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Till it Shines

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There were few things Aziraphale enjoyed more than night: the hours during which life returned to its roost and soothed its weary bones.

Of course the nocturnal creatures, having slept through the day, were only just stretching their wings by nightfall—but they tended to be much quieter than the diurnal ones. They were more conscientious that way. It was as though the darkness, by virtue of its all-encompassing embrace, hushed their steps so as not to disturb those who slumbered.

Humans, ever rebellious, had cleverly devised artificial light sources to trick their biological clocks. As the years passed, they had invented ways of defying the sun's schedule, choosing instead the hot glow of a fire pit or the odorous flicker of a tallow candle. After electricity came into wide use, the neon-bright nightlife of Soho shined greater than anything Aziraphale had seen before. 

Yes, humans loved to challenge nature. They made the most of every sun-drenched and moon-lit minute. They chose their own waking hours, no matter the time of day.

Angels and demons, by contrast, were active neither strictly by night or day—they were simply alert when they wished to be. For Aziraphale, it was a blessing to be able to drink in the pleasures of both. By day, he could have a full English at their local pub, could go for a bracing walk along warm, chalky shores, could help Crowley reprimand the plants in their sunroom. By night, he could enjoy a glass of Château Mouton Rothschild by the crackle of their fireplace, could work through the undiscovered but long-owned books in his collection by lamplight, could look up to find Crowley wandering into the parlour to give him a kiss goodnight, as he was about to now. 

"Bedtime already?" Aziraphale inquired fondly, welcoming the demon with a glance.

"You know me, angel," Crowley said, an equally fond tinge to his drawl. "Need a good sleep after a long day of doing fuck-all." The angel hummed in agreement, marking his page in the book in his lap as Crowley perched himself on the arm of Aziraphale's plush wingback chair. "What's that you're reading? Chaucer?" The demon asked, tilting his head to better see the title embossed in gold on the book's cover.

"Oh, I felt in the mood for some poetry tonight," the angel explained, glancing down at his lap and back up to Crowley again. "I've read all his work before, of course, but this is a new nineteenth century edition with illustrations."

"Mm. Chaucer—one of the only good things to come out of the fourteenth century."

"You've read him?" Aziraphale asked, a little surprised. Crowley had never developed a penchant for reading, or perhaps just not to the level Aziraphale had taken to it.

"Nah, never liked Middle English much," Crowley confessed, leaning against the side of the chair back. "Too throaty for my liking. But you like him, so he can't be that bad."

"I'll read him to you sometime, so you may see for yourself," Aziraphale beamed and reached his free hand up to catch Crowley's nape, drawing him down for a soft peck on the lips. "Good night, my dear."

"Night, angel," the demon murmured. He pressed a kiss to Aziraphale's temple with an idle touch to his arm before he stood and sauntered back through the archway he'd come through. Emotion seemed to hold shape in Aziraphale's chest before it collapsed into a saccharine puddle on the floor of his ribcage—he so adored this new stage of their existence, here in their cottage.

 Yes, he loved every moment—it was the excitement of carrying on in nearly the very same way as one had been for as long as one could remember, but as two instead of one. Perhaps to some, that wouldn't be so exciting. What was the point of cohabitation, of being together, if things stayed the same? To Aziraphale, that was precisely the point. He and Crowley were free to continue on pursuing whims they had developed through their long stint on Earth. They were free to love the things they loved and each other in every way imaginable. 

In the spirit of living up their newfound freedom, Aziraphale put some music on. He wound up and placed a record on his gramophone with practiced ease. The pleasant rasp and swell of strings and piano through the device's brass horn was, well, music to the angel's ears, and soon he was back to reading, swept away by symphonies and stanzas. 

At two in the morning, the lights in the parlour flickered out without warning. Aziraphale's breath caught in his throat. The gramophone continued its sweet song, advancing in a crescendo that mirrored the thrill that fluttered up the angel's spine.

Aziraphale was meant to be caught off guard, and he had been, for a moment. But he waited with bated breath, eyes darting around for something to focus on—a glint of light, or shadowy figures in his periphery.

A hundred and twenty-four years ago, he had been left in the dark on a summer night not unlike this. 



He had been invited to a soirée by a gentlemanly acquaintance of his who had promised a night of gaiety. And oh, how pleasant it had been, to sit and dine with other refined women and men! But at the end of the table, Aziraphale noticed him: Crowley, dressed every bit like a dandy, his smart tongue a smoky, sanctimonious refrain amidst the chatter. 

Aziraphale dared not address him nor look him in the eye. How could he, when just thirty years prior they'd separated on such a sour note? Fraternising—Crowley's bitten, cold echo of Aziraphale's stock response… No, Aziraphale stuck to conversing with those he'd been seated with. He ached to know, why here, why now? Why has Crowley appeared here, before my very eyes, as though nothing happened between us? 

The angel chose to focus on his entree instead of sneaking glances at the other end of the table, though he found it hard to stop entirely.

Dinner was had, and all the guests stayed in the dining room rather than the ladies taking their leave to retire to the drawing room. That should have been Aziraphale's first indication that things were not what they seemed at this party, but the wine had slowed his mental processes and a full stomach made him more accepting of transgressions. The hours dragged on, languid as the pour of after-dinner drinks into crystal stemware. The grandfather clock in the hall distantly chimed two in the morning, and the room was plunged into darkness. 

Suddenly, the sweet whisperings Aziraphale had been plied with throughout the night weren't so innocuous. At the first invasive pull of a fist gripping his lapel and the feel of fingers prying under his waistband, Aziraphale was sober.

The angel broke away with a curt apology, leaving his seat to feel for the wall. He stayed flush against it, his mind swirling as desperate moans and wet, lewd noises began to erupt through the room. Oh Lord in Heaven, what had he gotten himself into? The love radiating from the amorous couples weakened Aziraphale's knees and he found himself locked in place, frozen as the waves of emotion began to muddle his head.

It was supposed to be a good night, to be nothing more than a dinner. Aziraphale was naive, had always been naive, and his angelic blind trust led him headfirst into disaster time and time again— 

Then, there was a hand on his arm, and Aziraphale suppressed the urge to yell.



"It's me," Crowley whispered, low and rasping in Aziraphale's ear; his voice was so unmistakably Crowley. He held the angel's forearm with a warm grip. This time, Aziraphale wasn't standing against a wall but sitting in his cosy armchair with a book. His breath caught all the same.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale murmured, reliving the befuddlement and relief that had washed over him. 

The hand on his arm tugged. "Let's get you out of here," the demon said, more an order than a suggestion. 

Chaucer dropped to the floor in Aziraphale's haste to rise and be pulled along. His shin bumped against a nearby ottoman, but he couldn't care. Crowley was here, his guide through the dark, and Aziraphale's heart grew along with the heat in his cheeks.

There was the click of a door handle and creak of hinges, and then they were cloistered away in a pantry that definitely hadn't been in the cottage an hour ago but felt familiar nonetheless. Aziraphale backed up against the worktop lining one wall, his palms resting on cold marble. Crowley snapped, and a lamp on his side of the room opposite the angel began to glow, casting the demon's features in warm light. Crowley had changed for the occasion—gone were his silk pyjamas, replaced by a fine dark dinner jacket and low-cut waistcoat which framed his immaculate white shirtfront. The centre placket led to a matching bow tie and high winged collar, leaving  just a triangle of Crowley's throat bare. Aziraphale's gaze travelled up to meet the tinted railroad spectacles Crowley had taken to wearing sometime around the 1860s. His heart leapt to find the same concerned scowl on the demon's face he'd found at this same moment so many years ago.

"What are you doing here?" Crowley hissed, the slightest hint of yellow betrayed through his eyewear. 

"I could ask you the same thing," Aziraphale defended, falling back on his long-held instincts and echoing his response from that night.

"I'm a demon, hanging 'round orgies is what I do. Didn't think your lot would approve of Mr. Inslip's soirées." 

"Orgies–!" The angel spluttered before recomposing himself and snapping, "as a matter of fact they don't. I was invited here by an acquaintance of mine, and I had no idea it was this sort of—this sort of affair."

"Oh yes, there're lots of affairs going on out there. Just a bunch of well-to-do gents out for a lark in the dark," Crowley snarked, paying special attention to the last few consonants as he nodded towards the door. "Hope their wives don't find out. That'd be devastating for everyone."

Aziraphale was about to ask what Crowley meant by that when a heavy, thoroughly realistic thud landed against said door, accompanied by a wanton, high-pitched whine muffled by sturdy oak. The two froze, startled by the interruption. The door shook against its frame in a steady, punishing rhythm as a pair of lovers outside went at it like rabbits. Moan after moan tumbled through the cracks between the rooms, and Aziraphale was on edge at once. Crowley drew a hand up in a hurried snap, jamming the lock and muting the noises from the dining room simultaneously.

The heat radiating from Aziraphale's face was undeniable now, and he bowed his head as an awkward sort of thanks. "W-Well, no wonder the population's booming," he joked, smiling sheepishly as he squeezed his hands, "if they're quite so enthusiastic about… procreation." He made several glances at the door. It still shook, but it was silent now.

"No, that'd be some other lot," Crowley said idly, crossing his arms. "No miracles of life happening here tonight—they're all in drag. Sinful, innit? All that spilled seed."

"All of them?" Aziraphale gaped, looking back at the door and then to Crowley. He was more flabbergasted by the ladies' convincing guises than their alleged sins—humans were never the most virtuous of God's creations. "My word."

They fell silent together, the room unbearably quiet and almost claustrophobic with the absence of outside sound. Though they didn't strictly need to breathe, they breathed, Crowley's long, restrained huffs in counterpoint to Aziraphale's short, suspenseful ones. Their breaths sounded louder in the small space, and the mere foot or two between he and Crowley felt close enough, hot enough, to singe the edges of Aziraphale's control. 

The truth was, Aziraphale had wanted. Backed into this little pantry in 1895, he had gorged on Crowley's scent, his words, his presence, in the few hours he had spent with him in close quarters. They hadn't done anything more than shoot the breeze, reminisce about the olden times, and desperately avoid dredging up their argument in St. James's Park, but Crowley had been right there.

It was a temptation like no other Aziraphale had suffered. When he returned to the bookshop that morning, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about what might have happened had he reached across the divide, taken Crowley's hands in his own, gotten those silly spectacles off his hook of a nose, and let his desire be known. 

The burgeoning pressure in his trousers, which had been so shameful then, felt promising now as they relived that moment. Still, Aziraphale kept his hands clasped tight over his lap.

"I popped in for a few temptations," Crowley admitted, breaking the quiet, "you know the sort—a sprinkling of lust here, a smear of greed there. Blackmail's like a spectator sport with the types who attend these gatherings." He uncrossed his arms and pushed himself off the sideboard on his end of the pantry. Crossing the space between them, he leaned against the cupboard to Aziraphale's left. Aziraphale tracked every move Crowley made, his eyes widening. "But what should I find but you , angel—the greatest tempter of them all?"

"A tempter? Oh no, I—" 

Crowley gave him a sly, approving smile. "You are. You're a bloody beacon in the night, drawing moths to your flame," he said, every syllable punctuated as he leaned to whisper in Aziraphale's ear. But he only leaned, not touching as he kept his hands behind his back. "Just ask Mr. Leslie Roland, who couldn't keep his sights off you all night."

"He put his hands on me," Aziraphale murmured distantly, with a furrowed brow.

"I knew he would. Wasn't sure if you did—I could sense his lust from a mile away, being a demon," Crowley said, a tinge of regret in his words. He pulled back to look up and down Aziraphale's body, surveying the angel's state. It made Aziraphale's superfluous heart pound that much harder. "He didn't do anything, did he?" 

"No, I- I put a stop to it before anything happened," Aziraphale confirmed, "ruffled my feathers, at most."

"Good," Crowley almost growled, making Aziraphale throb between his legs. Roland… who was that, again? The man was cast back into the insignificant ledgers of his memory immediately. "No telling what I'd do if anything did happen." 

Happen to you was the implication, and the angel's heart ached, his skin yearning for touch.

Crowley knew this too, and he stepped up to provide. Aziraphale's breath hitched when, instead of his hip, or cheek, or waist, the demon took his hand and kissed the back of it tenderly. He just about melted when Crowley's eyes, goldenrod slivers over the frames of his glasses, met his own.

"Crowley," he breathed as the demon lifted his head. They were departing from the script somewhat, but bollocks to that. Surely Crowley sensed his arousal—for heaven's sake, the evidence was right there between them. And yet, the only point of contact between them was their hands. The very thought of their hands touching would have been overwhelming a century ago, but now, it barely scratched that longing itch, so used Aziraphale was to Crowley being all over him.

"They won't be done for another few hours," Crowley said, sidestepping the plea in Aziraphale's voice and slipping his hand from Aziraphale's. His palm felt unconscionably empty. The door had long since stopped shaking, but presumably the party was continuing outside. "Time gets called around six in the morning, so I'm afraid you're stuck here with me a while longer. But what's a handful of hours to an angel and a demon, eh?" Crowley tilted his head, his voice carefully guarded. "One blink and it'll be over. We can forget this night ever happened—"

"No!" Aziraphale refuted hastily, clutching Crowley's lapel. "No, we… We mustn't."

Crowley looked down to the angel's grip on his jacket, then up to his eyes again. "Angel?"

"Crowley, you saved me from a dreadful situation, I—it would hardly be fair to just walk away from all this," Aziraphale explained. His excuse felt as weak as his knees, but the worktop behind him kept him steady. (As though they'd ever needed "real" excuses to take the scenic route or indulge.) "It's so rare that we have the chance to meet. How could I forget this night?"

The arches of the demon's eyebrows went as high as they could go before they relaxed, Crowley's long fingers taking the spectacles from his face with a flutter of blunt eyelashes. Aziraphale watched quietly as the glasses were slotted into the demon's inner jacket pocket. 

"What I'm hearing," Crowley lilted, voice mischievous but his gaze agleam with warmth, "is that you'd like to remember this night." The demon put his hands on Aziraphale at last, sliding warm pressure up his arms to rest on his shoulders. "That you wouldn't mind if I made sure you'd never forget."

"God, yes," Aziraphale blasphemed, getting his hands on Crowley's waist to pull him between his legs. The demon let out a surprised bark of a laugh at this sudden boldness—Aziraphale would never have had the confidence to do this, all those years ago. As quickly as the angel had seized control, Crowley took it back. His fingers trailed down over Aziraphale's shirt, his waistcoat, and then over the thick bulge tenting his trousers. The angel sucked in a breath, his hands landing back on the marble surface.

"See? Tempter," Crowley teased again as he palmed Aziraphale in earnest. Oh, it was sweet—his touch lit Aziraphale's wound-up nerves perfectly, and his layers of clothing were far too hot to endure. He brought his hands up to remove his jacket but halted when Crowley caught them. "Ah-ah," he tutted, planting Aziraphale's hands back where they were. Then, he held them there as he captured Aziraphale's lips, shallow at first and then kissing deeper, with intention. The angel moaned into it, loosening as Crowley began to unclothe him. 



Crowley slid the soft blazer off Aziraphale's shoulders and slipped the buttons of his velvet waistcoat out of their holes with a careful miracle—even in fantasy, his angel would object to any notion of bodice-ripping. His fussy, creative angel, who had asked so nicely to be all but transported back in time for a shag.

The demon would be lying if he said he hadn't ever thought about the one time they had been in such close quarters before he'd gotten his car (Crowley classified most dates this way: B.B. and A.B., for before and after the Bentley), and the infinite possibilities that could have ended up with them tangled up in each other in that pantry but hadn't. The mere sight of Aziraphale with his drink-loosened composure and easy, unguarded smile really had been a temptation of the most potent kind.

His fingers relieved the angel of his bow tie before their lips separated. Crowley moved to purr licentious things in Aziraphale's ear—specifically, the flights of fancy he himself had harboured about that night.

"You think I didn't see you sneaking glances from the other end of the table," Crowley murmured, "but I noticed. 'Course I noticed—you were glowing like anything." His hands pushed Aziraphale's braces to the sides as he whispered, and were currently working on his shirt buttons, desperate to reach flesh. He was unwrapping a present sheathed in exquisite paper, a belated reward for having come to the angel's rescue. 

"You saw me," Aziraphale said a little wondrously, pressing up into Crowley's touch. He watched, transfixed by the sensation this brought as the demon caressed every newly exposed inch.

"Couldn't keep my eyes off you. S'just hard to tell with the specs."

The angel smiled, delighted by this knowledge. Sometimes, the radiance of that grin made it hard for Crowley to remember what he was supposed to be doing. But he wouldn't forget now, with his hands on Aziraphale's body and his lips following closely behind them. Yes, his angel's body, with its comfortable, sensuous form and softness that belied his true boundless strength—there was no other way to appreciate the whole of it than by mapping its expanse with as much touch as Crowley could muster in this humanoid configuration of his. 

By the time Crowley got on his knees, Aziraphale was panting, tensing with the running of fingers along his newly-bared lower half. His erection looked tantalising, solid as an iron bar and flushed throughout, with the shine of precum at the tip. Crowley's mouth filled at the phantom feeling of it large on his tongue… but it could wait, because that was the whole point of this: they were alone for the first time in six thousand years, and they had till the morning to do as they pleased. As Aziraphale's legs splayed outwards to allow Crowley to move in, the demon snapped his fingers to rid the angel of the trousers restraining his ankles then took his place right between them. 

"Your thighs, angel," he marvelled, rubbing the faint stubble of his cheeks along the meat of one leg to make Aziraphale groan and shudder, "I nearly froze time just to crawl under that table and do this to you—to suck my mark into your skin." He made good on this desire, now that he had the freedom to. 

Aziraphale's hand flew to Crowley's hair and clutched in response, tugging to send a tingle through the demon's scalp and make him pause to hiss at the resulting pulse of arousal. "D-Dear Lord, Crowley—"

Good, Crowley thought, this is good. He hadn't even pulled out the dirtiest of his speech, and already Aziraphale was blaspheming left and right. 

(They'd talked about this before—that the Almighty didn't actually seem to mind Her name taken in vain all that much—but that didn't mean Aziraphale would suddenly go about cursing like a sailor. He preferred his innocuous carb-inspired exclamations.)

An irritated "crumbs…"

A yelped "oh, sugar!"

A pleading "oh, fuck—"

The last was by far Crowley's favourite, and he blew teasing breath across the angel's cock in hopes of hearing it again. He didn't, but the urgent "oh" that escaped Aziraphale's lips was enough. Crowley turned his golden gaze up to meet the angel's as he took the base of his length between two fingers. He let his tongue out to rub on the underside of the head for a moment before enclosing his mouth around it. 

The angel positively keened as Crowley went to work with careless slurps and hot, wet suction back and forth along his shaft. Aziraphale, the outwardly more fastidious of the two, would never admit it, but he liked when Crowley's mouth was loose: sloppy and noisy and the furthest thing from neat. The demon could understand why— the sound of him around Aziraphale's cock struck at the gong of his arousal, reverberating through his own burning ears and no doubt the angel's as well. The taste of him filled Crowley's mouth to the brim, more mouth-watering than the tannins of a fine wine because here, in this moment, he was the reason for the angel's arousal— the oasis to his thirst, a thirst that could only be slaked by Crowley's waters. 

Aziraphale was his, and Crowley would give him every last drop from his well. He would never go dry, because his angel was the spring from which he sourced.

At a tug on his red locks and a stuttered plea, Crowley pulled off Aziraphale's cock with a last drag of his tongue up its length. A hand kept still around the base of the angel's length held his hips steady as liquid almost indistinguishable from saliva dripped from the slit at his tip, and Crowley touched a finger to it, putting the stuff into his mouth. It was more of the same musky, salty flavor that lingered on his tongue already, and he moaned for show, knowing that Aziraphale would bite his lip and stare helplessly as he did so.

If they really had done this in 1895, Crowley wouldn't have had the pleasure of knowing how to press exactly each of the angel's buttons. No, he much preferred this, where they could bastardise the past with as much debauchery as they liked. He looked up at Aziraphale, who stroked his hair, smiled up to his eyes and called Crowley wonderful.

Wonderful. Full of wonder. Crowley liked that—it sent a butterfly-like warmth to his core. He squeezed at Aziraphale's hip as he stood, ready to indulge the next item on the angel's wish list.



As the demon stood, Aziraphale watched his face— Crowley's reddened, perfect face, with its lamp-chiseled contours and friction-flushed lips. He had to reach out to touch him, to rest his fingers on the plane of Crowley's cheek and beckon him closer. And closer Crowley came, his smile-taut lips honing in on Aziraphale's own. They kissed for a short while, the wet lick of Crowley across his sensitive palate and against his tongue fuelling the angel's desperation. He made a demonstrative noise, hands pulling at Crowley's nape. Kissing: what a marvellous substitute for what words could seldom express.

Crowley pulled back as though he sensed Aziraphale's thoughts. Oh, the foul fiend.

"Enjoy that?" He asked, low and teasing with a slight scratchiness from a blow-job well done, "Didn't know angels took so well to sins of the flesh. You're sure you didn't fall with the rest of us?"

Aziraphale managed to dredge up some good old fashioned wit. "My dear, I'm about as much a demon as you are an angel." Left unsaid was the fact that neither of them were what they were originally chalked up to be—they understood that quite well now that they'd defected.

"Damn right," Crowley agreed with a toothy smile, continuing in a knowing tone, "And I don't need to lure you into anything, do I? You know my game—temptations, blessings and all."  He wrapped his hands around to grip the ample flesh of Aziraphale's buttocks, making him gasp. "So why don't we get right to it? Tell me what you want, Aziraphale. Tempt me." His last words lingered like a hiss, and Aziraphale swallowed thickly at the sound.

Mouth opening and closing wordlessly, the angel tried to articulate his desires. Crowley already knew what Aziraphale wanted—he just liked the affirmation. It was so much more difficult to be eloquent when all of one's blood had been redirected downwards, and even harder when one's answers would be so revealing.

He took a steadying breath. He could play the demon's game—Lord knows he'd done it countless times. "Crowley," he began slowly, placing his hands on the demon's arse to mirror those on Aziraphale's own. "I think… you ought to bend me over this worktop," he leaned in to enunciate with a slight devilishness, "and prepare me with your fingers and tongue, so I might take that divine cock of yours till the sun rises in the east."

Crowley made a sort of strangled choking noise, so red in the face he could burst as he took Aziraphale's words in. That did the trick, Aziraphale grinned to himself as Crowley surged forward to kiss him again in the most enthusiastic "yes" he could muster.

At Crowley's request, he moved to rest on his elbows and belly on the surface he'd been leaning on. The marble was cold to the touch, and Aziraphale made a noise in his throat at the shock of chill that had Crowley pushing his shirt up the planes of his back with no regard for the powder-blue cotton. He found no complaint on his tongue when Crowley grazed the blunt tips of ten fingers down his spine, sending delicious pleasure prickling towards his groin. Then, that delicate touch raked over his shoulder-blades where his wings would sit when manifested (an erogenous zone they'd recently enjoyed exploiting) and up the backs of his thighs, making Aziraphale groan and want to close and open his legs all at once. In their indecision, his thighs trembled as Crowley's hands made their way up the curve of the angel's arse and caressed that sensitive skin.

"You…" Crowley breathed as he kneaded his thumbs in circles, just barely stretching wide the shadowed part of the angel's backside in a repetitive tease. Whatever he wanted to say to rouse Aziraphale further died away in his throat as he got on his knees for the second time that night. As the demon liked to pose himself as the smoothest of talkers, it was often much more satisfying to find him at a loss for words rather than an excess of them, if only because it meant his arousal was starting to meddle with his control. Aziraphale exhaled in amusement. He loved to render Crowley speechless.  

It was an added blessing when he didn't need to lift a finger to do it, which was precisely what Crowley had decided for them with a first wet, warm lave of his tongue over Aziraphale's arsehole. Just to stir the sensitive nerves there, to make him squirm and anticipate. As Crowley thumbed at the wetted skin, Aziraphale could so easily imagine the look on his face and in his eyes. It would be one of concentration, of rapture, with those beautiful yellow irises stretching from corner to corner. Then, they would be obscured again as Crowley lowered his gaze and his mouth to—

Oh, yes. Yes, that tongue, working in practised, effective strokes. Effective not because they brought Aziraphale to the edge of climax in an instant, but in the sense that they stretched the pleasure out like a pulsating, swelling vibrato so he could revel in it. It sang, I would, should keep you like this for days

Aziraphale moaned and quaked as Crowley lapped—ate—at him, his cock twitching and leaking onto the floorboards with every ministration. Faintly he realised that he, too, was being far from articulate. But that was neither here nor there when the demon plunged his tongue in and the cry and shudder that wracked Aziraphale's body were surely explicit enough. 

Fingers, first one then two, joined Crowley's tongue in stretching Aziraphale open, and the angel dropped onto the worktop with a whimper, chest and cheek pressed against the hard stone. He was filled, known, possessed, and love throbbed through every vein of his corporation. It left him dizzy, the only grounding sensations the pressure of Crowley's face against his arse and the sweet drag of his digits demanding everything Aziraphale's body had to offer.

His blood ran hellfire hot but still he wanted it hotter, and he babbled, "oh, please —Crowley, please, good Lord, ah—" Then, there was the relentless rub of fingertips against his prostate just so, and the next thing Aziraphale knew he was gasping, hips jolting, his untouched cock spending sticky-white over the front of the cabinetry. His muscles clenched, tense with orgasm, and Crowley groaned into him, his tongue and fingers still in place.

The demon pulled back, his fingers lingering a while longer so as to not leave the angel unpleasantly bereft as he panted against the counter. Wrung-out, Aziraphale rested for a moment with gravity as his guide, hands feeling at the marble restlessly. There was a kiss to the base of his spine and then another higher up, and Aziraphale's already swollen heart expanded further. 



Aziraphale craved something more than cold marble to clutch to, something warmer and more pliant that he could truly arch up against. Crowley knew because he recognised those signs, those little tells of the angel's. (Besides, he was a demon—he could sense, if not just see, these things.) Still, he bent over Aziraphale to embrace what he could of his back, uncaring that his trousers would make contact with the angel's spit-slick rump because his own cock yearned for the contact. He nosed at the angel's collar and ear, closing his eyes to the warmth and sound of him under his weight.

"That's gonna take a minor miracle to clean up," Crowley husked, one hand stroking down Aziraphale's flank in a soothing way as the other came up to answer the call of one of Aziraphale's hands. They'd already broken from fantasy, their agreed-upon script wadded up and forgotten in his mental bin. What was important was their—Aziraphale's—pleasure. "How d'you want me?"

"Not… Not like this," Aziraphale replied hoarsely, easing up onto his elbows as Crowley moved to give him room. "I want to see you."

And so they moved: Crowley hoisted Aziraphale up onto the worktop and situated his legs around his waist. The angel's lips latched onto Crowley's like first instinct, and suddenly Crowley's trousers were gone, heedless of the braces that still hung uselessly from his shoulders under his layers of clothing. Efficient, Crowley thought before his brain stuttered with the warmth of Aziraphale's grip on his bared erection. He made a needy noise into the angel's tongue as the touch grew slick, aided by a miracle and his own unbidden juices. 

They broke the kiss for Crowley to look down and slide his cock against Aziraphale's own, which had grown hard again, ignoring any sort of normal refractory period. Lust suffused the room, making him rut along the angel's taint, and Crowley let out another moan. Hell, he wouldn't last. As though he knew this, Aziraphale locked his legs closer, placing his hands on the join of Crowley's collar to his lapels and resting his thumbs on the beat of his pulse.

"Come now, my dear." Aziraphale was desperate, voice rough and honey sweet. "I want you; don't make me wait—" 

As though strung along by the angel's voice, Crowley angled himself and sank in, steady but without hesitation. 

The timbre of Aziraphale's moan rang in Crowley's ears, and as he sheathed himself deep in Aziraphale's body, the angel tipped his head back, knocking it against the wall with an unpleasant-sounding thud. The pain conflicted with pleasure on Aziraphale's features for a second, there and then gone again, but Crowley pulled up his fingers to snap in haste. Scenery be blessed, there was no point to being an occult being if you didn't manipulate molecular putty to make things easier on yourself.



The wall softened and formed a divot with the consistency of memory foam under Aziraphale's head, relieving the pressure off his neck, and this small attentive touch disarmed the angel more than anything else they’d done tonight. 

Because this was love, wasn’t it? In its most honest form. Not pure or unadulterated—the cloudy patina of a relationship bore its triumphs and flaws. It was the care and keeping of that shared bond, through little considerations such as this, that brightened that shine again and again. Their love was polished bright like silver, and when Aziraphale looked into Crowley’s eyes, he saw himself reflected back. 

Oh, how it shined.

Aziraphale grabbed at Crowley's hips, jaw dropping when this jostled the length inside him and made arousal throb at his core. "Crowley," he gasped with new urgency, "Crowley, fuck me."

He remembered when those words would have undone Crowley in an instant, when he would have spent inside Aziraphale without actually doing any fucking. Thankfully, the demon's tolerance for angelic cussing had improved since then.

Crowley groaned as he began to thrust, drawing out halfway before sinking right back in again and again. Slick, hot, wonderful. Aziraphale whined, a reedy noise,  as Crowley's cock rubbed sweet in him; friction made the ebb and flow between each burst of pleasure shorter and shorter. He grabbed Crowley's lapels with tight fists and his forearms shook with the effort of keeping his demon close when leaning forward changed the angle and made Aziraphale reel with rapture. 

Theirs, this was theirs and theirs only—this memory, this moment reimagined, this frantic rhythm and the merciless sear of white-hot bliss through his body and essence. There would be no coupling like this again because all their idiosyncrasies made this possible. A being of love and a being of lust coming together to turn back time—who would have thought they could come so close to perfection? Crowley slowed his pace, lifted his head and tilted it to one side to slot his lips against Aziraphale's own. And then he pistoned his hips, drinking in the cries Aziraphale let out into his mouth with sloppy wetness. 

Crowley knew exactly how to undo him completely, knew how the angel liked it slower on withdrawal and hastier driving in. Aziraphale moaned a little louder when Crowley's hands moved down to pull his arse cheeks apart and widen the space between them, stretching the flesh there and creating even more delicious sensation. He was so close, voice lost somewhere in his throat as his mouth dropped open and the heat began to crest with each onslaught.

Then, the dam broke over and over, orgasm crashing through Aziraphale as he let out guttural shouts scarce millimetres from Crowley's cheek. Crowley—benevolent, lovely Crowley—pressed on through this, staying deep inside and bearing down on Aziraphale's body to give him the fullness he loved. He abandoned Crowley's lapels and hugged his head to his chest instead, nails denting the back of Crowley's jacket. He shuddered again, lungs swelling with breath before he began to pant, muscles relaxing around Crowley. 

"Come," Aziraphale croaked thickly, and though it hadn't been intended as a command, Crowley thrust hard once, twice, and then came. He grunted, a deep rumble in his throat, before gasping into Aziraphale's chest. The angel smiled blearily, pleased at being filled with the evidence of his partner's pleasure.

And then they were quiet, chests heaving with physical exertion and tucked into one another despite the sweat and spend between them.

It was quiet but for the early-morning chirping of birds outside and the silence that small rooms often bore that, somehow, felt different from regular silence. Aziraphale might later attribute it to all the love swirling about, the unique airiness of angelic love and heavier, richer demonic affection mingling to make a rather captivating haze. But first, Crowley got himself back upright and grinned toothily at Aziraphale upon noticing his white shirt was soiled by more whiteness.



It was morning, and this, too, Aziraphale enjoyed. After a night well spent on certain nocturnal pleasures, he looked forward to the pleasures more appropriate to the day.

They had left the cramped pantry for the kitchen after cleaning up and getting dressed in more comfortable clothing with the help of celestial and occult magic. The sun dappled the tiled floor through the French doors that led to the sunroom, and Aziraphale perched on a high tufted bar chair, leaning over the counter with a contented smile. That winged mug of his was filled with an aromatic tea latte, and he sipped it lazily. He looked on as Crowley, dressed in a black and white striped apron, a tee and sweatpants, glared at their stove which turned into a cooktop or grill at a moment's notice. This morning, it was a griddle, and batter sizzled dutifully on it as Crowley brandished his spatula and dared it to burn.

"I never imagined that you would manifest a pantry, my dear—and one so reminiscent of the real thing!" Aziraphale said, resting his cheek on one hand. "We do have perfectly serviceable counters in here."

"The space under the staircase needed something in it anyway," Crowley drawled, in that so-very-casual way he liked to present all his endearments outside of the bedroom. "B'sides, extra points for realism."

"I suppose I wouldn't like to eat in the same place we'd just had relations."

Crowley hummed in agreement as he flipped a perfectly golden-brown pancake. "Oh yes, you'd never forget. ' Oh, Crowley, I couldn't possibly have breakfast there—not where my bare bum was not an hour ago!'" He mimicked, tilting his head and raising his brows dramatically as his spatula kept working. Loathe as Aziraphale was to laugh at Crowley's conception of his own voice, he had to admit it did sound like him… or perhaps he was simply in too good of a mood to nitpick. He smiled into a sip of tea.

"Well, I do very much appreciate all the effort you put into fulfilling my whims. Down to the costuming—you didn't have to get all dressed up." 

"Realism, angel," Crowley dismissed, though there was a satisfied smirk on his lips. He was proud, Aziraphale knew, that he'd managed to pull his grand design off: stealing an angel away through the night to ravish him in what used to be a broom closet— a heist well-executed. It had been everything Aziraphale had wanted and then some.

The angel fetched their silverware with a snap as Crowley served up two plates of perfect-looking and smelling pancakes. One was stacked taller than the other, as Aziraphale was always ravenous after a productive workout. He picked up his fork and paused, waiting for Crowley to join him.

He could just tuck in and let Crowley savour the sight and sound of his enjoyment to cap off a successful, loving temptation, but… well, where was the fun in that?

As Crowley slid into the seat beside him, Aziraphale reached over and cut a bite from Crowley's plate. The demon's yellow gaze shot up to meet his, and then followed down to his lips as the fork deposited the morsel. Aziraphale made an appreciative noise for effect, then swallowed to say, "the pantry is here to stay, yes?" 

"Uhuh," Crowley replied, brows quirked with equal parts confusion and concentration. He was turned as much as possible towards Aziraphale, one hand on the chair-back as the other rested idly by his own cutlery. Breakfast could wait.

"You are so good to me, dear," Aziraphale enthused, keeping Crowley's gaze as he licked a sugary crumb from the fork's tines with suggestive relish. "What was it you said earlier? 'Tell me what you want—tempt me'?" It was a rhetorical question, but Crowley's lips parted wordlessly in response anyway. A flush crept up his face, returning redness to the apples of his cheeks. "I rather think I'd like to make use of the pantry again. Perhaps I could tempt you."

"Angel," Crowley said after a beat, sounding more strangled than he had been mere moments ago, "when have you ever not?"

Aziraphale grinned till his cheeks hurt. He gave Crowley a coy look, heart fluttering when his smile was returned.

Here in their cottage, amidst the syrupy passage of time and the equally sweet company they enjoyed therein, they lived happily regardless of the past or the future. Their shared histories served to bolster and pull into focus the full pleasure of the present, and it gleamed bright and crystal clear. 

Aziraphale didn't want it any other way, and neither did Crowley.

(Unless, of course, on account of a temptation worth indulging.)