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“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

And then Crowley’s alone in the Bentley, Aziraphale’s words lingering like the scent of him, the frisson of his presence, simultaneously filling Crowley to the brim and leaving him emptier, so much emptier than before. The thermos is cool in his hands, which are definitely not shaking.

Moments pass, the Soho street bustling by, full of sin and want and bright, bright lights, as Crowley tries not to think of anything and everything Aziraphale could have possibly meant.

And then the driver-side door opens.

“Wh— mmph!”

Crowley’s astonishment is cut off quite entirely by the very solid presence of Aziraphale clambering onto his lap, squished into the steering wheel, his mouth pressed soft and yet so crushingly firmly against Crowley’s own.

“I can’t resist,” Aziraphale pants, his voice quite unlike itself, ragged with strangled want. “Not anymore, Crowley, not after that, not after you asked me to come with you, I—I can’t take it anymore.”

“What are you talking about?” Crowley’s heart is pounding out of his chest, his hands frantic over Aziraphale’s plush body where it’s covered in so many layers of clothes.

“You,” Aziraphale says, his voice heavy. He prizes the thermos from Crowley’s hand and tosses it to the car carpet, sends Crowley’s glasses after it.

“Angel,” Crowley blinks at him, his throat gone dry. “But you said—”

“I must have you,” Aziraphale moans, pressing their bodies together. “Oh, you vile, terrible temptress, I—er.” He pauses, though he doesn’t pull away. “A bit much, mm? Did I get overdramatic?” 

The car and the Soho street flickers around them as Aziraphale hesitates, loses track of the illusion, revealing the reality of their cottage bedroom.

Crowley grins, squeezing his husband’s ass.

“No, no! I love the drama, big drama fan, me. And when it’s you in the leading role?” Crowley grits his teeth, shakes his head like a dog with a bone. “Fucking hellfire. Five stars. All the awards, a bloody Bafta, angel.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s blushing. It’s spectacular.

“Seriously,” Crowley says, cupping the angel’s cheek, pulling him close for a gentle kiss. “I love it. You’re doing marvelous, I promise.”

“I just want to get it right,” Aziraphale says insistently. “I want it to be alluring. Enticing. Not...not foolish.”

“It’s my fantasy,” Crowley points out. Which it is, though they’ve been over the parameters enough times that it really does belong to them both now. “And I say you’re doing wonders, angel. Truly.”

Aziraphale’s face spreads into a tentative smile.

“All right.” He takes a deep breath, and Crowley can feel his excitement stir from his seat in Crowley’s lap. “All right. We’ve got our word, if either of us need it.”

“We do.”

“I love you, sweetheart.” 

“I love you too,” Crowley says. He says it soft, and Aziraphale brushes a kiss just as soft across his lips. Crowley gets to be soft now, it makes him giddy—but this, he’s quite looking forward to this, too. Something far less soft, something that it took five entire years of tender marital bliss to work up the courage to ask for, after gleefully fulfilling an entire litany of his husband’s fantasies, including but not limited to a Bastille recreation and an afternoon in St. James Park that required quite a lot of magic on Crowley’s part to make sure no one saw his bare ass bobbing by the duck-pond. The ducks in particular. How embarrassing that would have been, he’d never have heard the end of it. 

Aziraphale trills his lips, shakes his head and flexes his wrists like he’s about to put on a play, which of course, he rather is.

“Let’s do this.” He clears his throat and the illusion’s back up, the Bentley and the night-lit Soho street, Crowley pinned with a lapful of angel in the front seat. 

It doesn’t take much imagination for Crowley to remember what he felt like that night. To channel the shock, and terror, and wrung-desperate desire he’d’ve felt if Aziraphale really came back to the car that night. 

“What the Heaven are you doing, Aziraphale?” he asks, through gritted teeth.

Aziraphale stares into his eyes, and it’s quite a different look from his usual fondness, even from the feverish passion that comes over him in their bed. 

This is...possessive. Hungry. 

Powerful.

“What I’ve wanted to do for millennia,” Aziraphale says quietly. He drags one hand through Crowley’s hair, his blunt fingernails pressing just harder than a caress. His other hand splays flat on Crowley’s chest, and then Crowley feels it, and gives a genuine gasp.

“And what’s that?”

Aziraphale pushes him back against the driver’s seat. Not just with his flat palm, but with a subtle, unimaginably potent rush of angelic power. Crowley well and truly cannot move, couldn’t unless he actually fought back, and even then he’s not sure he’d win. 

Aziraphale leans forward, gives a low, dangerous sort of moan as it rubs their erections together through their trousers, and opens his mouth against Crowley’s ear.

“Conquering a demon,” he murmurs, and sends a surge of holy power from him. 

It doesn’t burn, but it’s warm and utterly unbreakable, and it swoops Crowley’s wrists over his head, fastens his feet to the floor and his hips to the seat.

Crowley knows Aziraphale’s stronger than him. He also knows Aziraphale has never once truly wielded that power over him.

And that’s what he asked for.


“You want me to what?!” Aziraphale had said, before composing himself, remembering what Crowley has done for him. “I only mean, darling—are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Look, I know how it sounds, all right?” Crowley said, cheeks burning. “It’s not—I don’t want you to hurt me, exactly.” 

“Good!” Aziraphale huffed, pressing an indignant kiss to Crowley’s knee.

“It’s just.” He took a deep breath, steadying himself. “I just want to feel like you can’t get enough. That you wanted me so desperately, back then.”

“I did,” Aziraphale had said reassuringly, “you know I did, I just didn’t want Hell to ruin you—”

Crowley looked determinedly over Aziraphale’s shoulder at this next bit.

“I want to feel like you don’t care about that.” He swallowed, hard. “That you wanted me more than you were scared, more than anything. That you wanted me so badly that you took me, the rest be blessed.”

“All right,” Aziraphale said slowly, processing, turning over the practicality. 

“And,” Crowley said, somewhat hoarse now, but this bit is important, and, well, in for a penny. “That—that it wasn’t my fault, if that makes sense. That it was out of my hands.”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale had said, approaching something too close for concern for Crowley’s comfort.

“None of that,” he’d said sternly, fully aware that the blush had spread to his chest. “The important thing is that you hold me down and fuck the shit out of me, yeah? And—and make it feel like you couldn’t resist? Like you choose me, over...” Crowley swallows. 

Choose me like you didn’t, when you said I go too fast.

Choose me like you didn’t, when I asked you to run away with me at the bandstand.

Choose me like you didn’t, when I asked you again.

“Over everything,” he had finished, softly.

Aziraphale’s expression had settled into a warm, but giddily excited sort of grin. “Well, that bit,” he’d said, snuggling close, “I’m not worried about.”

And Crowley wasn’t either, not anymore.


The city bustles outside the car, and Crowley trembles, pinned like a butterfly under glass.

“I don’t understand,” he says, his voice hoarse, high, as he struggles against the hum of angelic power holding down his wrists, his ankles, the angel himself heavy on his waist. “You said I—I go too fast—”

Aziraphale scoffs, grips Crowley’s hair tight and wrenches his head to the side, exposing the bit of throat that’s not covered in the turtleneck, and drags his teeth along it.

“For me to hold back, Crowley.” He rolls his hips, no finesse to it, just an animalistic rutting against Crowley’s cock beneath his trousers. “I thought I could do it. I thought I could walk away again, but I can’t, not anymore.” Aziraphale’s rubbing against him now, chasing friction as best as he can with the steering wheel digging into his back. He gives a frustrated noise. “Backseat,” he growls, and they’re in it before he finishes the word. Crowley’s hands are fastened with heavenly power to the roof of the Bentley above his head, his ankles to the floor, so he’s stretched out, squirming, powerless, and hopelessly aroused.

“But angel,” he pants, trying to wrap his mouth around his lines as Aziraphale tugs his jacket off, pushes his shirt up, wraps his mouth around Crowley’s hardening nipple. “What about Heaven?”

“Fuck Heaven,” Aziraphale hisses without hesitation, and Crowley’s back arches helplessly, his erection throbbing. “Fuck Hell, fuck the fucking consequences!” Aziraphale rips Crowley’s shirt off, the heavenly power binding his wrists offering no resistance, and looks into Crowley’s eyes with a fierceness that doesn’t look entirely contrived. Crowley’s entire world melts away, his focus tunneling down into the car, the angel, and the power that binds him and fills him all at once. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, thighs shaking.

“I can’t take it anymore,” Aziraphale grits out, undoing his cravat. Crowley’s mouth waters at that plush expanse of throat, remembering all too easy how starved he’d been for it. “I’m tired of doing only what I’m supposed to do! I’m not supposed to do anything with you, Crowley, not keep an Arrangement, not go for crepes and tea, not ache to fuck you until I forget my very name, but I want to, you make me want to , and I’m quite done holding back.”

Aziraphale kisses him hard, teeth digging into Crowley’s bottom lip. He brings one steady hand up to hold one of Crowley’s shaking ones where it’s bound as it is by his power, and the other to massage Crowley’s bulge through his trousers until he whimpers.

“Do you have— any idea—how badly—I’ve wanted you?” Aziraphale punctuates the words with a series of snaps, each one vanishing more of their clothes until they’re bare-skinned in the backseat, Crowley’s chest heaving as he fights back a grin, keeps his eyes wide. This is going even better than he’d hoped.

“Come off it,” he says gruffly. “You’ve never wanted me. Put up with me, yeah, let me do things for you ‘cause you know I like it, but—”

“No,” Aziraphale says, his voice terribly firm. He leans back on Crowley’s thighs, takes in the naked, tied-up sight of him, strokes his own thick, magnificent cock at it, biting his lip. “I’ve wanted you since the flood, Crowley. I’ve wanted you since the world drowned and you saved those children—and that unicorn, once I told you why they needed two. I’ve wanted you since you let me take you out for oysters, I’ve wanted you since you saved my books in a church that burned your feet, I’ve wanted you since you gave me Hamlet, since you brought me chocolates for my shop’s opening, since— goodness.” His pace has quickened, pupils blowing with passion, and he stops, squeezing the base of his cock, leaning in close.

Crowley’s mouth is somehow both very dry, and nearly watering.

“You just covered most of the span of human history,” he manages, straining at his bindings. He very badly wants to get his mouth on Aziraphale’s dripping erection, and he also wants to keep hearing just how wanted he is.

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale says, a little breathlessly, tucking a lock of Crowley’s hair behind his ear, “it’s rather hard to pinpoint, isn’t it?” He slips two fingers into his mouth and Crowley gives a very wanton moan at the sight of it, squirming in anticipation. “I think I’ve very near wanted you from the Beginning, as it were, but as time passed and we got to know each other, it changed. It— deepened, and I think everything I am is inextricable from the ways in which I’ve learned to walk this world because of you. Wanting you is a part of me, Crowley,” he says, and at this they both blush, because the game’s gone a bit sideways and they both know it—nothing of that was an invention. 

“Angel,” Crowley murmurs. I love you, I love you, I’ve wanted you too, but he doesn’t say it, because that’s not in the plan for the evening, and because he knows he doesn’t need to. Aziraphale’s gaze softens, and Crowley trusts in his heart that he knows. He trusts Aziraphale in everything, in fact, that’s a big part of why he wanted this so badly, why it feels so good.

Aziraphale bites his lip and reaches behind himself, pressing his damp fingers inside. He lets out a sound like he’s been struck, and Crowley writhes, furiously hard and delighted, against the angelic bindings at his wrists and ankles.

“We’re on the street,” he hisses, darting his gaze about. He does his best to hide how impressed he is—indeed, Aziraphale’s made it so blurry passerby are just visible through the “Bentley’s” fogged windows. “The humans, they’ll notice—”

“Let them,” Aziraphale groans. He’s got one knee on either side of Crowley’s lap, one hand pressed to the roof of the Bentley as he rides his own fingers. Just spit wouldn’t be enough to do it, of course—he’s really still open from Crowley insisting on working him open with his mouth and a good deal of lubricant for ages before they began, but it makes for quite the show. “Let them, let anyone see, let Her see for all I care, because I can’t take this wanting, this waiting. Not when you’ve been so good to me for so long, and when you look like that,” he says, biting his lip as he fingers himself, and Crowley’s cock pulses precome onto his stomach. “No one has the right to look that pretty in that stupid haircut, Crowley.”

“Hey, this is the modern style!”

“The modern style is a travesty and you know it— aah!” Aziraphale grinds down on his fingers, his own erection slick and bobbing between them. “I should like very much to muss it up beyond all recognition.”

“Okay,” Crowley says at once, wriggling in expectation. His heart is singing in his chest. “Angel?”

“What?” Aziraphale punches the word out, straddling Crowley in earnest now, a hand on either side of his head and pinned up arms, lining himself up.

“What—what are you going to do with me?” There’s so little space between their mouths, their bodies. Aziraphale’s breath is warm on his cheek.

“I’m going to make love to you, Crowley. I’m going to fuck you like I’ve wanted to for years, I’m going to fuck you until there’s no space between us anymore.” Aziraphale rolls his shoulders. The angelic bindings flex around Crowley’s wrists and ankles, and then Aziraphale sinks down onto Crowley’s cock, taking him deep in a single movement, sending a crash of pleasure through Crowley. “I’m going to make you mine,” he growls.

“Oh ffuck , fuck, fuck—” Crowley’s eyes roll back, his head tilts against his bound arms, incapable of pretending in the slightest that he doesn’t love this. Aziraphale’s heat, the weight of him pressing everywhere, the tight, wet, velvety clench as he slides over Crowley’s cock.

Aziraphale cups Crowley’s chin, tugging his head down until their eyes meet. The angel pulses his power into the bindings around Crowley’s wrists and ankles, his hips too, so Crowley can’t thrust up at all, has to let Aziraphale set the entire pace. Not tightening exactly, but reminding Crowley just how strong he is, how in control he is, as he fucks himself down again and again into Crowley’s lap. 

And then he slows. Sinks down until he bottoms out, rolls his hips, and Crowley knows he’s working the head of Crowley’s cock against his prostate, watches the beads of precome drip from his thick erection. 

“Fuck,” Crowley manages again, breathing hard through his nose, straining against his bonds, trying uselessly to fuck up into him, loving how he can’t, how he has to just take it. Let Aziraphale take it from him. 

Crowley’s mouth falls open and Aziraphale runs the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip, rubs circles over the top of his tongue.

“I’m going to hold you down and fuck you,” Aziraphale murmurs, “until you can’t ever forget how much I love you.”

Crowley gives a whole-body shudder, catapulted to the brink. 

“Angel,” Crowley chokes out. He’s shaking all over now, and Aziraphale picks up his pace, the folds of his chin and stomach shining with sweat, his expression a wreck of concentration and want, and Crowley loves him, he loves him, he loves him, and he’s known and wanted too, he is known and wanted too—

“You’re mine.” It’s low, almost a snarl, punctuated by a rough tug on Crowley’s hair, and Aziraphale’s grace is shining through now, illuminating his dewy skin, star-bright and unimaginably powerful, holding down Crowley’s body and his very soul, holding him on a fucking molecular level, his breath and his heart and his soul, and it doesn’t burn, it doesn’t burn at all. Crowley’s close, so close now, surrounded and enveloped and held and held and held—

Crowley’s beyond words. He makes a strangled, embarrassing sort of sound, his would-be thrashing reduced to twitches as he strains against his bonds, as he presses up as deep into Aziraphale as he can, and Aziraphale takes it all. He rides him in earnest now, open and reveling in it, the crash of their bodies making an obscene slapping that echoes throughout the car.

“Mine. All of you, Crowley, my love, all mine— say it—let me hear you say it—”

And Crowley’s world goes bright with surrender.

“Yours.”

He hears himself say it, hears it fill the car, the bedroom, reality blurring at the edges, the very world melting away, nothing else mattering but for the couple, bound, bound together by magic and choice, by something holy that belongs to them and them alone, by love, and love, and love, and love.

Crowley cries out as he comes, Aziraphale riding him hard through it, embracing him, clenching around him, burying kisses into the crook of Crowley’s throat, and Crowley can’t stop saying it, a litany spilling from him as Aziraphale wrings the sharp, sweet pleasure from his body.

“Yours, yours, yours, all— all yours…” he gasps, until he can’t anymore, and slumps, boneless and sparklingly spent, against his bindings and the cushion of Aziraphale’s chest. 

“Darling,” Aziraphale murmurs into his collarbone. He shifts off Crowley’s softening cock, and Crowley realises he’s about to release him.

“Nn,” he manages, shaking his head desperately, his sweaty locks falling into his eyes. He clears his throat as Aziraphale brushes it back with unbearable tenderness. “Not yet,” he croaks.

Aziraphale’s brows furrow. He’s still panting, his hole dripping into Crowley’s lap and the seat, and Crowley loves him so, so much. The illusion flickers, the bedroom flashing into view for an instant, and Crowley shakes his head again.

“You,” he says hoarsely. He nods toward Aziraphale’s still-hard cock, and Aziraphale’s flushed cheeks blush even pinker.

“Ah! Right, er. Yes.” Aziraphale gives a little shake, getting back into character, as it were. They’d discussed this part at great length too, Crowley reassuring him that this was very much an important part of it. They’ve lost some of the thread of the thing, can’t be helped, but it’s working rather marvelously overall and Crowley does not want to let this bit go. 

The Bentley clicks cleanly back into place around them, except this time Crowley’s lying sprawled out in the backseat. The real backseat would be far too narrow for this position (they’ve tried), but the miracled one leaves just enough room for Crowley to splay on his back, his wrists grace-bound above him and ankles below, with Aziraphale straddling his head. 

“That’s it,” Aziraphale growls. Crowley bites back a smile. He’s still alit, nearly woozy, from the wake of his orgasm, but he can tell Aziraphale’s meaning to sound cold, cruel, domineering. It comes off unspeakably warm instead, and Crowley finds he doesn’t mind a bit. “You think I was done with you?” Aziraphale thumbs Crowley’s lip again, opens his mouth.

“Please,” Crowley says weakly, quite proud of how it comes off as begging. He squirms against his bindings pitifully, already feeling his prick stiffening again as he stares up at Aziraphale’s thick cock, his own spend dripping out and onto Crowley’s chest, drops of precome dotting his chin. “We can’t, I can’t do this to you, you’re an angel, you mustn’t—”

“I’m an angel,” Aziraphale agrees, “and I want to.”

He slips his cock into Crowley’s waiting mouth with a groan.

There’s something cathartic about it all, Crowley thinks, reliving that old, encompassing longing from the safe haven of their married life, their marriage bed. Aziraphale’s done his share of atoning for all the grief he put Crowley through, but some healing works best when confronted...head on, it would seem. Crowley hadn’t been thinking of it that way, entirely, not on the surface at least. But this surrender, letting himself ask to be taken, to be wanted so wholly, so inescapably, that Aziraphale would just remove his agency from the equation—

So Crowley wouldn’t have to choose, to endanger Aziraphale, to put his heart on the line. 

Just be chosen.

He arches his back against the Bentley seat and swallows around Aziraphale’s cock, smitten and enveloped in surrender. He lets the sheer joy of it wash over him, the familiar saltspark taste, the shape of his husband, the weight, the heft. Aziraphale fucks into his mouth, bracing himself on the car door, forehead crushed to the window, making the most beautiful, desperate noises. Crowley wraps his lips tight, pushes the flat of his tongue along the underside just as he knows Aziraphale loves, and sure enough, he’s scrabbling at Crowley’s hair a moment later.

“Oh—oh, my dear boy, you’re too good, you feel so spectacular, I’m afraid I’m going to—”

They’d planned this part too, how Crowley wanted Aziraphale to hold him down and come on his face, his chest, his hair, marking him, but now that the time’s here Crowley finds he doesn’t need it. 

He hums around Aziraphale’s length. He tries, for the first time in actual earnest, to free his wrists, and the bonds fall away immediately. He digs his fingers into the plush of the angel’s ass and invites him to fuck his mouth harder, deeper, pulling him in until his nose is buried in that lovely coarse hair, and Aziraphale gives a sweet, breathless little laugh and lets him, and then he’s coming, trembling apart in Crowley’s hands, moaning Crowley’s name, and Crowley swallows everything he gives him, shuddering with bliss.

Aziraphale gives a few last weak thrusts before collapsing into Crowley’s arms. 

“Oh, angel,” Crowley says hoarsely. He wraps his arms around him, and when he tugs on his ankles he feels those bindings offer no resistance, so he wraps his legs around him too. 

“Was that all right? We went a bit off-script there,” Aziraphale asks worriedly, and Crowley chuckles. He waves, lets the illusion fall away so they’re tangled on their very mussed, very damp bed.

“It was perfect.” Crowley buries his nose in the angel’s sweat-damp hair, squeezes him tight. He can’t stop smiling. They catch their breath together, easy caresses, coming back to their bodies.  

“Darling,” Aziraphale says presently. He props himself up on his elbows, which shouldn’t be as bloody cute as it is. It’s just elbows, damn it.

“Yes, angel?”

“I do want you more than anything. I made so many mistakes—I was awful to you as I was figuring everything out,” he says in a rush, a stricken expression on his face, “and I did want to come back to the car that night and make love to you—not—not quite like that, but I did, I want you, I choose you, I choose us, I love you, I love you, I—!” 

“I know!” Crowley says emphatically, eyes wide, propping himself up too. “Angel—we talked about this, you know it’s just a fantasy—”

“Well, yes, but—”

“You have nothing to prove, okay?” Crowley reaches for his soft hand, presses a kiss to the knuckle. Just below Aziraphale’s wedding band. “I know.”

Aziraphale seems mostly reassured.

“I suppose I do know you know,” he concedes, settling back into Crowley’s arms. 

“I married you, angel.”

“Yes, well—”

“Years ago.”

“You’re a very convincing actor!”   

Crowley chuckles, squeezes him tighter.

“It felt...good,” he says, more seriously. “To—to surrender, like that. And also,” he adds, thoughtfully, “to relive that moment, when I wanted you so badly I felt like my world was shattering, to feel that you wanted me too and to not be able to reach out and hold you—” he rubs Aziraphale’s arm reassuringly as the angel flinches— “and to remake it, Aziraphale.” He smiles, and Aziraphale tilts his head up to see it. “Rewrite it. To give me what I wanted, this time. To make me feel as wanted as you make me feel now.” 

“I like that, quite a bit,” Aziraphale concedes, running his hand through Crowley’s hair, which is short again. “And the—the angelic binding, that’s part of the surrender, I suppose? And the fervor with which I took you, wanted you? Demanded you?”

“Yeah,” Crowley nods. He runs his thumb over a crease on his husband’s impossibly strong, utterly careful hand, processing the marrow-deep satisfaction washing over him. “Something of...of literalizing the trust, too, I think,” he says, contemplatively. “How safe I feel with you, now. How much I trust you not to hurt me, how I can be completely vulnerable with you and I know you’ll take care me.” Aziraphale’s looking at him bright-eyed like he’s hung the stars (only partly true), and Crowley kisses him tenderly. Then he grins, with one corner of his mouth. “I mean. It’s also ‘cause I think it’s really rather bloody sexy when you do that.”

Aziraphale’s face softens into a smile, and Crowley feels like he’s floating. Like he’s let go of something that, even in the domestic bliss he’s been living in for years now, he still hadn’t known he was holding.

“I suppose I can’t argue with that,” Aziraphale smirks, and then he leans in for a sweet, lazy sort of kiss they lose themselves in. 

Crowley drifts, still half-hard. He’s a mess of love and relief, delighting in the love he gets to bask in now. He loves that he gets to notice and revel new things about Aziraphale, every day, every time. That he doesn’t have to hide it. The downy-gold hair on the plush of his stomach, a yet-unnoticed scattering of freckles on his throat, the little sound he makes as Crowley strokes the stretchmarks on his bare hip.

“Come along,” Aziraphale says at last, pulling away.

“Wha—where?” Crowley asks, kiss-drunk.

Aziraphale snorts.

“I’ve got a demon to vanquish,” he says fondly, an eyebrow raised at Crowley’s reawakened erection. He says demon like Crowley says angel, and Crowley feels himself go pink. “And to tidy up, of course.”

“What d’you—oi!”

Aziraphale doesn’t tend to spend much time in their bathroom. They don’t need to bathe, strictly, though Crowley enjoys the feeling, and he’s tempted his husband into a bubble bath or two. Aziraphale, however, hasn’t ever broached the idea himself before—but once he’s scooped Crowley into his arms, it becomes clear where he’s bringing them. Much more so when Crowley realises the tap’s already going, the steam from the tub filling the room with a lightly lilac scent.

“You’re a mess, you know that?” Aziraphale looks down his nose at him, and it would be stern if he wasn’t beaming. “You’re quite sweaty, and you’ve got come all over your lap.”

“You’ve literally got my come still inside you —” Crowley goes to protest, and all over his thighs too! But then he registers that the tub’s twice as big as it usually is, and he gulps, his cock throbbing with anticipation. “Not done with me yet, then?”

Aziraphale pours him into the tub on all fours, gives his ass a good swat as Crowley scrambles to look back up at him.

“Never,” he says mildly. He climbs into the tub after him, and pulls Crowley between his legs, Crowley’s back against his chest. “Let’s get you tidy, darling.”

Aziraphale tucks his chin sweetly in the crook of Crowley’s neck and rubs his sudsy hands over Crowley’s thin thighs, his chest, his throat, the wiry muscles of his arms. The water is perfect, warm and gently scented, the tub strangely comfortable to sit in. Crowley suspects it knows what’s good for it.

He leans back into his husband’s soothing touch, eyes fluttering shut, and when Aziraphale massages his scalp he moans aloud. 

“Good?” 

“Mmhmm,” Crowley sighs. He’s so hard but it’s a comfortable sort of arousal, not frantic. He knows he’s going to be tended to.

“I do hope this is all right, dear, I know you were a bit tired.” 

Crowley gives a low laugh, rolls his neck, lets Aziraphale massage the base of it. Indulgent, unrushed. 

“This is paradise,” he says honestly, and he feels Aziraphale give a happy wiggle behind him as he massages his shoulders. “Nnngh,” he murmurs, deeply contented.

“I just couldn’t go to bed without doting on you a bit, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale admits. 

Crowley gives a lazy smile at him over his shoulder, squeezes his thigh.

“I should have known,” he laughs. “We should have planned for this.”

Aziraphale smiles back.

“Next time,” he tells him, and Crowley shudders with anticipation.

“Shit, yeah.”

And when Aziraphale’s hands move down his back, below the waterline, Crowley moans and tilts forward, his erection straining in the water. 

“Please?” 

Aziraphale nudges him forward until he’s on all fours again, elbow-deep in the bath. They really ought to keep the tub this big all the time, he thinks wonderingly, and then he hears the sound of a nearby bottle being uncapped and lets out a high gasp as Aziraphale presses a slick finger to his hole for the first time tonight. 

“Oh angel, angel, angel, yes,” Crowley babbles, bracing himself on the tub’s edge, pliant and silly with want. Aziraphale slides in to the knuckle.

“Another?”

“Yes, please— ah!” Crowley keens, bearing back against him, the bathwater enticingly warm around his cock. Aziraphale fingers him open slowly, too slowly, and Crowley understands even as he grunts and cants his hips to try and get a deeper angle. A cool-off from the roughness earlier in the evening, a balancing force. Heaven, he’s a mess for this creature. 

Aziraphale spreads his fingers, thrusts them deep, making room for himself, and Crowley sees stars, sloshing the water about as he kicks and pushes, trying to pull him deeper. 

“Angel, I promise, I’m ready,” he insists, “I want you, fuck me, please—” 

He only has to endure another moment of torturously loving preparation before Aziraphale lines himself up, and presses his slick cock in as deep as he can.

Crowley sobs in relief as Aziraphale bottoms out, the pleasure of being filled surging through his body. They rock against each other, a firm, gentle rhythm, making little waves in the tub. 

“I love you,” Aziraphale murmurs in his ear, his breath stuttering as he snaps his hips in short, precise thrusts.

“I’m yours,” Crowley pants, nuzzling into his cheek. 

It’s just as vulnerable as before, but just as passionate too. Aziraphale holds Crowley’s hip in one hand, pulling him soundly onto his cock, and Crowley lets his jaw drop as he feels himself open up around him from behind, as Aziraphale fucks him good and deep, just as he likes. 

No angelic power holding him down this time, but Crowley knows he’s no less held. 

The angel reaches his other hand into the water and wraps it around Crowley’s length, stroking him steady. 

There’s a bathtub, and soap that smells like the garden Crowley’s growing outside. There’s soft towels, and a big bed full of pillows, and a car that can take them wherever they want to go, together. There’s love, and no shame to be found in delighting in it.

Crowley pushes back as hard as he can and lets Aziraphale fuck him and stroke him until he comes and comes and comes, trembling, and he smiles as he feels Aziraphale follow him over the edge. 


It’s not long after that they’re properly clean and dry, settled on fresh sheets. In matching fluffy robes no less, which Crowley got for them but makes Aziraphale tell everyone who comes over that he did, and Aziraphale does even though it’s very silly, because he wants Crowley to enjoy his fluffy robe.

They’ve just about fallen asleep, Aziraphale curled up in Crowley’s arms, when Crowley thinks of something.

“You know, it’s a good thing that you didn’t come fuck me in the car, back then,” he says sleepily.

“Mmm?” Aziraphale says into his collarbone.

“Er. I think we spilled the thermos,” he observes, peering over the side of the bed.

Aziraphale jolts, cups his hand over his mouth, looks over too.

“Good lord,” he comments, mildly aghast.

“That would’ve been disastrous.” Crowley cleans up the perfectly un-holy water with a wave of his hand.

“Not as much as your hair was back then,” Aziraphale tugs on a lock of it now, settling back into Crowley’s arms.

“Hey,” Crowley says with mock affront, but he’s already petting his husband’s hips, already soothing them both to sleep. It gets to be a joke now. The danger long since passed, and whatever there is to come, they’re going to face it together. He’s so full, brimming with so much love it’s a wonder, really, he doesn’t burst. “I’m going to grow it out again just for that.”

“I do like it long,” Aziraphale murmurs, snuggling closer.

“Not long. The Beatles bowl cut.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would absolutely dare. Is that your least favorite?”

“Mmph. Those awful sideburns, in the Victorian era. Or perhaps Rome, it was far too short to get my hands into.”

“You’re going to wake up and I’m going to be all sideburn, angel.”

“I won’t kiss you if I do.”

“You will.”

“Yes. I will.”

It doesn’t happen the next morning, but in the not too distant future, Crowley will indeed grow his sideburns out, for the sheer pleasure of recreating the day Aziraphale stormed away from his holy water request in the park, only this time they end up going at it in the bushes. He’ll crop his hair short as Rome, so they can go out for oysters and make decadent love after, he’ll let it go as long as Eden and fuck Aziraphale in their very own garden. Sometimes they’ll add a kink to it, a layer of danger, another form of catharsis, but no matter what, it’s no less thrilling, and no less loving, and no less theirs.