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Wanton and Wantin'

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Aziraphale would describe himself as asexual, he might have said sexless at one time but it doesn’t feel particularly appropriate in light of his new relationship with Crowley. 

It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy sex (when they have it), it’s just that Aziraphale doesn’t think he’d ever feel a need to initiate it. After a very interesting internet search Aziraphale discovers the term servicing which he feels fits quite nicely. All in all he is perfectly happy as Crowley’s service top (or whatever his particular proclivities are at the time).

Crowley doesn’t initiate it very often, he does however masturbate. Sometimes Aziraphale will go days without seeing Crowley only to come (pun not intended) to learn he’d spent the better part of that time holed up in his flat pleasuring himself. 

“Crowley, dear, you’re going to chafe if you keep that up.”

“Well, you could fuck me, angel and I wouldn’t have to.” 

“All you had to do was ask, my dear. But you are taking me to the Ritz after.”


Crowley is bold when he’s horny. It’s really the only time. When something is important, something that he doesn’t want to mess up or get wrong he avoids talking about until his emotions reach their breaking point. This has led to many confessions when Crowley’s hard and wanton and flushed with arousal. (The first time he tells Aziraphale he loves him, for example, he cries it into Aziraphale’s mouth, holding him with a grip that would surely break the ribs of a human, his blunt nails digging into the spot just between his shoulder blades at the base of Aziraphale’s wings, were he to manifest them).


It takes eight months for him to bring up the topic of sex to Aziraphale, and even then it starts as a hypothetical that fools no one.

“I have a hard time believing that after all this time there’s something you’re too shy to tell me,” Aziraphale finally says, hoping it’s the gentle push he needs rather than a miscalculated shove.

“It’s not–” Crowley scowls, or at least that’s what the lower half of his face is doing, as he is currently hidden behind dark glasses, despite the fact that they are quite alone in Aziraphale’s bookshop.

“–I’m not too shy, it’s complicated. I don’t know how to explain it, and I wouldn’t want to try unless I did,” Crowley grouches, shoving himself deeper into the couch cushions as though trying to will them into swallowing him whole.

“So..” Aziraphale has this careful look on his face but a twinkle in his eye, “you’re saying that it’s…” he trails off and raises his eyebrows at Crowley.

“I swear to Satan, Aziraphale, if you say ineffable,” Crowley doesn’t finish his sentence but Aziraphale presses his mouth into a thin, barely repressed grin.

“I said nothing,” he teases. “But, Crowley, you can tell me anything. I know you’ve been trying to ask for something for weeks now and I won’t bring it up again if you’re not ready but–”

“It’s just I’ve been thinking, about us, and you know I love you, angel...” Crowley finally says.

“--Yes?” Aziraphale asks, keeping his voice as even as possible, uncertain where this is all going.

“It’s just that I don’t want to go too fast for you, but then no amount of time might matter? Because I’m not expecting anything. We’ve never even really talked about it before,” Crowley says. He’s flushed to the tips of his ears. 

“Talked about what, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks.

“Sex, angel,” Crowley finally says. “In any context, really, but now I was thinking you know--” Crowley starts and aborts several thoughts before Aziraphale takes his hands in his own. 

“What do you need from me?” He asks gently.

“Whatever you’ll give me,” Crowley tells him, a little breathless, “I mean whatever you’d be...amenable to. I don’t...I haven’t thought past this part. Well, I have but that’s--never mind, not important.”

“Well,” Aziraphale starts, thinking, “I’ve never been with anyone before.  There were a few people here and there that maybe...but I’ve never really wanted to enough, really, to bother with the whole thing. It seemed like it would be too complicated,” Aziraphale admits. 

Crowley’s expression offers Aziraphale no insight into the demon’s thoughts. After a quiet pause that allows him to collect his thoughts, Crowley asks, “do you want to? With me, I mean?” 

He’s not looking at Aziraphale. 

“It’s not like I’ve never thought about sex before, and--” he glances away trying to temper his smile, fails spectacularly, “--well, mostly as a thought exercise, I suppose. But, I always assumed that if ever I were going to be with someone, or even really want to, it would be you.”

Crowley’s neck makes an audible noise as his gaze snaps towards Aziraphale. “Oh,” Crowley nods, “Nghmm.”

“What I want,” Aziraphale replies, lifting a hand to Crowley’s temple and stroking his thumb feather soft down the small serpent there before moving to cup Crowley’s chin, “is to make you happy.” 

“You do, Aziraphale,” Crowley rushes to say, “already.”

“I guess, more specifically, to give you pleasure...whatever that means for you,” Aziraphale tries to explain.”

“Are you attracted to me?” Crowley asks, his voice is soft and curious. Aziraphale reaches over and places tentative hands on the glasses he’s still wearing. 

Crowley lets Aziraphale remove them, which he does delicately before placing them out of the way on a side table. “In a manner of speaking,” Aziraphale says, “aesthetically, I think you’re sort of exquisite.”

Exquisite,” Crowley makes a scoffing sound as he throws himself back against the couch dramatically. 

“Positively, my dear,” Aziraphale assures him. “Beautiful, even,” Aziraphale nods, delighting in Crowley’s flush and the way his eyes dart away. 

“Like a muse,” Aziraphale decides, “and I know for a fact there are several master works of art featuring a certain alluring auburn.” At this, Crowley’s grin turns self-satisfied. 

“What do you find alluring about me, angel?” Crowley asks, his head is quirked in a way that reminds Aziraphale of a preening bird. Aziraphale doesn’t try to temper his delight as he slides closer to Crowley. 

“Well, I have always loved your hands,” Aziraphale admits, picking them up in his own. Crowley’s smile is soft and open. 

“What else?” he asks, he draws his legs up onto the couch to throw them over Aziraphale’s lap leaning against the back of the couch as close to him as possible. Aziraphale puts his arm around Crowley and draws him in the rest of the way. 

“As an occult force I find you--” Aziraphale pauses and looks at Crowley, blue eyes darting between gold. Aziraphale presses the inches between them to kiss Crowley chastely on the lips. “--I find you...” Aziraphale’s not sure what to say, or maybe how to say it. 

“I find you, too, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, instead, his tone is teasing and light but a deep reverberating love rolls off of him in gentle waves. Aziraphale looks away with a small pleased smile.

“You’ve spent millenia watching me indulge in my gluttony, and lets not pretend it’s not--well a--thing with you,” Aziraphale says pointedly. Aziraphale rushes to finish before Crowley can retort, “I would like to reciprocate. You pick your vice,” Aziraphale says grinning with the wicked delight usually reserved for crepes.  

“I--lust, going with lust,” Crowley nods. Aziraphale laughs and Crowley kisses him. 

This they’ve done. This they’ve perfected. Aziraphale has kissed only a few people in his time on Earth, each one a pleasant enough memory. But he’s never kissed anyone the way he kisses Crowley.

Like they’re dying. Like the world could be ending around them (again) and he might not notice, or care; as long as he could go out with his lips pressed against Crowley’s he could die happy.

Other times, of course, like now, they kiss like they have all the time in the world. Which they do. Aziraphale thinks kissing for the sake of kissing is one of the humans’ better innovations.  

Aziraphale erroneously assumes that Crowley will take it further but he does not. In fact nothing changes for several more weeks at all, except, Crowley’s tense and anxious disposition disappears. 


They’re kissing languidly in bed one night when Aziraphale feels Crowley grow hard against his hip. It’s not unusual, but Crowley has always ignored it in the past. Now, he pulls back.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley starts, his voice a rasp whispered in the dark between the two. “D-do you mind if--if I get myself off?” Crowley is wearing a look of open vulnerability, his eyes searching, on the precipice of something, waiting for a push. 

Aziraphale smiles, “not at all, love,” he says as he pulls Crowley back in for a fervent kiss. Crowley whimpers into it and Aziraphale feels his hand slide between them. Aziraphale can feel the press of Crowley’s fist against his hip as he slowly starts to jerk himself off. 

Aziraphale likes the noises Crowley makes into his mouth, warm breath ghosting against Aziraphale’s lips. He watches the way Crowley’s eyes flutter open and closed when he pulls back to ask, “may I watch?”

Fuck,” Crowley says, and nods, “yes, please.” He tilts his hips away from the warmth of Aziraphale’s body, cold air meeting his skin as Aziraphale pushes the blanket down to expose him. With a small wave of Aziraphale’s hand, Crowley’s silk black boxer briefs are gone. Crowley makes a low noise of approval and pumps his cock faster.

Crowley buries his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, bites down there with a heated moan. Aziraphale watches Crowley strip his cock, long slender hand working himself over and over. He’s never actually watched anyone do this before. He’s seen it, hard not to given humanity’s proclivity for it.

But this is the first time he’s ever really appreciated it before, he supposes. He appreciates it now, the way Crowley looks bathed in moonlight, pale skin and sharp angles. The noises he makes grow higher, more desperate, his breath hot where his face is hidden in Aziraphale’s neck.   

Crowley is warm in his arms, their legs tangled together, Crowley’s hips thrusting up to meet the pace of his fist. 

Aziraphale,” Crowley says his name like a plea, and Aziraphale feels his face heat at it. 

“Yes, love?” Aziraphale asks.

“I’m going to come soon, should I stop?” Crowley asks, hand slowing, hips stilling. 

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale says quickly, “don’t stop, I mean. Please, I want to see you come.”

“Fuck,” Crowley tips his head back against Aziraphale’s shoulder and with a low mewling noise his cock twitches in his tightening grip and he comes in hot messy strips against Aziraphale’s tartan flannel pajamas and his own fist. Crowley makes one last noise of pleasure as his body twitches in Aziraphale’s arms, and the hand that isn’t currently busy is intertwined with Aziraphale’s.

“Holy--unholy--fuck,” Crowley articulates, “first off, wow, second--I’m not even sorry about that,” he waves at the mess dripping down Aziraphale’s stomach. 

“Neither am I, dear,” Aziraphale assures him, cleaning them both off with a wave. Crowley rolls onto his back, eyes drifting closed. Aziraphale watches his cock soften, before tugging the blanket back over them. 

“I rather enjoyed that, actually,” Aziraphale tells him, before Crowley can ask. Before Crowley can start worrying post orgasm. 

“You must be very good, you came rather quickly,” Aziraphale keeps his voice as innocent as he can, enjoying the look on Crowley’s face. 

“It did however make me rather peckish,” Aziraphale decides, thinking about it. Crowley’s embarrassed scowl turns into a grin.

“Of course, angel,” Crowley’s voice is laced with exasperation but he sounds impossibly fond and he snaps his fingers and a flute of champagne and a plate of eclairs appear on Aziraphale’s nightstand.

“A little on the nose, don’t you think, dear?” Aziraphale deadpans. 

“Shall I get rid of them?” Crowley threatens. Aziraphale reflexively brings the desserts towards himself, throwing Crowley an alarmed look. 

Crowley puts his hand down with a grin and watches Aziraphale devour the tray one pastry at a time. By the time Aziraphale places the empty flute and the discarded napkin back on the tray and turns around, Crowley is fast asleep next to him. The blanket is pulled up to his neck and his hands just peek out over the top where Crowley clutches it to himself.

Aziraphale is filled with such an overwhelming fondness it rents a noise from him, a low rumbling thing that makes Crowley stir softly, but he doesn’t waken. Aziraphale burrows beneath the covers beside Crowley and watches him sleep until he hears birdsong from the open window and the sun peeks up over the horizon.