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The thing was, Rome was hot. Even by a demon's standards it was stifling. Most of the patricians fled to the country during dies caniculares, the dog days of the summer. But Emperor Gaius Caesar Augustus Germanicus and the most devoted of his court were still around, or at least what passed for his court. A surprising number of the debauched, greedy, power-hungry, or just plain sycophantic thought there was more fun to be had in the city. That, or the emperor’s halls were cooler than their own homes.
Crowley looked around the luxurious room, not bothering to keep the sneer off his face. What Hell thought he could accomplish here that the humans weren't already managing on their own with brilliant success, he couldn't fathom. He still hadn't decided whether he'd take credit or wash his hands of the entire damned business. He was wearing his silver laurels, a gift from the emperor for suggesting that since politicians were all horse’s asses anyway, they might as well appoint a whole horse. It'd been a joke, for Satan's sake...
Technically, Emperor Little Boot (Crowley loved that nickname, and had already determined to make it popular) didn't hold orgies. But that didn't stop a few of his guests from being...excitable. The emperor himself was busy with his own more violent and extravagant entertainments, while others amused themselves with food, wine, and pleasures of the flesh. Loudly. The smells were overwhelming, and not just the human smells. The stenches of greed, lust, and other sins were almost tangible, thick enough to turn his stomach.
Frankly, Crowley's presence was superfluous, and as soon as he could he made himself scarce.
He sighed with relief once he was out in the night air. Technically it was hotter there than in the palace, which was cooled by water in pipes in the walls and offered refreshments such as cups of flavoured snow available for the guests. But the air outside smelled cleaner, and Crowley could be fastidious at times. It was tempting to sneak into a frigidarium for a dip, to clean off all the sweat and the feel of debauchery. But there might be others who'd had the same idea, and Crowley was feeling thoroughly sick of humanity at the moment.
Instead he made his way to the room he was using. No money ever changed hands, and the landlord of the insula never bothered him or even considered it odd that the best room was occupied. There were advantages to being a demon.
Pity that high tolerance for heat wasn't one of them. Crowley flung himself on his bed, staring at the ceiling, breathing through clenched teeth.
What had gotten under his skin so badly? The job didn't usually bother him like this. Even Little Boot, brutal as he was, was just another despot--not the first or worst Crowley had dealt with and certainly not the last. If anything Crowley should be grateful so little was required of him at the moment. It was easy to just dip a toe in and then his time was his own, hardly any effort needed. But lately it left a bad taste in his mouth. In fact he'd been out of sorts for the past month since he arrived, with the exception of one very surprising afternoon.
Aziraphale.
Crowley frowned to himself, remembering. It wasn't the first time he'd gone over the events of that day in his mind. It wasn't even the tenth. He still couldn't really make sense of it. He and the angel'd had more than a few conversations over the past four millennia, some of them polite, a few even amicable. Not what you'd expect from a hereditary enemy. Sometimes Crowley had been amused and sometimes antagonistic and sometimes...
Well. Sometimes they'd managed to find something like common ground. It was interesting and unexpected, and Crowley liked that.
This time had been different again. Aziraphale had greeted him. Had remembered his new name, seemed pleased to see him. Teased him and even invited him to come share a meal of oysters.
Which they had. Strange, salty brine things, not really to Crowley's taste, but an interesting experience. Unexpected.
And he'd liked that.
Liked dining with Aziraphale, with an angel. Talking idly about politics and art and human things. Food, drink, music, stories, philosophy. How bizarre but intriguing the entire business of living on earth was. Aziraphale had confided his fascination with humans and human entertainments as though he knew he probably shouldn't enjoy it all as much as he did but clearly did. And Crowley, who'd been feeling jaded and bored and irritable, had watched with curiosity as Aziraphale wiggled in a sort of excited contentment.
Crowley shifted on the bed, restless and...itchy, or something like it. The memory was so clear in his head: Aziraphale at his ease and smiling, no touch of heat on him. No sweat on his brow and the only beads of liquid the ones edging the jug he'd just been handed. His hair white as a cloud and his robes magically unstained. Just like an angel to keep themself that little bit separate from humanity, to stay above them. Pristine. How the Heaven had he stayed so unaffected by the temperature?
Crowley arched his back a little, summer heat lurking in his veins. A drop of sweat ran down his face, and he absently licked his lips, tasting salt. Did angels not sweat at all? Surely Aziraphale must sometimes. He got wet in the rain like anyone else, as Crowley had observed on two unforgettable occasions. Crowley remembered how that cloud-white hair looked when dampened by rain, white robes sodden and sticking to angelic arms. Surely Aziraphale felt heat, too, the way it'd sink into and under the skin, into your pores to bake you from within...
There was a ball of it now in Crowley's spine, a heavy weight of hot tension. He only realized he was digging his nails into his thigh when he felt the sharp prick of them on his skin.
Right. That. That...explained a few things. Probably to be expected after the evening he'd spent all but swimming in human desires. And it'd been a while, his corporation was probably worked up all on its own.
He might as well indulge a bit, work off some steam.
Disrobing was as easy as a snap of the fingers. The sudden feel of air on skin couldn't be called refreshing, but it was potent, made goosebumps rise over all his newly bared flesh. Crowley sighed a little, running fingers lightly up his thigh and hips, along his flanks and across his chest. He flicked at one nipple, testing, then shuddered as he felt it tighten. Yeah, this was what he needed, this would help...he was already half-hard as he pinched both nipples, first lightly and then harder, then rolled his palms over the pebbled nubs. His chest was hot. All of him was too damn hot.
Might as well earn it. He sharpened his nails a little, wanting more sensation, then ran them up to his shoulders, let them bite into the skin just at the base of his neck. He hissed, wishing it were teeth. That'd be good, that'd be the best, having teeth bite just there, digging into him...Crowley's breath hitched as he pressed in deeper. He was fully hard now and needed more. He scraped nails down his chest, leaving marks, felt his belly tighten in response; his cock ached, wanting to be touched, and he grazed his fingers down the length of it before fondling his balls, and it was good, all good, but not enough, not nearly fucking enough, and with a groan of frustration he released himself and flung his hand back on the pillow while he stared up the ceiling.
It wasn't working. For a few moments he just stewed in his own balked lust, breathing in and out and looking up at nothing, wondering what the Heaven to do with himself.
Another memory came unbidden: Aziraphale, eating not oysters but the filled bread rolls they'd had later. The way he'd closed his eyes and moaned as he bit down, how he'd savored every scrap of taste and sensation.
Crowley's cock throbbed.
Fine. Fuck it, fine. He could resist the temptation, but what for? He was a demon, after all.
Crowley closed his eyes and pictured the scene from earlier, back at the palace. One of the other rooms, not the main feasting area but somewhere a bit more private, a place where an angel and a demon who'd met by accident might conceivably go to talk without being overheard. Where a demon might, after a few barbed words and double-edged sentences, lean in and whisper a temptation in an angel's ear.
Where an angel might, might, in theory, catch his breath and turn his head just so, so that lips brushed against skin despite himself--
Crowley's breath caught as he trailed a single fingertip against his neck again, only barely touching. Like a feather, like the slightest hint of a breeze on a stifling day. Like the faintest imagined gasp of breath an angel might take after tasting salt on skin, finding it delicious, delicately flicking a tongue out to taste it again--
Arousal slammed through him hot and hard. He groaned, reaching down to grind the base of his palms against his legs, imagining different thighs under his hands, thicker ones, solid, sturdy. Dusted with pale hair. He imagined a plush, thick arse, pillowy, begging to be pressed against. Pushing that luxurious body against a wall, pinning wrists to the stone, leaning in and burying his face in an angelic neck. He could smell the scent of sweat and skin and rising desire.
Fuck, what would Aziraphale smell like? That papery sweet scent, what would it be like with the tang of lust at its edges, with a bite of salt to enhance the whole? What would he taste like, if Crowley were to dip his head and place a kiss just there, where shoulder met neck, if he were to drag lips and tongue up and place another behind a delicate earlobe, what would that voice sound like if it said Crowley's name then? What would Aziraphale--greedy, hedonistic, appreciative Aziraphale, who enjoyed earthly things so thoroughly--sound like saying more, yes, please, harder...
His hand was on his cock now, grip firm and already pulling in a rhythm he liked, one that would end this fast, because he was too far in to stop or even think. Behind his closed eyes he could see it all: robes gone, his arms wrapped around Aziraphale from behind, one hand splayed on a broad chest and the fingers of the other closed around Aziraphale's cock. Aziraphale's forearms resting against the wall as he moved in Crowley's embrace, fucking himself into Crowley's fist. And Crowley's own cock rubbing against Aziraphale's back, grinding between the cheeks of his arse, both of them radiating heat and incandescent with lust and dripping sweat, sweat, sweat--
The weight of it all in his spine, heavy in his balls, suddenly tightened beyond bearing and exploded into throbbing white ecstasy flooding through him, and Crowley came with half a name in his mouth, shouted into the empty room.
He shuddered in the aftermath, breathing hard for several minutes as awareness of the here and now returned. His body stretched on a bed, the sheets wrinkled unpleasantly from his writhing. His skin damp and sticky and acrid, already drying in the air. Come pooled on his belly.
Crowley sighed and lifted a hand, cleaning himself and remaking the bed with a thought and a gesture. But he still laid there, thinking about the fantasy he'd just conjured.
Thinking about Aziraphale, looking back at him over a shoulder with his head tilted in invitation as they entered the restaurant. His voice as he'd said Oh, well, let me tempt you to--oh no, that's your job, isn't it? The curve of amusement to his mouth, the pleased glint in his eyes. It’d been so easy to bring to mind. So very easy.
Crowley groaned and ran a hand through his hair. This was going to be a problem.