Work Header

The Centre of my World

Work Text:

There's a strange silence to their bedroom in the cottage. Not strange in a bad way, though.

In front of Aziraphale is the most enticing scene, one he could have never imagined, even if he'd tried. Crowley is lying, face down, relaxed and quiet, the light playing off his red hair, making it look almost like a flicker of a live flame, red, orange and darkness intertwining.

A memory stirs in Aziraphale's mind, of a snake slithering up the wall of Eden, the same colours, sunlight reflecting off what initially looks like black and dark red, though upon closer inspection they are all the colours in between. He sees the serpent slithering up the wall, the scales a soft hiss against the sunwarm bricks. He feels the hitch in his chest as the narrow body twists into a man-shaped vessel, skinny and clad in black, matching the wings that unfold behind him, the wind rustling the feathers ever so lightly. Hell-fire red hair and two amber eyes drawing his gaze like a beacon in the darkest night, drawing his attention like Crowley will continue to do from that day until the world truly ceases to exist. Until they cease to exist.

The acres of bare skin beckon him, but Aziraphale will not touch. He drinks in the view; the slow rise and fall as Crowley breathes in and out, the pale body shifting ever so slightly, making the morning shadows play a game of tag across his back. Crowely is more relaxed than Aziraphale has ever seen him. And, in turn, this relaxes Aziraphale. Nothing there to hurt them, only the other and the hold they have on each other.

Only Crowley and his pale skin, the curve of a buttock, the slow rise and fall of his wings; a darker black than the ink in Aziraphale's inkwell. It is a sight so humbling and beautiful that Aziraphale doesn't breathe for a good long while. He doesn't need to, he doesn't want to break the contented silence of the room.

Nothing on Earth, in Heaven or in Hell is as captivating as the sight before him. It makes his heart beat faster, it humbles him, it makes him praise the creation of this magnificent creature; so perfectly his counterpart, so perfectly his. And so willingly as well.

What are the seven wonders of the world in comparison?

His libido stirs, but Aziraphale ignores it, for now. This is not the time, the focus is not on what he needs. It's entirely on Crowley and making him feel good.

Aziraphale has lost track of time itself. Not that he minds, not at all. The only thing telling him that time is rolling forward at its normal pace is the change in the angle of light coming through the window.

It's almost as if Crowley has stopped time again. It feels like they are outside reality, outside time.

Sable wings are spread wide, whirling a bit of dust through the air. They're not still, just… calmly drifting. Occasionally a shiver runs through them, but mostly they just hover. Where they converge, is the valley of the sweetest honey. Aziraphale has tasted it, only just a short while ago. He'd pressed his lips to the warm skin, feeling the shiver run through Crowley's body at the contact.

And he feels an urge to do it again. Feel the brush of warmth, heat, hellfire, against his lips. Heaven would claim it must taste like sin, but nothing this sweet and pure can possibly be a sin.

He rises onto his knees and puts his hands on either side of Crowley's flanks. There's barely any reaction from Crowley at this point. He's been drifting in and out of a contented haze for a while now and Aziraphale is loathe to accidentally break it.

He bends forward, lets his hands take more of his weight. He's careful to not brush against too much skin, but he's worried for nothing. Crowley doesn't even twitch.

Aziraphale leans down to put his face just above the knobbly spine. If Crowley was a human, he'd be considered a little too skinny, but he is pure beauty undiluted to Aziraphale. Even more so like this; spread out in front of Aziraphale, for him to appreciate, to watch over.

There's a shine and shift in the skin. It has fascinated Aziraphale since the first time he saw it. From the nape of Crowley's neck to the base of his spine, tantalisingly narrowing at the bottom and flaring to the sides where the shoulder blades are, and the wings are anchored, he can see the scales.

Like the beautiful Serpent on Eden's wall, Crowley in human form carries echoes of his other shape. Aziraphale has spent ages caressing the shiny black and red scales that coat the instep of Crowley's feet, has lavished attention on the scales lining his spine. Not to mention, the few, very small almost iridescent ones scattered over his shoulders like freckles on human skin.

Reverently, Aziraphale presses his lips to the warm, slick scales between the shoulderblades. There's a heat to them that isn't naturally human. The room is pleasantly warm and Aziraphale amps it up a little, a small miracle, really. The sun itself is doing well enough. But he doesn't want Crowley to be cold, to shiver. At least not from a chill.

A shift in the left wing and Aziraphale's attention is diverted from the warm skin.

"Oh, dearest," he all but breathes. The feathers aren't truly out of alignment but he still shifts enough to reach out and run his fingers through the feathers, hearing the soft intake of breath from Crowley.

Aziraphale repeats the movement, carding his fingers through the feathers; not hard enough to hurt, but enough, he knows, to arouse Crowley.


"Hush," Aziraphale tells him, a small smile on his lips. "You must look your best, your wings are exquisite, black and lovely, shiny and so well kept." Aziraphale shifts and does the same to the right wing; runs his fingers through the soft and sleek feathers.

Crowley shifts on the bed, spreads his legs a little more, rolling his hips lazily to at least get a little friction.

Aziraphale leans down again, breathes hotly against the small of Crowley's back, feels him shiver and can hear the almost whimper escaping him. "Your skin is an amalgam of the most beautiful kind. Your scales are so enticing, so warm, so very soft."

He presses a kiss to the tailbone, where the scales have narrowed down to a mere trickle, red and black with a shining line of bluish-purple.

There's a small tearing sound and Aziraphale knows that Crowley's fingers are digging into the sheet and that they have lost another in the throes of passion. Good thing miracles can be stretched to changing torn sheets on their bed. Even occasionally mending the mattress when they forget themselves and their non-human strength.

Aziraphale presses a dry thumb to Crowley's opening and feels the shudder going through his long body. He pulls his hand back and smiles softly at the small keening noise escaping Crowley. There'll be plenty of time for that later.

And because he can, he presses a kiss to one cheek, then the other, feeling them clench at the soft touch of lips. He eyes the valley between them and licks his lips, he has other plans at the moment, but pins the idea to his mental list of 'things to do to Crowley that always makes him vocal'.

His own arousal is more of an afterthought. It's like a pleasant ache to be savoured for as long as possible - and currently it just isn't important.

Crowley is. Always. He is the centre of Aziraphale's world, has been for centuries, if not inching up on a millennium.

If not for longer.

Aziraphale stretches up until he's once again braced above Crowley's body, his knees pushing lightly against the heated skin of the inside of Crowley's thighs. He closes his eyes and between one heartbeat and the next his wings cast a shadow over Crowley's. They are closer in size and shape than Aziraphale remembers, and the stark contrast in the sunlight, of bright summer clouds white and midnight black, takes his breath away.

He allows his wings to drift down to hover just over Crowley's, can feel the shiver in the body on the bed as Crowley realises what he's done. But he says nothing, lets Aziraphale take the steps.

And Aziraphale loves him even more, if such a thing is even possible. He feels like his heart is broken open and the love flows golden and honey thick from his chest and onto Crowley's stretched out body, filling dark crevices with light and want, shadows and lust.

He lowers himself ever so slowly to cover Crowley's body with his own, and he can feel and hear the intake of breath. Crowley likes this, he's whispered it like the darkest sin committed to Aziraphale in the depths of one of their passionate nights. Likes to be held down, to be anchored. To know that Aziraphle will keep him from flying apart.

Again, Aziraphale ignores his own aching want. There'll be time for that later. He nestles his erection between Crowley's cheeks, angles it so that the tip of it bumps against Crowley's balls.

A small moan escapes Crowley, but the only movement is that of his wings twitching, brushing up against Aziraphale's.

It's the strangest thing, to Aziraphale, who has always been able to feel love, who knows the love of a demon most intimately, that he can smell the lust and want on Crowley as well. It's only his beloved where this is the case, and to him it's like a fine wine, the enticing scent of roses in a garden. Times a thousand.

He noses the back of Crowley's neck, inhales it, like it's the most potent of pheromones, feels how it clouds his mind and makes his heart race, his human body sweat.

Crowley has been close for a while now and Aziraphale knows that this is partly why the want in the air is thick and heady. He presses his lips against the tendon where neck and shoulder meet, feels Crowley shiver.

Sliding his hands down and to the sides, he digs his fingers into Crowley's wings, feels the body under his shudder. He watches Crowley's fingers flex in the sheet and mattress, watches the tears already visible.

It's not a show of dominance so much as knowledge that as long as he doesn't actually pull any feathers out, Crowley finds this edge between pleasure and pain enticing, arousing. So Aziraphale tightens his grip, parts his lips against Crowley's skin and bits into the tendon he kissed a moment earlier.

The sheet tears and there's several long gashes in the mattress, Crowley bucking up against him, trying to create some friction; between the both of them; between himself and the mattress.

Aziraphale just tightens his grip, presses his hips and brings his wings down to trap Crowley's that are now quivering and thrashing about, knocking a chair over and causing a small storm in their bedroom.

He's pressing his cries into the pillow, but Aziraphale can hear him, clear as day. He rides the shockwaves of pleasure that runs through Crowley's body, still ignoring his own.

When Crowley goes limp underneath him, he nuzzles the back of his head, hears the contented rumble as much as feels it and smiles as he turns his head and rests it against one shoulder. He brings the feathers back into place, carefully and slowly, making sure not a pinion is out of place.

He knows Crowley's arousal is growing again. Each touch of a hand, each slide of fingers between feathers he can feel the fine tremors running through Crowley's body, heralding another wave of pleasure. He turns his head to the unbitten shoulder as he slowly rolls his hips to push his insistent erection against the underside of Crowley's, through the sweet valley between his thighs.

His grip tightens again as he brings his wings down on top of Crowley's. There'll be a twin bite on Crowley's other shoulder before he's done. And Crowley, he knows, will wear both with pride, touch them through his shirt without conscious thought for as long as he can feel them. Even for quite a while after they've faded.

Aziraphale will be called upon to renew them, eventually, and he will happily comply. There is nothing he won't do for Crowley. But for now, he'll bring the demon to the edge and beyond, before gentling him back to start again. His own pleasure is derived from Crowley's more than anything, so for now Aziraphale's libido will ebb and flow with his. Just as he wants it to.

The end