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How You Thrill Me

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Crowley’s flat-screen television had gone through several mutations over the past year or so, the first of which was a newly flexible wall mount so it could telegraph in front of the love seat the demon had manifested in his already cramped concrete study. Then, it had gone through a sudden growth spurt, lengthening when the demon’s companion had wished he could see the details on the costumes in Les Misérables more clearly, as it reminded him of their meeting at the Bastille two centuries ago. 

Most recently, the television had found itself in an entirely new room, one that boasted a plush leather settee, a crackling fireplace, and was always tinged with the scent of saltwater from the waves that crashed on the chalk cliffs outside. At the snap of celestial or occult fingers, the screen would flicker to attention with perfect vibrancy, making even the dullest of daily news broadcasts gleam in stunning HD. 

The television was wary of the angel who cohabited with the demon, but he seemed nice enough, even if he had insisted on watching Mamma Mia! and singing along in a terrible falsetto yesterday. The screen, having taken on its owner’s penchant for generally demonic themes, much preferred Chicago, but it would project ABBA through its speakers without complaint.  In its previous installation at the demon Crowley’s apartment, it had heard the terrified shaking of houseplants’ leaves and knew what might befall it if it ever risked disobeying.

Today, Mamma Mia! was on the agenda again, but this time for an audience of two.

"Angel," Crowley said cautiously, as he was beckoned into the lounge. He took one look at the title emblazoned on the flat-screen in the dark of the room. "This is what you wanted to watch?"

"I’d love if you would join me, my dear," Aziraphale requested with a disarming smile that reached up to the crow’s feet at his eyes. "You know, there are some elements of this production I think you may find amusing—it’s quite the tumultuous story. Have you watched it?"

"Can’t say I have," the demon said as he sauntered to the sofa and sat down beside the angel. He slouched back into the seat, the silk of his pyjamas making a slick noise as it met the dark leather of the settee. "Weren’t you just saying yesterday how you didn’t care for the movie adaptation?"

"Oh, well…" the angel shifted, looking between the screen and Crowley’s questioning yellow gaze. "It’s far too late to consider nipping up to the West End to see the theatre production, and seeing as you’ve already prepared for bed, I thought it best to simply… stay in," he explained, eyebrows raised for emphasis. "And it’s not all bad. Meryl Streep is a wonder, as ever." 

"You do like Meryl Streep." Crowley murmured as he watched Aziraphale fumble with the TV remote. As fun as it was to watch the angel struggle with technology, they'd be here all night if this continued. Crowley would do the remote's job for it instead; with a snap of his fingers, the movie began, volume and colours calibrated perfectly. Aziraphale gave the demon a thankful smile before snuggling into his side for the better part of the next two hours.

Or so Crowley thought.

Somewhere between the moonlit opening scene and the shriek of girlfriends reuniting, he sensed something was off. Demons had a general skill for sensing the ripples of intent in their surroundings, good or bad, but Aziraphale's distracted fidgeting and the idle placement of his hot hand on Crowley's silk-covered thigh spoke for itself. There was a certain air to the angel tonight, and it hummed like the anachronistically smooth purr of the Bentley's engine. 

Whatever it was that Aziraphale had planned, it would surely be revealed to the demon in time. At the moment, Crowley was occupied with enjoying all the seeds of chaos the bride-to-be was sowing on-screen whilst trying not to show his enjoyment. Three dads, multiple deceptions, and extraordinary amounts of alcohol? It was a perfect storm. 

It didn't take long for the hand on Crowley's leg to move, curving over to rest warm against his inner thigh. He gave this nothing more than a glance down and then up to Aziraphale's placid expression. The angel's eyes were still on the movie, so Crowley turned his own back to the screen. He snickered when a fastidiously dressed woman, who looked very out of place on a ferry to the island where it all took place, screamed at the sight of gruesome-looking fish. He crossed his arms, tilting his head as more characters entered the picture.

Aziraphale sidled closer and slipped his left hand behind Crowley to rest on his waist through the crack between his back and the seat cushions. He's taken the opening, Crowley thought to himself with vindication. 

In the 6000 years Crowley had known Aziraphale and the past one or so where he had really come to know him, the demon had been trying to crack the enigma that was the angel's thought process, his confounding modus operandi. Now that they lived together, it had become all the clearer.

In any given situation, Aziraphale would, at first, only see what was immediately available to him. He would take the ready-paved road that lay ahead, with its marked-out splits and curves—he wouldn't see anything else, without a second, third, or fourth thought. 

(In this case, it was Crowley's thigh as it rested openly within easy reach.)

Upon walking partway down that path, the angel would cast his eyes elsewhere, observing the changes in scenery and the things in his way, whether they were tread-blackened specks of chewing gum or gleaming little coins. He would think, well, what could I do about this? and continue to barrel onwards, doing whatever it was he thought he could do.

(His hand, creeping inwards.)

Then, Aziraphale would have a realisation, often nudged along by a catalyst of some sort. Crowley's words or actions, oftentimes, were this catalyst—a sort of mental purgative that helped Aziraphale get the stuffiness out from between his ears. Crowley never did anything more than suggest what Aziraphale probably already wanted in the depths of his heart—the angel was a clever one, after all.

So, when Crowley leaned into Aziraphale's embrace, it wasn't a surprise when the hand on his thigh twitched in response, fingertips rubbing ever so slightly in place. Touch—to touch was what the angel wanted. 

Crowley stayed stock-still but kept his muscles relaxed, not wanting to betray any of his thoughts. To the world and to his angel, he would appear to be a regular man-shaped being dressed in black silk pyjamas, playing out his role of the mildly disinterested significant other being subjected to yet another jukebox musical. Crowley was absolutely not thinking about the fluid back-and-forth circles Aziraphale had begun drawing with the tips of his fingers across his thigh, or the way Aziraphale's own thighs had parted a bit, a lapse in the angel's usual propriety.

The demon swallowed down a revealing noise when Aziraphale's fingers slid off the fabric with a careless flick, landing them just a little higher between his legs than before. The motions stopped, the angel's hand frozen in place, too far to hit home but close enough to tease.

Suddenly, it was very, very pertinent that Crowley preferred to go pants-less in this particular set of pyjamas. The rub of the silk against his skin was delicious, especially when it was his angel doing the rubbing, but  he stared harder at the screen (where for some reason a roulette wheel had appeared around Meryl Streep's head) as Aziraphale grew bolder, stroking lightly along the centre seam of his bottoms instead of shying away. A familiar craving began to bloom under that barely-there sensation, and Crowley crossed his arms tighter with a restrained exhale. If his motions didn't give how affected he was by this small touch away, his corporation's heartbeat certainly would, the blasted thing. 

It wasn't that Crowley had become as sensitive as some blushing virgin, not really. This was Crowley's well-practised imagination making itself known for the umpteenth time, inconveniently hooked up to his body with all its involuntary responses and revealing mannerisms.     

It was just that he had learned so much since they'd moved to the South Downs—particularly, that the things Aziraphale could do with his well-manicured hands were downright formidable. They were astonishing, out of this world, sublime . Crowley knew the ins and outs of temptation and yet he consistently found himself disarmed by the mere brush of Aziraphale's fingers. 

(No wonder he was a pathetic excuse for a demon. He'd been in the palm of this angel's hand for such a long, long time.)

Eyes still trained on the screen, Crowley's brain went live-wire, tracking each of Aziraphale's movements as his nerves strained towards each new point of contact. Having coaxed Crowley's groin into a roused state, Aziraphale brought his hand up to the demon's collar, resting his palm across one collarbone before proceeding to undo Crowley's button-up top without so much as an ask. It was alright that he did, of course—Crowley was amenable to whatever his angel had in store, and he uncrossed his arms to allow it—but, reluctant as Aziraphale was to remove his other hand from its perch, it took an awfully long time for him to undo each shell button with a single hand. 

Crowley couldn't control the slight furrow that crinkled his brow at this pacing. They were otherworldly beings, for badness' sake! They could snap their fingers and make an entire wardrobe's worth of clothing disappear into the ether. In his opinion, doing things the mortal way was only endearing when it wasn't so thoroughly maddening. 

His teeth were well and truly gritted when Aziraphale popped the last button through its hole, leaving the sides of his shirt hanging open. The angel's breath hitched in that telling way it did whenever he relished the exposure of Crowley's body, and before he could reach for the elastic waistband of the trousers, Crowley broke his vow of silence.

"Just get rid of them," he blurted flatly, swatting at the angel's hand with no real meanness. Crowley only allowed himself a quick glance at Aziraphale's surprise-parted lips lest he flush too hard. Just as the other entity began to ask something, Crowley replied, knowing the question already. "It's fine. S'nothing you haven't seen before." 

For the first time since he'd begun touching Crowley that night, Aziraphale mumbled a bashful, "oh, y-yes, veritably…" 

As though he hadn't just undone Crowley's top of his own volition.

As though he hadn't just rubbed shamelessly at Crowley's cock through his nightclothes for the past ten minutes.

The demon sighed, incredulous as he laid his eyes back on the TV. Full of contradictions, his angel was. 

With a soft snap, Crowley's legs were bare but his shirt was still in place—Aziraphale pushed the silk apart to uncover more of Crowley's torso, and the hand on his waist was replaced underneath the fabric. Being bared so suddenly made goosebumps rise across the demon's flesh, and the leather upholstery of the settee felt nice and foreign under his backside. Looking down at himself, he saw that his flesh had really grown quite willing under the angel's ministrations, and a twist of arousal coiled in his gut. Licking his lips with a flicker of his tongue, Crowley turned with the intention of paying Aziraphale back in kind.

"Oh, don't mind me, dearest," Aziraphale hastened with a honeyed tone. He put a hand on Crowley's belly to still him before he could reposition himself. "Let me take care of things. You just continue watching—you seemed to be so enjoying the movie before I distracted you from it."

Forget the movie and stop being such a damned tease, Crowley thought, but didn't say, as he bit his bottom lip.

Instead, he eased back with a raised eyebrow and turned his gaze toward the television, though he'd missed enough that he had no idea what on earth this next song was about.  Whatever it was, it featured lots of women abandoning their chores to frolic on a dock. 

Satisfied with Crowley's compliance, Aziraphale lifted his hand away. In the demon's peripheral vision, he saw Aziraphale's hand come in, yet again, to stroke wide-fingered down the slouched curves of his torso. The touch went lower, and lower, and skirted past Crowley's erection only to drag along his thigh again. Then, returning to his chest anew, Aziraphale added the blunt pressure of his fingernails as he raked them slowly downwards. 

Crowley wanted to feel those nails intensely, and he imagined, hoped, that Aziraphale would scratch across a nipple and set his nerves alight. Instead, they were avoided, sending Crowley even deeper into the limbo of hot frustration he'd had more than enough of already.

'Don't mind me' my arssse, he wanted to hiss. 

Instead, he settled for a thick grunt that came off as restless instead of exasperated and tried to care even an iota about the swimsuit-clad couple singing on screen. He couldn't care less about them, he found, when Aziraphale leaned in and his tongue-wetted lips moved up the column of Crowley's neck. As he reached the demon's ear, Aziraphale licked along the shell of it and blew gentle breath across the surface, making the blood pounding in Crowley's ears throb and shoot directly downwards.

The demon anchored one fist on his knee, clenching it as though that would help relieve anything. Aziraphale moved his mouth along his jaw and his hand toyed at Crowley's chest, carding through the reddish hairs scattered over its expanse, relentlessly gentle with it all. If they had been in bed then, Crowley would have thrashed. He would have pulled his infuriating, entrancing angel down into a kiss with all the desire he could muster and demanded he stop playing games—but here, seated on their sofa and metaphorically sandwiched between Aziraphale and the television, Crowley was stuck.

To neither party's surprise, he cried out, then muffled the sound with the back of his hand, when Aziraphale decided to grace Crowley's cock with his touch. Two fingers drew up the underside of the demon's length and caught on the flare of his head. Then, Aziraphale began to thumb at the wetness at the very tip and Crowley felt pure need flood his body. Breath caught in a gasp, he bucked his hips up to find more of that searing sensation—it was agonising, agonisingly good, now that Aziraphale had riled him up so thoroughly.

It appeared, however, that Aziraphale wasn't done. 

He wrapped his hand around Crowley, eliciting a shuddering breath from the demon that quickly turned into desperate pants when Aziraphale, yet again, set a decadent slowness. His strokes, aided by miracled slickness, worked up and down Crowley's shaft in steady, too-long motions, never quite hitting the way Crowley knew they could. His legs parted wider, a plea if Crowley ever gave one.

He knew what it could be like, knew what Aziraphale had done to him in the past, and that was the worst part of all this: he knew he wanted to fall apart in his angel's care, but this was excruciating in ways he had never known. It was tempting to just take himself in hand and wank till he came all over their mahogany coffee table, but it was even more tempting to be led up on this tense climb, the promise of even greater pleasures too alluring to push aside.

There was never a doubt, when it came to he and Aziraphale, that whatever carnalities they engaged in would result in nothing less than utter bliss. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale said sweetly, his voice smoky yet even to the demon's ear, "you've stopped paying attention to the movie, haven't you?"

"You… You aren't paying attention either." Crowley protested weakly, his voice strained and rough. The movie had become nothing more than white noise at this point. 

"I don't suppose I can fault you for losing focus," the angel decided. "I didn't have quite so many, well, distractions when I watched this last night." He moved to scrape his nails along the sensitive skin on the inside of Crowley's thigh, making him shiver. "Now, be a dear and rest your leg over mine, so I might reach even more of you."



Aziraphale smiled a delighted smile as Crowley indulged him yet again, and he laid his palm encouragingly on the inside of the demon's knee as it came to rest on top of his own. With the hand on Crowley's waist, the angel pulled him closer, and he felt Crowley not just lean but fully shift so that his legs splayed out further for Aziraphale's whims. 

Aziraphale hadn’t known he would love to see, hear, feel Crowley like this, but oh, how he did.

He already knew that he loved to draw pleasured, disbelieving noises from his demon, to dote on everything Crowley could offer, but never had he held Crowley so securely in place with his ministrations. To think, a mere hour ago Aziraphale had thought their evening would be highlighted, at most, by sarcastic comments about youthful human stupidity, a bottle or two of wine, and perhaps a little cuddling, as they both enjoyed that. 

Then, Crowley had strolled in wearing those pyjamas of his. It was his favourite set, the very same ones he had worn a few nights ago when he had been sheathed deep inside Aziraphale, the dark silk pushed down and away to perfectly frame his, frankly, irresistible body. The angel had scrabbled for purchase on those clothed shoulders, those forearms as Crowley gave him an outstanding seeing to, and when he laid his palm on Crowley's thigh for the first time this evening it was almost like déjà vu. The memory of it all had sparked, flickered, and then grown in a small, steady flame.  

Aziraphale had let himself be carried away by the warmth that grew in his heart and his cheeks and his pants, and now here they were, with Crowley beautifully bared in more than just a physical way.

The angel smoothed a hand over Crowley's thigh as he had done earlier that evening, a back-and-forth motion that felt insubstantial now that he'd touched much more. But perhaps he could venture lower, bring his fingertip tantalisingly between Crowley's buttocks, and caress the tender skin there. With Crowley's legs parted this way that little crevice fit the pad of Aziraphale's middle finger as though it had been meant for this all along, though the moan Crowley let out at the light touch sounded like one of surprise. His hips tilted forwards and "deeper" echoed in Aziraphale's mind, a request Crowley had made many times before… but the angel pulled his fingers back to tease. 

It wasn't patience that made Aziraphale do so, but rather, the thrill of the chase. 

Crowley's cock looked well and truly needy now, and more precum welled at its tip to replace the slick Aziraphale had spread over the head and down its length. The demon squirmed with every touch, breath ragged with every heave of his chest. Then, that fluid began to run downwards, and Aziraphale had a wicked thought.

"Oh my," he remarked as he took his hand away, sounding far more composed than Crowley would think he had the right to be. The demon frowned at the loss of sensation and his narrow, goldenrod eyes darted sideways to search Aziraphale's coy expression. "How irresponsible of me—I should have known we'd make a mess eventually." 

"Angel-" Crowley said, with a tone of warning that was severely undercut by his dishevelment.

Aziraphale began to snap his fingers, but paused, looking thoughtfully away, to consider what he ought to manifest underneath them. A nice throw, he thought, would do the trick—but in what material, colour, and thickness? It had to be comfortable but still serve as a protective barrier for their upholstery. A velvety, wine-red blanket appeared under them with a minor miracle, and Aziraphale looked back to Crowley to find him red-faced and very frustrated indeed.

"Now, shall we pick up where we left off?" Aziraphale suggested, letting his voice drop to sultry levels. 

The flare of heat that emanated from Crowley's body told the angel, "yes, we really should, you massive prick." He took this as a compliment.

Aziraphale's hand returned to its roost between the demon's legs, teasing just as gingerly as before but with more speed. The careful stiffness of Crowley's slouch, Aziraphale realised triumphantly, was breaking. The demon's belly tensed and released and tensed again, his head drooped forward with closed eyes, and his lip was bitten red for the foreseeable future. Crowley was so good, allowing Aziraphale to spoil him like this—he deserved some relief. Aziraphale pressed his finger onwards, finally reaching the delicate skin of his entrance and rubbing there with some new slickness.

Crowley's right hand landed on the outer flank of Aziraphale's thigh, his grip taut and almost vibrating with strain. As the angel had established such an unhurried pace early on in the evening, the demon's anticipation of yet more torture was palpable. He was dreading how long Aziraphale would draw this stage out, readying himself to endure it regardless of his need. As though he hadn't learned, by now, that his angel could be spontaneous in the most desperate of times. 



An illustration of Aziraphale fingering Crowley on the settee, lit dimly by the TV in front of them.


To remind him, Aziraphale miracled his fingers wet and slid two of them right into Crowley, who opened up closely, but not too tightly, around the intrusion. His head jerked with a gasp like he'd come up from water for air, knocking his forehead against Aziraphale's cheekbone—if he were human, it would leave an aching bruise. 

"Sorry. F-Fuck," Crowley rasped, his face still tucked against the angel's as his fists clenched, white-knuckled, where they rested. He was feverish, gorgeously hot and open, and his cock leaked as Aziraphale bent the tips of his fingers ever so slightly. 

Suddenly, the angel remembered his own arousal—it could wait, but Crowley was so erotic in this moment that it was hard not to wish for some stimulation. Instead of attending to himself, however, Aziraphale channelled his desires into giving Crowley that pleasure, sliding his fingers in and out and revelling in the noises, or the lack thereof, that loosened his dearest's lips as his head tilted back.

Aziraphale had experienced similar treatment before, knew that intimate sensation, that feeling of being filled and exposed but wanting more. He rocked his fingers in and out, using the tried and tested ‘come hither’ motion that had made Crowley arch right off the mattress with a shout the first time they'd done this. Applied here, it was making him shake, and he let out a helpless cry that made Aziraphale throb with the realisation that he'd finally gotten Crowley to bring his guard down completely, if only for a little while. 

Even though they'd entered a new, very domestic arrangement, it was a lot to ask of them both to be as open as they might wish to be—the walls that were built around their hearts 6000 years ago still remained, to some extent, today. It was different when they were both nude and vulnerable, when they could rely on the helpful haze of sex to make up for the subconscious discomfort of baring it all. Here, Crowley had allowed Aziraphale to breach his defences without that prerequisite, and he not only loved but trusted, soul-deep trusted , the angel, even as he was subjected to Aziraphale's every impulse.

The angel's heart swelled at the thought, then it twisted. It now seemed so inadequate that he was only connected to Crowley by the fingers of one hand. For goodness' sake, he had another hand that had gone unused this entire time! And they hadn't kissed nearly enough tonight.

"My dear," Aziraphale murmured, a surge of emotion making his voice tight. He looked down to pause, then withdraw his hand, his fingers held nearby as he looked back up to search Crowley's overwhelmed expression. He was panting heavily, looking dazed and, with that furrowed brow, like he might cry at the loss of those digits. "Oh, my dear." 

The hand behind Crowley's back was brought up to cup his jaw and Aziraphale kissed him, deep and wet and warm. The demon softened and whined under his mouth only to moan and tense up again when Aziraphale's fingers found his entrance, this time returning with three fingers instead of two. They sank in with gentle insistence, then plunged forward to rub up at the spot Aziraphale loved to exploit for the way it made Crowley lose himself. 

Crowley's hand left the angel's thigh to clutch at his arm instead, nails digging into the broadcloth of his shirt sleeve as he groaned desperately. He pressed back into the kiss with passion, suddenly animated by the escalated touch, and he rolled himself down onto Aziraphale's fingers with a vengeance and serpentine ease as he finally sought real release.

"Yes," Aziraphale thought, projecting it into the space between them, "Take what you need my love, my dearest, my Crowley-" 

And then he came. Crowley spilled over the brink, mouth open with a silent cry, as he came in waves. His body quaked against Aziraphale's own, and the angel dutifully egged him on, fingers not stopping until the fireworks of Crowley's orgasm finished giving off their brilliant sparks.

At last, Crowley gave a wrenched-out sigh and went limp against him. 

They really had made a mess—it was a good thing Aziraphale had manifested that throw, even if it hadn't saved the coffee table or the rug. 



As the room around them returned to their awarenesses, Crowley's breaths evened with a long exhale. Aziraphale's fingers had been removed from his arse and miraculously cleaned, and his hand now rested on the demon's belly. Somewhere along the way, the television had also paused the movie—it was smart, that telly was. 

"You bastard," Crowley huffed when his voice came back to him. There was no venom to it, but there was that special dose of awe in his words, making Aziraphale wiggle happily in his seat. The angel was pleased, evidently.

Crowley liked when his angel was pleased, but it was high time he pleased him even further. 

With a snap, he made it so that Aziraphale was straddled over his thighs, and the angel yelped in an undignified manner.


"Oh, you thought we were done," the demon said nonchalantly, raising his eyebrows for effect. "Thought you could make me come my brains out and spend the rest of the night sipping cocoa and reading Chaucer, did you?" Aziraphale gaped at him, a flush suddenly high on his cheeks—just the way Crowley wanted. He laid his hands on the seat of Aziraphale's trousers, then leaned in to whisper, low and teasing, in Aziraphale's ear. "Hands on the backrest, angel. And don't move them."

There was another snap, a softer one, and Crowley found his hands on bare skin.

"You didn't say anything about performing miracles," Aziraphale justified, his hands still on the tufted upholstery but now entirely naked from head to toe. 

What an utter bastard. Crowley loved him so.

Taking Aziraphale's undressed state as consent to put his hands all over, the demon began with raking his fingernails over the meat of the angel's buttocks to mimic the steps Aziraphale took earlier and make him inhale sharply. Though his cock had softened in Crowley's post-orgasmic glow, it was quickly filling again, and Crowley grinned at the sight. Aziraphale, the hedonist, never took long to get ready and hard for him. 

 "You knew exactly what you were doing, you minx," Crowley husked between kisses and nips laid all over the angel's décolletage. " 'Mamma Mia!' , my arse." He was palming Aziraphale's hardness as slow as anything, almost as slowly as he'd been worked up earlier. He wasn't as patient as his angel, though, and when Aziraphale let out an indulgent sigh he slicked up his hand and stroked him in earnest.

"It would have just been 'Mamma Mia!' if not for you and…and the pyjamas you fucked me in last Wednesday. Oh-" Aziraphale choked, his indignance dampened by the stutter of his hips into Crowley's touch. The admission sent a tingle up Crowley's spine and muddled a wonderful cocktail in his brain. 

"Well that explains why this is still on," he murmured in amusement as he gestured to his shirt with a tilt of his head. He moved his fingers in a circle over the head of the angel's cock, savouring the sound of the sweet, closed-eye moan this elicited. Slowly, he slid down the settee, the dark red mess of his hair bracketed by Aziraphale's chest and arms. The perfect little nook to cause some trouble in.

At the angel's questioning noise, Crowley put his mouth to Aziraphale's chest, feeling him stiffen with another "oh!" and then press into Crowley's face with a heady sigh at the broad lave of Crowley's tongue over one nipple. Unlike Crowley, Aziraphale's chest was sensitive, and he preferred wide touches to pinpointed ones. He also loved when Crowley would latch on and suck, especially when paired with a skilful twist of Crowley's hand on his cock. The demon used this knowledge now, placing one hand on the angel's hardness and the other on his backside, pulling and squeezing one cheek with sprawled fingers. 

It was foolproof, the way the combination of these things undid Aziraphale. Crowley's strokes quickened to the babbled litany of praises and pleas spilling from Aziraphale's lips. He knew consistency was key, so he continued working his tongue over the angel's chest, imagining that he was sliding vaguely downwards to satisfy his oral fixation instead. Now that was an image, one that was less a visual than a collection of sensations—the salty musk of the angel's fluids on Crowley's taste buds, the thick heft of his cock rubbing his palate as he swallowed Aziraphale down…

Yes, they would be situated just like this, with Crowley's head pinned between a throw cushion (the angel would insist on it, fretting needlessly about his corporation's neck) and Aziraphale's hips. He'd lure him into it, crooning about how much he'd like to quench the angel's desires with the wet, welcoming heat of his mouth, and once Aziraphale had himself base-deep in it he wouldn't be able to stop himself from plunging in again and again, fucking Crowley's face so hard he'd become one with their nice leather settee.

They would have to do that some time. It would be, dare he think it, heavenly. Nearly as heavenly, in fact, as the sight and sound and feel of Aziraphale unraveling through his efforts, as he was now. His moans pitched higher, staccato as his pleasure crested, and then he was coming, trembling with the exertion of it. His hands abandoned the back of the settee to hug Crowley's head to his chest. Heated as their bodies had become, Crowley barely felt the pulses of cum that landed on his chest, but knowing they were there was satisfying enough. 

When Aziraphale's arms finally relaxed, he sat back onto Crowley's thighs with a sigh, holding onto the demon's shoulders to steady himself. Eyes still glazed with pleasure, he took one look at Crowley's breathless face and leaned in to capture the demon's lips with his own to express his appreciation.



"D'you know, angel," Crowley mused some time later, after some clean-up miracles and a break for a drink, "there's a Mamma Mia! Two?" They were tangled together under the throw Aziraphale had conjured, though it was now twice as large as before.

"Oh, they would, wouldn't they?" The angel scoffed into Crowley's hair, chiding the nebulous they. "Once anything makes a bit of money they'll make a sequel. It's absolutely unnecessary—just look what happened to Phantom of the Opera !"

"We could go see it. The sequel," Crowley suggested, and swiftly began to list off reasons they should do so. "It'd make for a good laugh, at least. S'more ABBA. We could have popcorn. Ah, and Cher's in it."

"Who's 'Cher'?" Aziraphale asked, then decided he didn't really need to know. "Never mind. I assume that's someone humans find important." He drummed his fingers lightly on Crowley's sternum, thinking. "When would you like to go? To the cinema, that is."

"Whenever we fancy going, of course," the demon drawled. "But before we do, I'd like to get through the entirety of the original. If you'd kindly leave your thigh-groping till the end credits…"

Aziraphale spluttered and Crowley laughed, a good, full bellied, honest sound.

Yes, this was bliss—the kind that burrowed into your chest like a parasite and worried you at first, with the depth and innumerable branches of the roots it lay down. Then, it flooded your ribcage with fondness and passion and weakness and strength, until you never knew how you lived without this: a chest so full it was like two hearts beat inside it instead of one. 

Not that hearts mattered, to them—that was circulatory system nonsense. But the meaning was one and the same.

They were on their own side, and oh, there was no other place in this world they would rather be.