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Dim the Lights and Sing You Songs

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’Do you want to keep watching?’ Netflix politely inquired after the ninth consecutive episode of The Great British Bake-Off.

Crowley glared at the screen until the message obediently removed itself. The next episode started, allowing him to go back to staring blankly at the telly while the soothing sounds of people being kind to one another floated over him. It was mindless, which was exactly what he needed right now.

The world hadn’t ended, and he was going completely spare. Things were both completely the same and nothing like they had been. After he and Aziraphale had gone to lunch at the Ritz, they’d gotten drunk at the bookshop together, toasting their newfound freedom. And Crowley had slept on the sofa like he’d done a hundred times before. Nothing new. Aziraphale hadn’t even bothered to wake him up before opening the next morning, so he’d opened his eyes and squinted at a small child staring into his face while her mother browsed antique cookbooks.

And now he was sitting in his flat watching telly without worrying about Hastur’s ugly face popping into his Netflix queue. That was new, and Crowley had to say he was a fan. But really, shouldn’t the world nearly ending feel like more? Crowley wanted to kiss Aziraphale, or construct a giant flaming middle finger facing Heaven, or something to commemorate his freedom.

Instead, he was sat here watching his ninth consecutive hour of The Great British Bake-Off. Alone.

It was pitiful, and he knew it. A cooler demon would be out on the town, slinking through clubs and blessing and tempting left and right, however he saw fit. Maybe inspire some lust, or wrath, but directed at people who would actually benefit from it. Crowley liked morally ambiguous things.

Onscreen, someone was crying.

“Fuck,” he groaned, and waved his hand. The tv went black, and he picked up his phone with a sigh. Word Cookies would pass some time, but he got frustrated when Aziraphale wasn’t around to help him with the tricky words. He could always leave brutally honest Amazon reviews, but that didn’t ease the frustrated prickle under his skin.

He was, he realized, lonely.

By rights, this meant he ought to call Aziraphale. Ask him out for lunch—or dinner, he realized as he looked at the time on his phone. Or they could go to a pub, maybe. It had been ages, and Aziraphale liked novelty. And they could drink, and Crowley could wait for Aziraphale to close the last of the distance between them, and when Aziraphale didn’t he could come right back here and watch more Great British Bake-Off.

Crowley stared at the wall while he let that sink in. And just as he was contemplating falling asleep for the rest of time, a notification popped up on his phone.

He blinked, then opened it and felt his face stretch with a grin. A few months prior to leaving the Dowling household, Crowley had downloaded Grindr for the sole purpose of catfishing randy morons, and as a consequence he was still occasionally surprised with a grainy photo of a random cock. This one wasn’t as bad as some—there had been an attempt to get creative with angles—but it was hardly inspiring. He took a screenshot.

A moment later a message popped up: ‘saw your pic. Wanna fuck?’

Crowley sighed. He’d altered his features pretty heavily one bored afternoon and had a photoshoot in his loo, eventually deciding on a photo of just his bare torso and a pair of extremely tight, unbuttoned trousers. It was irresistible to the desperate and classless.

‘You should use lighting filters,’ he sent back. ‘In your dick pics, I mean. Your cock looks a bit like a yam in the photo you sent.’

‘Fuck you,’ came the less than creative reply, and Crowley snickered. That was two blokes in London who weren’t getting what they wanted tonight.

He was prepared to toss the phone aside and get some ice cream to eat while he watched more Great British Bake-Off when another chat notification went off. Bemused, Crowley opened it, expecting a crude request for head.

What he was not expecting was a paragraph that began with: ‘hello. I hope you don’t think this is too forward, but I couldn’t help but notice you have the most lovely nipples. I’d love to push your shirt up and lick them until they tighten under my tongue. And then perhaps bite my way down your torso to your glorious hipbones and leave a few marks on your pretty skin before you let me see what’s in those very attractive trousers of yours. Would that be amenable to you?’

Crowley blinked at the message. And then he blinked again, stupidly, staring at his phone with what he was just sure was a gobsmacked expression.

No one talked like that on Grindr. No one was that filthy and that polite at the same time. They certainly didn’t have impeccable grammar and punctuation. And they didn’t use words like ‘amenable’ when talking about giving him a blowjob.

Crowley sort of dug it.

‘Usually men just send photos of their cocks,’ he wrote back.

‘That seemed presumptuous,’ the reply came instantly. ‘Would you like one?’

Crowley goggled at his phone. Would he like one? The man’s profile pic was a black-and-white photo, probably from the late nineteenth century, of two pretty young men engaged in—he squinted—oh lord. Crowley’s mind flashed back to poor innocent Aziraphale making that comment about lick butt. Bless that ridiculous angel. No idea what he was on about.

Crowley didn’t fuck humans. There was too much lying, for one thing, and then there was the fact that they got old and died so quickly. It wasn’t worth the effort or the pain. And there had always been the ghost of Aziraphale, whose coy looks drove Crowley mad in all the best ways and who made those little noises when he ate. What human could compete with that?

But Aziraphale wasn’t offering, and this anonymous internet human was. And Crowley was just bored and melancholy enough to type back, ‘only if you write me another paragraph telling me what you’d like me to do with it.’

‘Give me a moment, please,’ came the response, and Crowley bit his lip.

He’d never anticipated a dick pic before. This was novel, and like any immortal being who was prone to boredom, novelty was something Crowley adored. It was why he followed trends so religiously. This was fantastic.

He was damn near squirming by the time the next message came through. And oh, there it was, a lovely hard cock, plump and pink and just a bit shiny at the tip. Crowley admired the lighting and angle, and the fine pale hairs at the base of it. Perfect. Crowley had a thing for blondes that was absolutely unrelated to Aziraphale.

Before he could express his appreciation, the promised paragraph appeared: ‘Without knowing what you prefer, it’s hard to say exactly what I’d like you to do with it, although I’m never one to turn down oral sex. If your mouth is as pretty as the rest of you, I think I’d like that very much. I prefer it sloppy. It excites me to think of myself as a treat to be savored. Would you like to taste me?’

Crowley swallowed loudly, sitting back and taking a moment. This was...well. Eroticism was something Crowley usually only experienced on the periphery, aside from tantalizing glimpses of Aziraphale’s forearms on the rare occasions when he rolled up his sleeves. He was forced to admit that this was probably the hottest thing to ever happen to him in his life.

But he wasn’t prepared to examine that just now. No, now he was free to enjoy sexting with strangers, so he let himself imagine it. How silky skin would glide over his lips, and the way he could stick his tongue out, just a bit, to taste the salt at the tip. And the weight on his tongue, hot and heavy, while an indistinct man groaned above him.

‘God yes,’ he typed back. ‘It’s beautiful. I bet you taste as good as you look.’

‘Thank you,’ came the absurdly prim reply, and if that made Crowley squirm more, then no one but him had to know. ‘You’re very polite. What sorts of things do you enjoy in the bedroom? I try to be considerate.’

Oh lord. Crowley gulped. The truth was, he’d barely spent any time on sexual fantasies, preferring to ignore his libido since it would only serve to make things awkward with a particular angel. Some demons fucked; to Crowley’s knowledge, no angels ever did. So lusting with no object of desire had seemed rather sad and pointless.

Still, he had a very good imagination. And he’d rather liked fantasizing about sucking the man’s cock. Idly, he pondered what else he might like to do with an interested party.

‘You could fuck me with it,’ he typed. ‘Push me back over a desk and make me take it.’ Yeah, that was a nice thought.

‘A desk?’ the mystery man typed back. ‘My, you’re naughty. Would you like me to hold you down too? I think you’d look absolutely delicious with your arms stretched out over your head and your back arched. I could fuck you just like that if you wanted, and you would have to ask me nicely to touch your cock.’

Crowley cleared his throat loudly, shifting a bit. He was fully hard now, and wondering whether he ought to miracle up a sex toy for the express purposes of wanking shamelessly on his own desk. ‘I can be very nice,’ he wrote back.

‘I’m sure. I think I would enjoy spoiling a polite thing like you. But first I think I’d like to make you beg. There’s something wonderful about a beautiful man begging to be touched, don’t you think?’

Crowley’s hand strayed toward his fly. ‘So can I touch it?’ he sent, biting his lip.

‘I think you should ask me nicely.’ The response was instant, and that sent a delightful little shiver down Crowley’s spine. This man wanted him, badly enough that he didn’t make him wait.

‘Please, will you let me touch my cock?’ he sent, slightly amazed at his own shamelessness. Well, he should be shameless, shouldn’t he? He was a demon after all. Shameless was part of the deal.

But that was a different sort of shameless, the kind that seduced and pretended and wove around someone else’s fantasies to lead them where he wanted them to go. Not this. This was just for him.

‘Of course. Gently, please, and take a photo. I want to see your hand wrapped around your cock.’

Oh, Crowley had netted himself a freak. He yanked open his jeans with one hand, pulling up the camera app with the other and groaning with relief as he wrapped a hand around his cock. He forced himself to focus, to adjust the lighting just so and snap the photo at just the right angle to make his dick look good. Crowley was an expert at keeping up appearances, after all. He gave it a once-over and decided it was good enough. Then once he’d sent it, he sat there tense with anticipation. Literally with his dick in his hand, waiting on this man to tell him what to do next.

‘My, that would make a lovely mouthful,’ he finally told Crowley. ‘Touch it slowly and tell me how it feels.’

Crowley slowly dragged his fist up his cock, letting his head fall back from the pleasure of it. ‘Feels good,’ he wrote. ‘Wish it was your mouth instead of my hand.’

‘I could feast on a cock as pretty as yours,’ the man told him. ‘Would you like it if I held your hips still and sucked you very slow?’

“Fuck,” Crowley breathed, speeding up for a second before he forgot himself. This was so filthy, and he found himself dizzy with lust. It was a new experience, dwarfing every pang he’d felt before. Now he was letting himself feel it, embracing all the messy, human urges this corporation came with and reveling in the feel of his own body. He wanted to fuck a mouth. Any mouth, although his mind automatically went to Aziraphale’s—

And skipped. Because Crowley could apparently go lots of places when his libido kicked up, but that wasn’t one of them. Aziraphale was for undefined longing, not for the vile things Crowley was imagining right now.

‘Are you there?’ the man asked; Crowley realized he’d been staring into space for a bit. He blinked rapidly and replied, ‘yeah, I’m here. Just trying not to go too fast.’

The moment he sent it he regretted his choice of words. But it was only a moment before the reply came back to him: ‘I’ve no complaints about the speed. Lick your hand. Get yourself very wet and then rub your cock until you come for me.’

Crowley groaned and did it; his hand tasted like salt and, faintly, of come, and he gave into the urge to suck on his fingers sloppily. Didn’t the man say he liked it sloppy? Crowley could do that, Crowley could be a messy little whore if he wanted. And oh, that thought made him throb. He wanted to be called filthy names by this proper gentleman. He imagined letting the man spread his legs, face indistinct as he told Crowley that he was perfect, and pretty, and sweet.

‘Talk to me more,’ he managed to send, fingers clumsy as he stroked his cock. ‘I’m doing what you said, I’m going slow. Tell me I’m good?’

‘You’re wonderful, you lovely thing. Oh, I imagine you’d be just beautiful on your knees, touching yourself so slowly while my cock slid past your lips. You want to come very badly, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Crowley typed, entirely thanks to his autocorrect.

‘I’m going to let you. Just as soon as I come down your throat, or perhaps all over your pretty face. But first I’d want you to beg me with your eyes. A man’s eyes can be terribly expressive when his mouth is otherwise occupied.’

‘Please,’ was all Crowley could reply; he was fucking his fist now, rapidly working out how to bring himself closer and closer to orgasm. It had been awhile, and he’d made a new cock since then, but it really was like riding a bike. He tried to be helpful. ‘Come on my face,’ he managed after a moment.

‘Gorgeous, filthy thing,’ was the prompt reply. Crowley loved that, he loved being worth replying to instantly. ‘The only real trouble is that I’d also want to come all over your pert little nipples. I do hate having to choose, you see. When I’ve got such an eager creature to play with, I get quite carried away.’

Crowley squeezed the base of his cock while thumbing the head, a delicious tease that nevertheless kept him from going off right there. ‘Whatever you want. I’ll take it all.’ His fingers seemed to be working without the active participation of his brain, which was fine. His brain was massively overrated if it’d kept him from enjoying this sort of thing for so long.

‘Your face, I think,’ the man decided. ‘Since you requested it. And then I could tip your chin up and lick you clean, just as though you were a soft little kitten. You’d stay very still for me while I did that, wouldn’t you? You’re so polite, after all. And when I’d finished, I could kiss your sweet mouth and tell you in a whisper to come for me.’

“Ngk,” said Crowley in the stillness of his flat, and arched into the twist of his gut as a surge of pure lust went through him. Fuck, the thought of that—being used so softly, velvet ropes and such—that had him close. So close, and he had permission, didn’t he? Oh, his whole body quivered at the thought of a man whispering such sweet filthy words to him, against his ear or his lips, being ordered to come because someone wanted to see—

It was just his luck, really, that when he did come he managed to shoot himself right in the eye. He yowled, rolling half off the sofa and dropping his phone in his instinctive move to cover his eye with his free hand. Orgasm ruined, he miracled the offending come out of his bloody eyeball and glared at the ceiling.

“I hate you,” he told God, half meaning it this time.

He sighed, irritated with his entire existence, and picked up his phone again. As though the universe was offering a consolation prize, there was another photo of that beautiful pink cock, this time messy and dripping with pearly white come. ‘Look what you did, you lovely thing,’ was the attached message.

Crowley shivered, biting his lip at the sight. ‘Beautiful,’ he wrote back. He thought about adding something saucy, maybe about offering to clean it up with his tongue, but it seemed a bit much.

‘I’m so glad you like it,’ the man replied. ‘This was very nice. Would you like to meet sometime and try this in person? I’m in London.’

‘I’m in London too,’ wrote Crowley, torn between terror and delight at the prospect of meeting someone for sex. He knew it was the done thing, it just...wasn’t done by him. But it could be.

What if the man was ugly? Crowley didn’t know what he looked like. He could smell. He could have rancid breath. Worse, he could think Crowley was ugly. What if he didn’t like what he saw?

Crowley sat there, paralyzed by the possibilities, until his phone made another noise at him.

‘I completely understand if you’d prefer not to.’ The message seemed stiff compared to the others, although that was probably Crowley projecting. He did that, sometimes.

‘I want to,’ he sent impulsively. ‘When?’

‘I’m free Tuesday afternoon,’ the man answered. ‘Is that an option for you?’

Tuesdays were perfect. Crowley had nothing on at all on Tuesdays. Aziraphale kept his bookshop closed for reasons known only to him, and Crowley was left to his own devices. Today was Sunday—rather late—and this would give him just enough time to panic extensively, change his mind several times, change his outfit more, and generally fall apart and pull himself back together by the time they actually met.

‘Sure,’ he typed, ‘Tuesday is fine. Any particular time?’

That sounded very smooth, he thought, and stuffed his cock back into his jeans.

‘I could meet for coffee in the afternoon, unless you’ve got to work,’ the man suggested.

‘Nah,’ Crowley told him. ‘Flexible hours.’ That was one way of putting it.

‘Perfect,’ said the man. ‘There’s an absolutely wonderful little place in Soho called Bar Termini. Do you like charcuterie?’

‘I know the place,’ Crowley said. He’d been dragged there by Aziraphale often enough; charcuterie was one of the angel’s weaknesses that Crowley dearly loved to indulge.

‘Excellent! Shall we meet at three?’ Crowley found himself charmed by the way the man spelled the number out. ‘We can chat a bit about what we like and possibly go back to mine after.’

Crowley nodded, then typed ‘sounds good,’ when he realized the man couldn’t see him. They were going to meet at three. And then possibly go back to the man’s place after. For sex. In which Crowley would definitely not come in his own eyeball again, because he was cool and collected.

Satisfied, he closed the app and went to get himself some ice cream. The dead rat in his freezer stared at him accusingly, as if it knew all his myriad sins.

“Shut up,” he told it, and closed the freezer door. He only kept it on hand because he was due to shed soon anyway, and he liked having a snack ready after. And he’d kept it from being eaten alive by some spoiled pet python. It had no call to judge him like that.

Honestly, it could fuck right off. The Great British Bake-Off was calling.