So supple. And toasty as a heated stone.
Oh dear lord . . .
Aziraphale only has a moment to laugh before he catapults himself forward, grabbing Crowley around the shoulders and pulling him atop himself as they fall over on the lounge.
Then their clothing vanishes.
Divine Ecstasy ensues.
Chapter 3: Sunday Roast Beef with Divine Ecstasy Gravy
A hat tip to P.G. Wodehouse in this one.
Crowley and Aziraphale sitting across from one another in a cozy booth, enjoying a traditional Sunday dinner at an exclusive little club that still knows how to do it right: prime roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, and about a gallon of gravy. Fresh yeast rolls and butter. Crowley has drenched the obligatory vegetable with enough gravy to make it unrecognizable in order to get it down. Aziraphale is trying not to gaze in astonishment as Crowley, normally a picky eater and more of a drinker, shovels in the food like an old-time stevedore loading a grain ship. Aziraphale, who prefers Continental food, has enjoyed most of his dinner but has left large portions untouched. He puts down his cutlery, wipes his lips with his napkin, and leans back against the seat. Drinks the last of his claret. Crowley wipes up a final bit of gravy with his last piece of roll, making his plate look spotless as if mopped by a St. Bernard’s tongue.
Aziraphale, if you’re finished, mind if we swap plates?
Really, my dear. Manners! Still, sinful to waste food. And I suppose I should avoid sin.
Crowley gives him snake eyes.
Shut it, Angel.
Aziraphale is undaunted, but switches the plates.
Well. I apologize if I seemed critical, Crowley. Didn’t mean to be. I’ve just never seen you enjoy your food so much before. Liquor, yes. Food, no.
Crowley silently finishes wolfing the remainder of Aziraphale’s dinner, takes a large swig of scotch. Smirks.
A growing lad needs sustenance, Angel
While watching this unprecedented spectacle, Aziraphale has been thinking. Fingers his waistcoat buttons, noticing that his clothing feels a bit loose. Ears begin a slow burn as he recollects Gabriel’s stomach punch that was a trifle too hard to be entirely playful, and his Inspirational Management Directive: “Lose the gut, Aziraphale.”
Crowley, you’re no more a growing lad than I’m an aardvark. And we don’t really need food. But you’ve just eaten as if you were a starving python setting upon a wild pig.
Well, I have always rather liked Sunday dinner. And it’s a good excuse for a bucket of porter and scotch.
Yes. There is that, I suppose. But. Have you been feeling more . . . energetic lately?
Have I! Attach electrodes to my nipples, I could power all of London. Plus some suburbs.
Crowley gives Aziraphale a searching up-and-down look.
Aziraphale. Damned if you aren’t looking a bit more buff. What’s up? Joined the humans at a gym or something?
Why in Heaven would I do something as undignified as that? The very thought! Really, Crowley.
Crowley suddenly has an Aha! moment. Gulps down the last of his scotch, leans back against his booth seat back and contemplates Aziraphale.
You don’t suppose our little bouts of Divine Ecstasy are having . . . some sort of effect?
Divine Ecstasy . . . Aziraphale’s expression morphs into a naked gaze of almost painful longing. He swallows, hard. It has been a couple of days . . .
Crowley leans forward.
Kiss me, Angel.
They lean across the tabletop and their lips meet briefly. Glacier ice and hot rocks. Aziraphale gasps and pulls back. Crowley snakes out an arm and grabs Aziraphale’s shirt front, pulls him forward. Plants his open lips against Aziraphale’s and slithers his tongue between them. Aziraphale jerks back as if given an electric shock.
Unghhhh! Crowley. We need to go. Now.
Crowley releases his grasp and Aziraphale gets up and exits the booth. Steadies himself with a hand on the table top. Crowley slides out of his seat and sidles around Aziraphale. Puts his arm around Aziraphale’s waist. Aziraphale holds onto the arm, and grasps Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley gently steers him towards the exit as a loving husband might support his inebriated wife.
The club is popular and comparatively crowded. Not all heads resist the vulgar urge to turn and watch the couple, a significant number of diners finding Crowley positively riveting. A wave of longing and envy ripples through the room, to the annoyance of partners of various sexes. Crowley smiles snakily. Old Temptation habits die hard. Gives his ultraviolet aura one more flare as they approach the portal to the entry hallway.
Two waiters standing side by side have been watching this little performance. One elbows the other.
Flaming. Positively flaming.
The tall ginger looks like something out of that Oscar Wilde movie, dun’ee.
They look at one another.
Maybe we should try a getup like that. You’ve got the build for it. Could be fun.
Crowley and Aziraphale only make it as far as the back seat of the Bentley.
Chapter 4: A Restful Interlude
Crowley and Aziraphale are sitting sprawled on the carpet in the back room of the bookstore, supported by two giant pillows propped against the armchair. Crowley is curled alongside Aziraphale, his mop of russet hair on the angel’s shoulder, an arm across the angel’s chest. He is thinking how soothing he finds the angel’s glacially cold body, and his cool, gentle hands. Aziraphale for his part is relaxing in the warmth radiating from the demon, thinking how beautiful he finds those golden amber eyes . . .
Crowley glides himself atop Aziraphale with his backside between the angel’s outstretched legs. Crowley isn’t aware of it – he is what he is, and doesn’t think about his appearance - but an observer might note with interest that Crowley’s butt is firm and taut as a green peach. Although not fuzzy. He makes himself comfortable against Aziraphale’s chest, leans his head back against the angel’s shoulder, and reaches his arms up, running his fingers through the angel’s frizzy lambskin hair.
Tickle me, Aziraphale.
The pair had discovered on a previous occasion that Crowley’s nipples were even more sensitive than Aziraphale’s. (”Perhaps that’s why I always rather enjoyed crawling around on my stomach?”) The angel strokes Crowley along his belly and flanks and begins to softly massage and tweak his pectorals and nipples. Crowley sighs with pleasure and lets his arms go limp. He arches his back and presses his muscular buttocks against Aziraphale’s crotch, doing a lazy serpentine wiggle against the angel’s rapidly firming cock.
[Nope, not going there. Celestial bodies lack certain lower orifices and functions. No need for them if you don’t have to eat or reproduce. Sorry, humans.]
Aziraphale continues his gentle massage until Crowley’s nipples are like steel ball bearings, then slides one hand downward and grasps the demon’s not-so-little serpent. It gives a supple writhe as the angel’s thumb gently brushes over its tip.
Unnnnhuhhhhhh. . . Crowley succumbs to Divine Ecstasy. Aziraphale, eyes half closed, thinks how happy he is to be able to pleasure his beautiful demon. He’s loved him for so, so long. He rests his head back against the pillow as if asleep, eyes closed and mouth softly open, continuing to stroke and caress Crowley until he, too, is overcome by a wave of Divine Ecstasy. The pair rests in bliss for hours, unmoving as a statue.
Chapter 5: Samurai Lamb
Bedroom in Crowley’s Mayfair flat
It’s been a year since The Almighty replaced Aziraphale’s flaming sword with a blue-flaming katana. Aziraphale is attiring himself for an online video kendo practice session before the large flat screen in the lounge. A large mirror on rollers is nearby, to be positioned adjacent to the screen to compare and correct stances and movements.
Crowley was not at all surprised when the angel became a member of a dojo and started katana training. When something caught his fancy he pursued it doggedly despite all odds. Maskelyne’s magic classes. Riding velocipedes. And that club where the “young gentlemen” met to entertain themselves by learning the gavotte . . . and some other things. Aziraphale was thrilled with his sword, and wanted to know how to use it.
Crowley had been trying for a good while to encourage Aziraphale to get up to speed on the internet, with limited success, until the angel had discovered YouTube and a dojo that offered virtual kendo instruction as well as in person practice sessions. Aziraphale had since become quite keen on computing – could have become a veritable hacker had he any craving for exploits, which of course he didn’t. A miracle, that conversion, really and truly. No other word for it. Crowley wondered if it had something to do with being a keen reader, but whatever it was that enabled Aziraphale’s computer skills, Crowley was no longer anxious about the angel’s online presence and trusted him to set up his little online video training sessions without incident.
Aziraphale is in his boxers, about to don his tailored and completely traditional (he has standards, after all) hakama and kendogi. It generally takes him nearly half an hour, as he is meticulous that all the various knots and belts be correctly and neatly tied and the garments perfectly adjusted, even if this session is only going to be a couple of hours by himself, watching videos and practicing basics before the flat screen. He could simply magic the garments on, of course, but that seems unsporting, and so he only uses magic for a few quick touch-ups as needed. He removes his boxers and reaches for the white cotton juban just as Crowley strolls in from the kitchen with a cognac-laced cappuccino (the espresso machine is the sole kitchen appliance that sees regular use, if by “use” one means putting a cup beneath it expectantly and having it produce excellent coffee sans beans, water, cream, or cleanup).
Whoa. Angel. You don’t wear underwear beneath your costume?
Hang on. Take that piece off again. Have you taken a good look at yourself lately?
Well, no. I’m always just me. (Thinks a moment and pats himself.) A bit less soft about the middle these days, perhaps.
A tiny smirk appears on Aziraphale’s face despite himself. Archangel Gabriel’s directive, “Lose the gut, Aziraphale,” no longer smarts every time he recalls it.
Crowley puts down his coffee and steers Aziraphale before the mirror.
Look at that, Angel. You actually have some shoulder definition. And nice pecs.
Crowley isn’t wearing his jacket, just that sinfully soft Italian pullover and his elegant slacks. Slithers up and hugs Aziraphale from behind. Runs his hands through the angel’s chest and belly fuzz. Nuzzles that fluffy lambskin hair, nibbles the nape of his neck.
Crowley, that stone buckle of yours is cold as ice.
Crowley magics his belt onto the floor nearby. Continues caressing and nuzzling Aziraphale.
How about a quickie?
Aziraphale looks anxious for a microsecond. Kendo or Crowley? . . .
Well, Crowley, of course. What a stupid question. He reaches one arm back and grabs a handful of Crowley’s russet mane, holds Crowley’s wrist with his other hand, achieving a somewhat plumper and less ripped version of Michelangelo’s Dying Slave.
Crowley’s delightfully warm hand brushes over the angel’s penis like a wisp of velvet. Aziraphale feels the demon’s not-so-little serpent harden against his backside.
Crowley dislikes mirrors, and darkens it. Sex isn’t some fucking movie, for Satan’s sake. He wants to enjoy the feel and smell and taste of Aziraphale, not watch him. He’s been watching him for 6,000 years.
Recollecting that long, long multi-millennia wait, Crowley pulls Aziraphale around and kisses him passionately, open mouth over Aziraphale’s, exploring the angel’s cool ice cream lips with his weirdly mobile tongue. Then more hot, almost burning (literally) kisses over Aziraphale’s neck and shoulders . . . chest . . . nipples (Aziraphale jerks a bit at those and arches his back) . . . flanks . . . belly . . . loins . . The demon’s hands are like heated stones as they grasp and stroke the angel’s back and waist as he slowly sinks to his knees before the angel. Clutching Aziraphale’s backside with a grip like hot talons, he closes his mouth over the angel’s penis, tongue flicking, licking, taut lips massaging . . .
Aziraphale is oozing rapidly into jelly. How he loves it when Crowley touches him. He sinks slowly into a collapse onto his back on the floor, arms outstretched. Fortunately he’d insisted Crowley install a nice, thick, black-and-gold Tabriz.
Crowley raises a hand and snaps his fingers. His clothing disappears into a heap on the floor. He pushes himself up and slides his body against Aziraphale’s chest as his warm and supple not-so-little serpent coils itself around Aziraphale’s now rigid cock. Aziraphale’s arms fold around him in a tight embrace. The pair simultaneously gasp and stiffen, going rigid in Divine Ecstasy.
Which turns out not to be a quickie after all.
Chapter 6: Wings, part 1
Wings 1 and 2 explore two lovemaking styles, demon vs angel. I wish I could draw instead of just sketch. . .
Crowley is in his Oscar Wilde, Mafioso mode, slouched in a small armchair as he waits for Aziraphale to emerge in his new tailored clothes. Aziraphale comes out of the dressing room, handsome in light blue and gold. Blue Shetland tweed overcoat of a unique but perfect cut and fit; flawless cream trousers, just the right length; Fair Isle sleeveless v-neck jumper; soft pale gold bespoke dress shirt, worn open neck. The staff had talked Aziraphale out of a plaid shirt with the jumper, coordinating that for him with a new doeskin velvet waistcoat instead. He is, however, wearing plaid socks.
Do you like this? I thought a more casual look would be appropriate for Tadfield. There’s also a nice suit, but saving that for London.
Crowley has been giving Aziraphale the up-and-down, and does so again.
Beautiful, Angel. Perfect.
He rises from his chair, walks over to Aziraphale, slips his hand inside the jacket and around the angel’s waist, and gives him a firm kiss.
The designer and tailor have been down this road before, and are much too courteous and urbane to give one another side eye. Instead, Aziraphale’s innocent pleasure is so radiant they’re congratulating themselves on a job very well done.
Still focused solely upon Aziraphale, Crowley purrs,
I think we should drive back to London today. We can make it by early evening.
Crowley’s Mayfair flat
Crowley and Aziraphale enter, put down various bags and packages, and kick off their shoes. Instead of heading for the lounge and the scotch decanter, Crowley puts an arm around Aziraphale’s waist and escorts him to the bedroom. Once inside, Crowley magics his black cashmere and shearling overcoat into the closet, but stops Aziraphale from removing his.
Hang on. Let me undress you.
A snap of the fingers, and Crowley’s clothes are replaced by his silk dressing gown. It’s cut from the rest of the bolt of black silk jacquard with the Escher snake pattern that he selected for his neck scarf, lined with a Thai silk in crimson weft and black warp that presents interesting shadows as it drapes and folds. He escorts Aziraphale over to the foot of the bed.
Slips his hands onto Aziraphale’s shoulders and shrugs off his overcoat, which magically appears neatly hung in the closet. Slips the sweater vest over the angel’s head, sends it off to the valet with a wave of his hand. Unbuckles Aziraphale’s trousers and lets them slide down around his ankles before likewise sending them, socks, and undergarments off to neatly join the sweater. Aziraphale is now clad only in his dress shirt. Crowley sends the cufflinks clattering, unbuttons the shirt from the bottom up, then slips it down across the angel’s shoulders but not off, pushing the angel’s arms behind him as if he’s tied up. St. Sebastian in a bespoke shirt instead of a loincloth.
Aziraphale flares his snowy wings, folding them into an “X” behind his shoulders and hips as he floats onto his back above the bed, still keeping his arms behind him, erection stiff as a pole.
Crowley slips out of his dressing gown, sends it softly sliding it over Aziraphale’s torso on its way to the floor. His raven wings open as he levitates himself atop Aziraphale, talon-like hands clutching the angel’s buttocks as he pulls their hips together, his serpentine penis spiraling around the angel’s. He glides his body against the angel’s and encircles an arm around the angel’s back between his wings, hugging him tightly. Delivers an open-mouthed kiss against Aziraphale’s neck, like the vampire demon lover of myth sucking at the carotid, russet hair spilling across the angel’s shoulder like a spray of blood.
Aziraphale’s arms fall limp, the shirt drops away through his wings, his back arches, and he’s now Bernini’s St. Theresa as Divine Ecstasy consumes the pair. Crowley’s wings lazily keep them aloft. For hours.
The two are lying side by side on the bed, holding hands, heads turned as they smile at one another.
That was fun.
Aziraphale contemplates Crowley as if studying him for a portrait.
You have such beautiful eyes, Crowley. Why do you insist upon wearing those dark glasses?
My eyes scare humans, Aziraphale. I have a hypothesis that it has something to do with primates and large predatory snakes evolving together in the treetops. At any rate, my snake eyes seem to make some part of the human brain really uneasy. Monkeys, too. Sometimes when I was feeling a need for a cheap thrill I’d go to the zoo and scare the liver out of the little bastards.
Humans don’t like spiders much, either, do they. Likely the same reason, do you suppose?
Or scorpions. Or centi- . . . cen-
And here things go sideways at warp speed. Crowley stiffens, his eyes go unfocused and unseeing, breathing accelerates to short pants as if he cannot catch his breath, agony creeps over his face.
Crowley! What’s wrong!
Crowley doesn’t hear the angel. He’s having a flashback to one of the little disciplinary sessions Hastur and Ligur subjected him to. The one when they had brought the pair of centipede demons that were taller than Crowley. Crowley had struggled and writhed and morphed into snake, back to human, snake, human . . . but nothing could get him out of the grip of those wriggling razor chitinous legs and venomous fangs. He had screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed . . .
(to be continued)
Chapter 7: Wings, part 2
Aziraphale is shaking him. He caresses Crowley’s face, chest, and shoulders with hands as soft as cold compresses, then clutches him to his chest and holds him as tightly as he can.
Don’t breathe, Crowley. Stop breathing. Stop breathing.
Crowley’s panting subsides into ragged gasps as he struggles to control himself. Finally his panic ceases.
God damn it!
Radiating rage and humiliation like a furnace, Crowley wrenches himself free of Aziraphale’s arms and turns away. Celestial bodies can’t shed tears, but they can cry, and Aziraphale breaks down. Crowley hears the angel’s sob, and turns back to him in alarm. His anger evaporates into shame that he’s wounded Aziraphale. He hugs the angel to his chest as one would comfort a child, arms around the angel’s head and shoulders.
Aziraphale! Forgive me. Please. Please. Don’t cry. Don’t breathe.
Aziraphale’s shoulders stop shaking as he stops breathing. He’s about to say, “No need for forgiveness, I love you, Crowley” . . . but pauses and considers that that’s not what the demon needs – wants - to hear.
I forgive you.
Then he has an inspiration. Gently pushing himself away from Crowley, he raises himself on an elbow, reaches out and caresses Crowley’s face with a featherlike touch . . . over his forehead, down his cheek . . . and then pulls Crowley’s head towards him and plants a soft kiss on the demon’s forehead. Breathes a puff of air into his face.
Think about whatever it is you like best.
Stress drains from Crowley as water from a sieve, and his face relaxes into a smile.
It worked! Well, I’ll be damned!
Well I’m blessed. (Oh, the irony.)
They gaze lovingly at one another.
You know, Aziraphale, that deep down inside, you really are one crafty bastard.
Aziraphale’s smile is as broad as a barn. Crowley muses a moment.
Do you know what I like best?
Crowley, you really don’t need to te- . . .
Having sex with you.
Crowley shifts away a bit and spread eagles himself.
Do me, Aziraphale.
The angel shifts himself down the bed and kneels between Crowley’s legs. Flaring his wings to give him a bit of lift as he proceeds, he moves his hands upward along the inside of the demon’s thighs, across loins and flanks, caressing Crowley’s nipples until they’re just as erect as their mutual cocks. Now floating nearly prone atop Crowley, he shifts his hips until he feels Crowley’s supple penis spiral around his. Moves a bit from side to side to let his chest fuzz tickle Crowley. Pushes his cool hands outward along the demon’s shoulders and outstretched arms. They interlock their fingers. Aziraphale has just enough time to place a passionate kiss upon Crowley’s already open mouth before Divine Ecstasy consumes them. An observer might think them frozen in time, but the angel’s snowy wings continue to move as imperceptibly as a clock’s hands, keeping him lightly afloat above his demon lover for the remaining hours of the night and well past dawn.
Chapter 8: Boy Toy
The bookshop’s back room. Crowley and Aziraphale are sitting side by side, on the restored Persian carpet (now as plush and thick as it was when new, thank you, Antichrist Adam) propped up by big pillows against the base of Aziraphale’s armchair. Crowley isn't wearing a stitch, Aziraphale is in his ratty old cut velvet dressing gown. The decanter of scotch is within reach on the floor, and they each have a cut crystal glassful in hand. Their free hands are resting upon each other’s thigh.
Crowley, have you ever considered what Divine Ecstasy might be like if we were female? We could be, of course. You were a woman back in Canaanite days, weren’t you?
Checking me out, were you?
You were dressed as a female, Crowley. What was I supposed to think?
You know perfectly well that humans are pretty fluid in gender roles. Who knows what I was hiding under my robes?
Well, were you? Female?
You’re not going to believe this.
You will perhaps recall that back in that day Beelzebub was Beelzebul, the Prince of the Palace. Fancied me.
Oh for Heaven’s sake, Crowley! You’re pulling my wings.
No. I’m not. She was male back then.
Aziraphale digests this for some moments.
I’m not sure I want to continue this conversation any further.
Well, being a woman wasn’t my idea. Remember what I told you about Hell being all for disobedience and rebellion generally, but not individually? Nobody disobeys Beelzebub. Ever. I wasn’t merely in a panic about the end of good times on Earth when Armageddon was imminent, you know. Beelzebub wasn’t specific about what my future held if I failed in my Antichrist mission. She just gave me some strong hints and let my imagination do the rest. (Crowley takes a long swig of scotch) And it did, let me tell you. Can you pour me a refill?
Let’s just say my life as a Philistine concubine was made pretty exciting.
Crowley is silent as he works his way through more of his scotch.
With that little history of mine, I’m just not sure I could deal with you as stallion to my mare, Aziraphale. (Holds up a hand to stop Aziraphale from replying.) Nor could I do the reverse to you. Would seem sacrilegious or something. Even though, as a demon, I’m supposed to be into that sort of thing. Just not sure I could do a Beelzebul act.
Aziraphale notices that Crowley is starting to breathe a bit too rapidly.
Crowley! Stop breathing!
Crowley does so, shudders, and gets himself back under control. Finishes his scotch, holds out his glass.
Aziraphale obliges, but continues to watch the demon closely.
So, Angel, if you were hoping for some hot vajayjay action, I don’t think I can help you.
Shut it, Crowley, for Heaven’s sake! Really, my dear.
Crowley smiles sinfully.
Nor could I bear to stick it to you, either, considering the "nice" memories I’m packing around. So forget about swinging like Michael.
Crowley, if you persist in this, I’m getting dressed and going for a bike ride. A long ride. You can sit here all by yourself.
No! I’ll be good. Especially if you kiss me.
Aziraphale’s anxiety and exasperation drain away and he obliges Crowley with a loving smooch. They both put down their scotch and continue, with increasing passion. Crowley breaks away, regards Aziraphale.
I never experienced Divine Ecstasy with Beelzebub. Just so you know. You were the first.
Chapter 9: Green Sorbet
Most definitely a new look.
Aziraphale bustles into the bookshop’s back room, fresh from shooing out the dratted customers and locking up the shop for the day. He’s looking forward to a glass of wine with Crowley. Stops dead in his tracks. Crowley is stretched out against the big pillows propped on an arm of the settee, doing his Manet’s Olympia pose. Only now he actually looks very much like Olympia. She looks like Olympia.
Aziraphale is speechless, taking in the view. A pearly-skinned female with flaming hair the equal of War’s mane. Rosy pink nipples on pert breasts. But despite the pink nipples, these aren’t the young breasts of Manet’s Parisian prostitute. This is a dangerous woman. Who would either give human males the erection of a lifetime or make their giblets want to retract right back safely inside where they came from, depending upon where they set the dial on kinks and death wishes. The long pointed talon-like nails lacquered the shade of dried blood and gold are disturbing enough. But it’s the sandy viper eyes under brow ridges with a subtle point at the end that probably contribute most to the overall effect. Zuul, were she peeping from around a corner, would likely be nodding approval.
Aziraphale holds up his hands, palms outward, as he slowly approaches. While the demon is radiating lust like a hot stove, the angel detects a subharmonic of rage. This is a serpent about to strike. Aziraphale stops, just outside of arm’s reach.
He hurt me, Aziraphale. Every time.
The angel continues to gaze, dry-mouthed, at what his beloved demon has become. Then, softly as one might speak to a nervous wild animal:
I have something that I bought in London last weekend. This might be just the time for it.
Never taking his eyes off Crowley, he carefully circles the room until reaching the small refrigerator where they keep their champagne. Reaches into the little freezer compartment and pulls out what appears to be a green ice cream container. Magics a long-handled silver spoon from the cutlery cabinet. Opens the container and drops the lid aside. Magics his clothing off to the valet. Still moving carefully, using a foot he pushes the hassock close to the settee. Scoops a small spoonful of some icy-looking green dessert and holds it in front of the demon’s lips while he carefully sits down on the hassock.
It’s cannabis sorbet. Lime. Thought you might prefer something icier than ice cream.
Crowley opens her lips and lets the angel feed her.
Do you like it?
A short nod. Aziraphale continues to slowly feed dainty spoonfuls until the container is empty. He can sense that the demon has relaxed.
Another container? I bought a half dozen.
Crowley shakes her head and smiles snakily.
No. Feeling mellow. I see you’re not, though. Like what you see?
I always love whatever I see about you, Crowley. You’re always wonderful.
He does. Shivers. The demon continues to let one arm dangle, but puts the other along the top of the settee. Aziraphale places his cool hands on her shoulders, nuzzles and kisses her neck in all the spots she likes. The demon arches her back and gasps as his hands gently massage her breasts. Her nipples quickly become hard as cherry pits. He strokes her flanks, nuzzles and licks her navel. The demon opens her thighs, letting his icy lips and tongue tickle her already erect clitoris. Aziraphale breathes in her scent . . . frankincense? That’s ironic. Crowley starts to moan.
Aziraphale. Get inside me. Now.
The angel perches on his knees between her outstretched legs. He’s never done this before, but it seems a pretty straightforward procedure. Literally. Supporting himself with his hands on opposite sides of her waist, he eases himself inside. Slippery, but tight. He fits, just. Crowley rotates her hips while moving them rapidly back and forth.
The demon is now arched as if electrocuted, long legs aloft, eyes wide but unseeing. Aziraphale feels wave after pulsing wave of muscle against his erection. He collapses atop Crowley, ecstatic face buried against her neck, hands slipped under her shoulder blades as he clutches her body tightly to his. Crowley keeps her arms outstretched. A good thing, because she has ripped holes in the upholstery and one of the pillows.
They appear as if frozen in time while this bout of Divine Ecstasy consumes them for hours.
Chapter 10: Scent
From Last Tango in Tadfield:
Crowley parks the Bentley, but just as they go to open the doors to get out, Aziraphale takes a deep breath as if trying to smell some strange perfume.
I say, Crowley, are you aware that your evil aroma is particularly musky tonight?
Evil? What’s evil about it? What are you trying to say, Aziraphail? I need another shower 30 minutes after we just took one? That’s not very nice of you.
Perhaps “evil” isn’t the right word. That night before Armageddon, when you detected that the hellhound had found its master. Gabriel and Sandalphon came into the bookshop shortly after you’d left. Sandalphon noticed your aroma. Said he smelled something “evil.”
What makes you think it wasn’t the hellhound?
Well, only you could detect that. But I’m always aware of the way you smell. I like it. A sort of light combination of smoking aloes, whiskey, and rut. The irony of calling it an “evil” aroma rather tickled me. I told them it was due to the Jeffrey Archer books.
Well that’s just great. You think I smell like a burnt down roadhouse. Are you sure you want to go in with me?
Oh Crowley, don’t be an ass. I said I like the way you smell. Let’s not have unpleasantness. Shall we dance?
Aziraphale and Crowley are relaxing in bed in Crowley’s Mayfair flat. Crowley is half sitting against a couple of pillows, his arms folded above his head. Aziraphale has his head on the demon’s shoulder, one arm on his chest, one leg across Crowley’s hips.
So tell me more about my evil aroma, Aziraphale. I’m dying to know.
Well. (Aziraphale inhales a deep breath, contemplates a moment.) Fragrant wood smoke, generally. A sort of pungent mix of cedar, aloes, sandalwood and such. Whiskey, if you’ve been drinking. (Nuzzles Crowley’s armpit hair) And you positively stink of sex. I’m surprised humans don’t follow you around with nostrils flared.
Humpf. Although that might explain some past incidents . . .
Aziraphale gives Crowley a lick.
And your skin tastes peppery – a sort of mix of cayenne and black pepper.
The angel raises himself and leans over Crowley to give him a kiss.
You have bitter almond breath. Like cyanide. With an overtone of ozone. You know, that rather zingy smell the air has after a lighting strike.
Aziraphale moves so he is now atop Crowley, hands in the demon’s hair.
And when you’re a woman, your vagina smells of frankincense.
Beelzebul used to use me to defile the altars in temples and churches.
Aziraphale recollects Crowley describing walking across the consecrated ground of a church aisle as similar to walking across a hot sandy beach in bare feet. The image of Crowley being roasted alive atop the stones of an altar while being reamed by Beelzebul comes unavoidably into his mind. He remains still and silent, not wanting to stir up hideous memories any further.
Yessss. You can imagine what that was like, Aziraphale.
Beneath him, Crowley has morphed into a woman, a serpent demon radiating the heat of hate and despair. Aziraphale is now gazing into unblinking slit pupils within irises the color of desert sand, beneath delicately horned brows. A thick black forked tongue slowly slips between the demon’s soft rosy lips and flicks at the angel. Unflinching, he calmly returns her gaze and opens his mouth slightly, extends his own tongue, and licks it across his upper lip. Crowley extends her tongue further and tickles the angel’s tongue and lips. Then she smiles.
My brave, fearless Angel. That usually scares the piss out of humans. Stay on top of me. Now I’ll tell you what you smell like.
She slips her ruby talons through his lambswool hair and pushes his head against her shoulder.
You smell like water. Rainfall after it’s picked up the scent of damp earth and forest. Melting snow. With that salty, bitter smell of the ocean. Your skin tastes dry and dusty, like sage and flint. Always reminds me of Patron tequila. Your mouth is a delicious combination of all those sweet golden wines and sherries. And you breathe ozone, too. Maybe that’s an angel thing, do you think?
Crowley writhes beneath Aziraphale and rolls him off her, then straddles his hips.
And maybe someday we can do a little science project to see what your vajayjay smells like. But not today.
A viperish smile, revealing points of two teeth. Aziraphale reaches up and fingers her lips open. Her fangs aren’t needle sharp as a snake’s, but instead have the more rounded mammalian canine shape. The rest of her teeth are human. Pushing his hand aside, she leans forward to rub her firm little breasts against his chest hair. Gently bites the carotid area of his neck, just hard enough so all her teeth are felt, but not hard enough to pinch or hurt him. Rakes her talons along his ribs and flanks, again just hard enough to let him know she could be doing much worse things, but isn’t. Sits up and caresses his chest with her talons, circling and tickling his nipples until they’re hard as leather. Scoots back until she’s atop his thighs, wraps the talons of one hand around his testicles. Uses the claws of her other hand to drum lightly along his erection.
The angel meanwhile has been caressing her breasts until her back arches in pleasure.
Crowley. Please. Do me.
Smiling sinfully, she places her hands on her thighs and mounts his erection. Begins to rotate and slowly flex her hips back and forth. Rhythmic interior contractions caress the angel’s cock.
Aziraphale doesn’t wait, knowing she’ll be joining him soon enough. For the first time ever he cries out as Divine Ecstasy overtakes him. Moments later Crowley is with him. They remain for hours as if frozen in time.
Chapter 11: Upholstered Granite
Friday evening. Crowley has zoomed out of London, anxious to relax with Aziraphale in the back room of the bookshop. Parks in front of the shop, vaults out of the Bentley. He’s carrying a stout shopping bag in which three bottles of cognac have been carefully wrapped. Snaps his fingers to magic the locked door open and then shut as he walks briskly in. Enters the back room.
The shopping bag drops to the carpet as his hand forgets to hold onto it, his eyes riveted upon Aziraphale. The angel is sprawled atop the big puffy pillows they keep handy on the settee, doing a superb imitation of Francois Boucher’s painting of Marie O’Murphy. Crowley opens his mouth, but finds his voice has failed him.
Do you like it? I tried transforming, and this is what I got.
Crowley takes in the angel’s halo of silky palest gold curls, backside like a delicious bun, creamy thighs wide spread as she lies on her stomach on the pillows. She is so willing and very ready.
With a finger snap Crowley’s clothing vanishes. Feeling almost molten with lust, he springs over to the settee, shoves a pillow out of the way, kneels between the angel’s plump thighs, hands atop her satiny buttocks. But then he pauses. Crowley has never actually penetrated anyone – woman or man – before. But it was done to him plenty of times, and it was always agonizing as Hell. Until Aziraphale came along. Would he feel as good to the angel as he did to him, or would he hurt her . . .?
Sensing his hesitation and guessing the reason why, the angel raises her hips, reaches one hand back between her legs and gently grasps the demon’s penis, directing its tip against her cool wet labia. Rocks back and pushes against him a bit as he slowly enters her.
Harder Crowley. Push hard.
She rocks back and forth and wriggles her hips in counterpoint to his thrusts.
Ohhhhhhhhh. . .
Aziraphale feels Crowley deep inside her as she sprawls atop his thighs, then moans as Divine Ecstasy sweeps over her, rhythmic contractions milking the demon’s wonderfully tight fit. Crowley succumbs a millisecond later, hands clutching the angel’s delicious backside as he leans back against the big pillow on the arm of the settee. For several hours they form a tableau vivant of bliss, stilled on the surface, but a lot going on beneath.
. . .
Oof. My knees have stiffened up.
Crowley swings his legs over the edge of the settee and gets up to walk around a bit. The two then rearrange the giant pillows against the base of Aziraphale’s armchair, and settle on the thick Persian carpet in a favorite comfort position, holding hands while sitting alongside one another against the pillows. Crowley examines the angel’s face. Not at all girlish. A handsome woman. Same earnest dark gray eyes, masculine bowed eyebrows . . . finer bone structure and nose, bit more pout to pinker lips, piquant chin. Palest gold hair more like silk than wool. Then his eyes drop downward, scanning the angel’s lovely devon cream body. Soft shoulders, high virginal breasts topped by nipples like pie cherries, rounded belly gently curving into a luxuriant palest blonde bush. Satiny, plump thighs and calves.
Crowley can’t stand another second of mere looking. Lurches forward, grasps the angel’s ankles and gently pulls her prone. Pushes her legs apart and plunges his face onto her vulva, nostrils buried in her bush, supple tongue and lips licking and massaging her labia and clitoris. He then glides upward and supports himself lightly astride her hips, leaning forward so his erection lies rigid against her belly cushion. Thrusts his hands through her silky curls and plants a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss against her mouth and nostrils.
Tell me what you smell like.
Oh! . . . Vanilla? (Sigh. It would be vanilla . . .)
And brown sugar.
Yes! (That’s better!)
Crowley moves downward and kisses one of her nipples.
Topped with whipped cream and cherries. One . . . (kisses her second nipple) Two . . . (goes down and licks her plump clitoris) . . . Three.
So I’m one great rum baba, am I?
I wouldn’t know about that. Never been much into pastries. But whatever you are, you’re delicious.
Aziraphale laughs as Crowley makes wolfish growling and smacking noises, the demon’s fingers buried deeply in the soft flesh of her hips, his auburn hair spilling across her thigh. But soon she begins to gently pant.
Crowley, I need to feel you inside me again. Please.
The demon doesn’t need an engraved invitation. Once he’s as tight inside her as he can go, he falls atop her breasts and plunges his hands into her silky curls, his face buried atop her shoulder. Soft arms embrace him, cool creamy thighs and calves envelop his flanks and back.
The angel cries out as her muscular pulses rocket them both into Divine Ecstasy. Then delicious silent bliss for hours and hours.
. . .
Madame Tracy’s Saturday breakfast? I could go for some pain au chocolat and cocoa.
I could go for a lovely delicious creampuff right here, no need to leave the room.
Sausages? She does good ones, and I know you like them.
I’m the one who’s supposed to be doing the tempting, Angel. My actual job? Life’s mission? Perhaps you’ve heard?
Perhaps I’ve made too many trips to Edinburgh. Nice crisp rashers of local bacon, scrambled eggs . . . cappuccino . . .
Oh all right. Let’s get dressed.
Some minutes later, both now male again and casually dressed, ready to hop across the street for breakfast. Aziraphale looks bothered about something and pauses, looking down at himself.
Crowley, do you think this is the real me? Or that, deep down inside, I’m actually a woman?
I think you just have a flip side that you haven’t discovered until now.
Do you like the flip side better?
Crowley is thoughtful.
Your womanly form seems to trigger lust such as I’ve never experienced. Makes me feel as if I’m about to ignite. But I think that’s just because it’s you, Aziraphale. I love you. Human women, female angels - never had that kind of reaction to them. Ever.
He puts his arms around Aziraphale and hugs him, clasping the angel’s head atop his shoulder, one hand running fingers through and stroking his lambswool hair.
All that said, what I do desire, most of all, is the upholstered granite body that I’ve been longing to get closer to for 6,000 years.
Aziraphale flicks his fingers, and their clothing vanishes. He nuzzles Crowley’s neck, strokes his back. Crowley murmurs,
Move that chest rug of yours against me.
The angel obliges, and soon their mutual nipples are hard as pebbles. The demon’s penis does its slow tight spiral around the angel’s erection.
The two sink onto the carpet, Crowley atop a blissful Aziraphale, legs entwined as they slip into a long, comfortable Divine Ecstasy.
. . .
I suppose you’re ravenous now, Angel.
Well, I’m never actually hungry. I simply enjoy food. Although, I must say, some salmon and cucumber sandwiches would definitely hit the spot. With Lapsang Souchong.
And frosted vanilla cream cakes.
Aziraphale gives Crowley a look. Crowley mimics ravenously cramming a whole cake into his mouth.
Really, my dear. (But he smiles.)
They stroll hand in hand across the street to Madame Tracy’s Tea Shop.
Chapter 12: Braids
Julia’s Salon de Beauté in Tadfield. Crowley enters. The three staff – Julia, Peter, and Mindy – have divided up the tasks for whenever Crowley happens to drop in. He never makes an appointment. Mindy does manicures, Julia facials, and Peter loves to braid hair. They draw straws each morning to determine who greets Crowley to sort out the session’s tasks and take over other clients as necessary so Crowley doesn’t have to wait. Today Peter won the draw. Mutters “Woof!” to Julia, walks over to greet Crowley, gestures to invite him to his chair. He speaks with an Estuary accent:
Not really ready for a shampoo yet, Mr. Crowley. Don’t want your hair to get too dry. Is a massage and re-styling all right with you? . . . Your manicure still looks good. Unless you prefer a different color?
Just the hair is fine. A braid, I think.
It’s a bit early, and Peter’s incoming appointment has not yet appeared, but will just have to wait if they do. Somehow the clients never seem to mind waiting if Crowley is present. Once Crowley is seated, Peter arranges the neck paper strip and shoulder cape, starts brushing the demon’s long auburn hair. Crowley has removed his glasses, but keeps his eyes closed to narrow slits.
Shall we try a Scythian braid today?
I leave it to your judgment.
Peter brushes and combs for a long pleasant while. Puts down the tools and pushes his fingers into Crowley’s hair to massage his scalp for a delicious interval. Eventually starts to separate the braid strands. Spends a long time carefully twisting and braiding until Crowley sports a neat pair of rope braids down his back.
Once Crowley is gone, when there’s a brief break in the clientele stream, Julia approaches Peter and murmurs softly:
What would we do without Mr. Crowley, eh, love? You’ve noticed how our clientele has increased since he started coming in? I’m thinking we might have to hire another chair.
Peter waves his hand as if he’s just touched a hot stove.
I’m thinking a small private room for personal relaxation massage therapy. He never gives the slightest hint that he’s into that sort of thing, but I’d positively fling myself to my knees if he was. Slay me, Daddy. (Groans comically)
You’re not alone, you know. Mindy had to visit the staff room last week after she finished with him.
I wondered about that.
Perhaps a small fridge for ice and cold towels?
D’you mind if I leave a bit early today? Think I need a little workout with Oli.
No worries. We’ll cover for you.
Peter and Oli are getting dressed after their shower. Peter is about 1.75 meters and slim, light cappuccino skin, has some Senegal ancestry mixed in with his British stock. Oli is from Glasgow, sturdy and muscular, with dark hair and beard. He’s donned his workman’s kilt and is lacing up his boots.
Doesn’t anyone ever remark about your going commando on the job?
Nae danger. I’m the foreman. Anyone hangs around the ladder when I’m goin’ up, they can go boil their head.
Thanks for taking off early.
‘Twas pure dead brilliant. You were on fire. That tall ginger came in today, I take it?
Yep. I don’t know what it is about him, but he has everyone nearly chewing the carpet before he leaves.
You ever think of doing him?
Sure. If you weren’t “my ane true love” I’d probably be panting like a puppy. No danger, though. He’s attached like a magnet to that Mr. Fell.
Who’s got the better ass, him or me?
He does. Tight as a military bun. But your shoulders are to die for.
Peter hugs Oli.
Tell me you love me.
I do, y’know.
I love you.
Oli holds Peter’s ears and looks him straight in the eyes.
I love you, too. Never doubt that.
Ollie grabs his jacket.
Let’s go out for porter and steak.
Half the coo, I’m thinkin’.
Chapter 13: Possession
Working off some stress before Sunday dinner.
[From Chapter 7 of The Big One:
Uriel and I visited the church. St. Cecil’s. She said it was cold as a tomb inside. But it wasn’t to me, Crowley. I felt as if I was in a sauna or something. She said the tile floor was cold as stone. But it felt hot when I touched it. Crowley, it was consecrated ground. Why does it feel hot to me? Am I becoming unholy?
Aziraphale is struggling not to cry.
That’s unlikely, Aziraphale. There must be another explanation.
I’m not a fallen angel?
I can’t see how that could possibly be.
What nonetheless goes through Crowley’s mind is how little it apparently takes to fall from grace. Asking questions. Hanging around with the wrong people. Next thing you know, you’re doing a million-light-year freestyle dive into a pool of boiling sulfur.
Crowley embraces him in a tight hug. The angel’s shoulders are shaking.
Didn’t feel like walking barefoot across a hot beach, did it?
N-n- not yet.
Sauntering vaguely downward, are you?
Hanging out with the wrong person, perhaps?
Never! . . . And if I am, I don’t care!
Angel, do you still have your sword?
They break apart. Aziraphale holds out his arm, and his sword appears, flaming as intense a blue as ever. Maybe even brighter. The flame centers are white.
Looks as if you’re still in the Almighty’s good graces. We demons can’t touch those things.
Aziraphale sends his sword back into storage. Crowley caresses the angel’s cheek and plants gentle kisses upon his face. Runs his fingers through the angel’s lambswool hair.
You don’t suppose it’s an after-effect of that little body swap we did?
Aziraphale nearly collapses with relief.
Oh! I do hope that’s the explanation!
Well. If someday you find yourself plunging into a pool of boiling sulfur, call me. I’ll join you. We could enjoy the spa together. Being next to you would make it worth the trip.
Kiss me again, Crowley.]
Aziraphale is still unsure if it’s just the body swap that’s caused his reaction to consecrated ground. What if it’s his love for Crowley? A surge of defiance rises within him.
Crowley. Possess me. I want to feel you deep inside me.
The angel morphs into his womanly form, spread-eagled on the plush Persian carpet.
Crowley doesn’t hesitate. While his erection solidifies, he strokes the nipples on her beautiful high tight breasts with his warm hands. She moans as the tip of his heated erection slides over her wet clitoris and between her chilly labia, raises her lovely legs. Her soft body is so wonderfully cold against his. The angel begins to pant as she moves her hips, and he thrusts as forcefully as he can in counterpoint. She is so tight. Aziraphale arches her back and cries out as Divine Ecstasy overcomes her. Crowley buries his ecstatic face against her neck as her muscular pulses cause him to come again, and again, and again . . . time slows as their Divine Ecstasy continues for hours.
It’s early dawn before they release and pull apart. But Aziraphale hasn’t had enough.
Now my turn.
Male once again, he gives Crowley a gentle push to roll him over onto his stomach, then lies atop the demon’s back. Crowley morphs into his snake demoness form. Aziraphale locks hands tightly with the demon’s fingers, and holds her arms outstretched so she cannot close her talons. Her russet hair flows over the carpet like a spill of blood. She arches her backside and stretches her thighs open, and the angel enters her as deeply as he can go. Supple as an anaconda, she locks her ankles together behind him and writhes and wriggles and rocks her hips beneath him. And once again they’re carried along in a tidal wave of Divine Ecstasy.
Well that was fun! Let’s get dressed and drive to the club. We’re in plenty of time for Sunday dinner. And then we can do Wings all night at your flat.
Aziraphale decides to wear his crisp linen summer suit with a blue and gold tartan tie. Crowley’s constructed summer suit is the color of steel slag, over a shirt the color of ashes. Italian distressed metallic leather shoes, sans socks. Instead of a tie, a short necklace under the wings of his collar. Ancient stone and glass beads, with a Hongshan culture jade cicada pendant, an excellent replica of which is in a Beijing museum. [Crowley promised his connections that he’d return the original if the necessity ever occurred, and so far it hadn’t.]
And off they go to London, at a relaxed 75mph.
Chapter 14: Midnight Confession
Yay snek bits.
Midnight in Tadfield. It’s a dark, moonless night, and very quiet in the village. The faintest of lights can be discerned in Aziraphale’s bookshop, however. Uriel walks up the street and through the locked door as a ghost might. Angels don’t sleep, and it hasn’t occurred to her that it might be an inopportune time of day to have a chat with Aziraphale. What she sees in the dim light are Aziraphale and Crowley, stripped to the waist, dancing. They’re wearing ear buds, so no music can be heard. Although she’s standing in the comparatively shadowy area near the door, they sense her presence and stop.
Uriel. Try knocking next time, for Satan’s sake.
Crowley snaps his fingers, and their earbuds vanish. Crowley can see perfectly well in the dark, but Aziraphale magics the light level up to a pleasant warm glow, and gestures to Uriel to be seated in one of the little brocade upholstered Georgian chairs. She sits and stares at them, as if she doesn’t quite know how to begin.
I . . . I didn’t know angels could dance. And where was the music?
Crowley magics a pair of earbuds into her ears. She jumps as the pounding beat from a section of a trance mix assaults her hearing. Swiftly pulls and shakes the earbuds out and tosses them onto the floor.
What kind of music is that?
You know, angel, if you’re just going to stare at us and be a music critic, you can leave. This isn’t a public performance. Or perhaps you were hoping for more of a show?
Another snap of Crowley’s fingers, and his and Aziraphale’s clothing vanishes.
Swift as a serpent, Crowley sidles up behind Aziraphale and wraps his arms around his chest. Extends a long tongue and licks Aziraphale’s shoulder and neck. Slowly rubs his hands through the angel’s chest hair. The angel’s pleasure is unmistakable.
Crowley, for Heaven’s sake!
Aziraphale wrests himself from Crowley’s grasp. Grabs another chair and hurries over to where Uriel is sitting in obvious distress, seats himself at an angle to her. A change from two years ago is that now he doesn’t give being naked a second thought. Uriel obviously does, though, and can’t tear her eyes from his shoulders and chest. And lap. Then she starts to cry.
With a groan of utter disgust, Crowley goes off into the back room.
Aziraphale snaps to and magics on his tatty old dressing gown. Places his hands on either side of Uriel’s face, pulling her closer to him. Their eyes meet. What she sees are concerned and earnest gray eyes in a very kind face.
Uriel. Please. Tell me what brings you here.
She tries to speak, but can’t stop crying. Her eyes fall once again to Aziraphale’s wooly chest, then she jerks her head away and closes her eyes as if in pain.
Aziraphale rises and wraps his arms around her, hugging her to him as he pulls her gently from her chair onto the floor. Eventually her shoulders stop shaking and she lies quietly in his arms.
Crowley comes out of the back room with a green pint ice cream container and a spoon. Sits next to Aziraphale, extends a spoonful toward Uriel of what looks like an icy dessert.
I think this is needed. I know you eat. Take it.
It’s nice, Uriel. Lime cannabis sorbet. It has a relaxing effect.
Uriel sits up, tries a spoonful, finds it cool and pleasant. Crowley hands her the container.
She really does like the taste, and takes increasingly larger spoonfuls. Crowley lies back on the floor, one knee raised, arms behind his head, russet hair spilling across the floor. Uriel dimly notices that the room smells of woodsmoke . . . and something else. Something deeply floral/animal and pungently pleasant. Minutes pass. Finally she’s calm enough to talk.
Now that I have found you, I have to return to Heaven. But I don’t want to go. I want what you two have. I want . . . I want . . . to be in love with someone, like you two are with each other.
She feels a bit . . . dizzy. Uninhibited enough to ask a question that’s been on her mind.
Are you two actually having sex together?
She involuntarily glances at Crowley, who is gazing with eyes half closed off toward the back room’s entrance and doesn’t notice her.
I didn’t realize we could do that. It is messy?
Not at all. Our celestial bodies lack some human orifices, so we can’t do some of the interesting things that they do, or use some of their peculiar devices. The excitement lasts a lot longer, though.
It’s nice, is it?
We call it “Divine Ecstasy,” if that gives you any idea.
I wonder why no one in heaven ever speaks about it?
I know I never really ever thought about it. Always assumed it was impossible for me. Decorative giblets only, don't you know. And I believe you have to be in love with your partner.
Oh. There’s nobody . . . nobody . . .
Aziraphale gives her a keen look.
Nobody? Ten million angels and you’ve never fancied even one of them?
He’s about to say, “Don’t tell me it’s a demon . . .” but sees her expression take on a wistful aspect.
You do, don’t you.
She nods. Continues to spoon in the sorbet.
I don’t suppose you can tell me who?
She shakes her head.
I don’t think he gives me a moment’s thought. We’re all very work focused. As perhaps you remember.
Crowley is making snoring noises, although obviously not asleep. He snarls,
Let’s just get on with it, shall we? Go back to Heaven, find whoever it is, and just tell them you think they’re hot. Get it on. It took Aziraphale and me 6000 years and Armageddon before we could finally admit we were attracted to each other. Piece of advice: don’t make that mistake.
Make your report to Gabriel and Michael. Then just . . . slip back down here? With your friend?
I can’t disobey.
What orders would you be disobeying?
A snaky smile appears on Crowley’s face as Aziraphale works the Temptation. The Arrangement definitely knocked some edges off the angel.
Uriel downs another spoonful, appears lost in thought.
No one has actually said I can’t return to Earth.
And once you’re back, what reason would they have to come get you? Aren’t you allowed a good deal of latitude and independent work? You’re pretty far up corporate ladder.
I’m just the office gofer, you know. Gabriel made me apply for Sandalphon’s position, but then wouldn’t give it to me. I think now that may have been lucky for me. I suspect I very well could just go off, and no one would notice for a long time. I’ve been down here over a year now, and they haven’t even bothered to ask for a compliance report. It has made me wonder if Gabriel actually thinks he’s punishing me for something. You know how distasteful he finds Earth.
Yes. Thinks humans are stupid. Won’t corrupt his celestial body with gross matter. One can only imagine how revolted he would be by sex.
This latter possibility brings a sly speculative smile to Uriel’s face. Crowley’s, too.
May I suggest you return to London, take the Main Office escalator. Tell them you’ve returned because you need a new phone and want to make your report. Hook up with your friend. Then come back down to Earth.
My friend is already on Earth.
Even better! Make your report. Request a new phone, to demonstrate your good intentions and reassure them that you’re keen. Come back down and find your friend. Don’t bother to report again until they call you. If they call you.
I must think this over.
Uriel gets to her feet.
May I take this with me?
Be sure to return the spoon.
She grimaces at Crowley, tosses him the spoon, and magics one of her own out of the air.
Thank you . . . Both of you. Can I come by tomorrow?
Anytime the shop is open, my dear.
Uriel exits, walking through the door as if it’s made of fog.
I’ve never been able to do that, have you?
Is she a higher power?
No, just an archangel. Technically, I outrank her. I think it might simply be a talent. Like being able to sing four octaves.
Aziraphale, you don’t suppose the “friend” she was referring to is you? Pretty obvious she was suffering from desire.
Doubtful. She and Sandalphon roughed me up. Helped kidnap me – you, I mean. Stood by while Gabriel tried to kill you – me – with Hellfire, didn’t you say? Not exactly the way to demonstrate affection. Must be someone else.
Crowley gets to his feet, extends a hand to Aziraphale.
C’mon, Angel. Let’s have a scotch and then some Divine Ecstasy.
Now that is a Great Plan.
Crowley magics Aziraphale’s dressing gown back into the closet. Stretches an arm around the angel’s shoulders, and they saunter into the back room.
Aziraphale pours them each a stiff amount of scotch, hands Crowley his glass. Crowley downs the liquor in one long swallow, magics the glass back onto the tray, comes up behind Aziraphale and resumes where he left off, nuzzling the angel’s neck and caressing his chest. One hand strokes Aziraphale’s flank, grasps and massages the angel’s rapidly hardening cock.
Don’t waste your scotch, Aziraphale.
Aziraphale doesn’t drink his, but instead magics it back into the decanter and the glass back onto the tray. He can feel Crowley’s serpentine penis thrusting itself forward to nudge his testicles. Whiskey breath, bitter almonds, wood smoke. Sensing that Aziraphale is slipping into Divine Ecstasy, Crowley writhes around to the angel’s front, places his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders and pushes him down to the Persian carpet. Straddles him as their penises interlock, leans forward. Aziraphale’s firm icy hands caress the demon’s chest. Crowley slips his fingers through Aziraphale’s wooly hair, his own russet hair spilling over his shoulders and tickling the angel’s neck. Wrapping his arms around the demon’s back, Aziraphale pulls him close. Crowley is so wonderfully warm.
Sighing with pleasure as he feels the angel’s cool, soothing flesh and wooly chest fuzz against his skin, Crowley kisses the angel’s open mouth with his ecstatic lips and tongue. Together they climax into Divine Ecstasy.
Chapter 15: Ram of God
Uriel’s companion is a man about 1.75m tall and muscular. Copper skin, thick black curly hair and beard, and very hairy all over generally. High bridged nose in a handsome face with amused warm brown eyes.
Seeing Adam and Crowley, he transforms. An angel with the head and neck of a black karakul ram. Curled horns. Chest hair like a curly bearskin rug. Egyptian wrapped linen shendyt and gold sandals. Wings tipped with gold. Opens his arms and bows.
Prince. Antichrist. I am the Principality Ammun. Hello, Aziraphale.
--Chapter 12, The Big One
The lounge in Crowley’s Mayfair flat. He and Aziraphale are seated on the couch, sipping their way through a bottle of Talisker. They’ve just finished watching one of Aziraphale’s favorite movies, Singin’ in the Rain.
I’ve always loved Gene Kelly’s suits in that movie.
Even the plus fours?
Especially the plus fours.
I rather fancy Cyd Charisse’s green dress, myself. I think we should practice that dance routine, in fact.
I thought you’d never ask, Crowley.
You know, we didn’t meet during the 1930s, but after I saw Fred Astaire in the movie Top Hat, I swanked around London in a tuxedo made by his same Savile Row tailor. He was so trim. Perfect waist. Resisted that damned English drape cut.
You don’t still have it, do you?
Yep. Wanna see it?
Dying to, Crowley.
Crowley gets up, snaps his fingers, and he’s in 30’s full fig, complete with patent pumps, exquisite Deco pearl and platinum studs and links in an immaculate boiled shirt, winged collar and white bow tie, bespoke tailcoat with devilish peaked lapels, galon striped trousers, low cut white evening backless waistcoat of the perfect length, platinum pocket watch, scarlet boutonniere.
Had my hair short and slicked back, of course. Left the silk top hat, walking stick, topcoat and gloves in storage. And I can’t tap dance, of course.
Oh. Crowley. What I missed! Next time we tango, you lead.
Nah. Let’s just get your white tie tailored better. I shudder to think what it looks like.
I don’t own a white tie ensemble, Crowley. Bookshop owners lead a different life.
I think we need to fix that. I trust you’ll look very handsome.
But Crowley, no one wears white tie much anymore, do they? I don’t expect we’ll be called to present ourselves to the Queen.
Then it will just be the two of us having fun with vintage clothing. By the way, speaking of vintage clothing, that reminds me. When Ammun appeared the other day in heavenly dress, why were you reluctant to show yours? Let it get a bit scruffy, have you?
No. It’s just . . . well, I haven’t actually been called to The Presence since I was posted to Eden. Probably is a bit dusty.
C’mon, just between you and me, then. I’ll show you my Hellish court costume if you’ll show me your Heavenly dress.
Aziraphale takes a large swig of scotch, sets down his glass. Stands, flicks a hand down his front.
And becomes a startling apparition. Tawny urial ram’s head and neck. Massive ivory horns spiraling outward to complete a full circle. Dark gray eyes with horizontal pupils. Long white silky beard and chest ruff combination that stretches to his waist. Wings tipped with gold. Egyptian wrapped linen shendyt and gold sandals.
Crowley transforms into an enormous python, black iridescent scales banded with slim fiery stripes that seem to be lit from within. Coppery gold eyes. Unlike pythons, however, his brows are the horns of desert vipers, and shining red gold like a crown. Wings are raven black, except they’re not feathered. They’re pterosaur wings, with giant amber claws.
Principalities are rams of God?
Yes. We all wear horns.
That’s a pretty impressive rack, Aziraphale. Way bigger than Ammun’s.
It does seem to have grown a bit since I last wore it. Why did Ammun call you “Prince,” by the way. Only Seraphim are called by that title.
That’s what I was. I remember that. Can’t remember my heavenly name, though. I never did have arms and legs, was just a face, six wings, and a tail. Looked pretty much like a piece of burned hawser when Lucifer and Beelzebub fished me out of the lake of fire. Could only slide around on my belly. Crawly.
The giant winged snake slithers to the angel’s feet, raises itself and slowly coils about the angel’s body, looping over his shoulders and staring him in the face. Smiles a snaky smile, revealing needle sharp backward-pointing teeth.
Pythons can eat sheep, you know.
Not with these horns, you won’t.
The snake flicks out a forked tongue over the ram’s nostrils.
Crowley, that tickles. You’re going to make me sneeze.
Why don’t you nuzzle me with that fuzzy muzzle.
The python’s tail slips under the angel’s skirt.
Same human plumbing. Way more impressive balls, though. And they’re really, really hairy? Hard to feel through these scales.
Aziraphale can’t stand it another second and laughs as he morphs back into his human form. Finds himself collapsed to the floor beneath one very heavy snake.
Whoops. (Crowley morphs back to human). You all right?
The angel takes a deep breath.
Yes. No cracked ribs. You are a monster. I mean, very large. Not at all monstrous. Extremely beautiful, in fact . . . Mmmf!
While he gabbles, Crowley has been doing a slow wriggle atop the angel’s belly, running hands along the angel’s ribs and through his chest hair, long tongue licking his shoulder, neck, and then open mouth.
Mmmmmmm . . . mutton . . .
Crowley twines his legs around Aziraphale’s as he moves his hips to accommodate the angel’s growing erection. Once his own penis has spiraled around the angel’s, he continues with a slow grind . . . and they’re off into Divine Ecstasy.