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Maggie was sorting through her inventory when the sound of heels click-clacked into her record shop. She looked up at the approaching customer with a sunny smile.
A dour faced older woman looked down at her. She seemed to need a moment before she plastered an incredibly fake smile on, tilting her head in a way that was probably supposed to be friendly.
Maggie's brain shouted Karen, but she shook the thought away and smiled back. “Good afternoon, ma'am. How can I help you?”
“Hello, shopkeeper. I was hoping you could help me,” the woman said. Her voice was familiar somehow. Had Maggie met this woman? She wished for a moment that Nina was here; she was much better with faces. “I was hoping to give my dear friend Mr. Fell a gift, but he seems to be away.”
“Oh,” Maggie said, blinking and trying to push down a feeling of sadness. Mr. Fell had been gone for months. His new shop assistant was perfectly pleasant, of course, but he had been her friend, as well as her landlord. She missed him. “Yes, unfortunately. I don't know when he'll be back.”
The woman's lips tightened. “Well, that's perfectly fine. Perhaps you know when his handsome companion will be in? Mr. Crawley?”
“Crowley,” Maggie corrected. “He stops by pretty irregularly. Checks on the shop. I don't know when he'll be back.”
“That's alright,” the woman cooed, reaching behind her back and pulling out a clear glass bottle filled with a yellow liquid. “I was hoping to give this to the two of them. As thanks for a favor they did me. But I am in a terrible rush, and the bookshop is closed.” Her smile widened, her teeth looking brilliantly white, almost razor sharp. “Could you pass this along?”
Part of Maggie wanted to refuse. She didn't know this woman. She sure as shit didn't trust this woman. Something about her was eerie. Familiar, yes, but not in a good way. She was unsettling. Unpleasant.
But Maggie was also the trusting sort. A soft touch, Nina had called her.
And it was just a bottle of wine. Or at least something that looked like wine.
“I’ll pass it along,” Maggie said, taking the bottle. It sloshed as she did, feeling heavy in her hands. She looked down at it, momentarily entranced by the dance of light over the rippling surface. “Who may I say it's from?”
But the woman, whoever she was, was gone.
—
A golden glass bottle sat innocuously on Aziraphale's writing desk when Crowley ambled in for the night, a perfectly innocent seeming thing… except that Crowley had kept this damned bookshop tidy, and he had never seen that bottle before. He hadn't put it there.
“Muriel!” He called, wandering to the backroom. No scrivener. “Muriel?” He said, ducking through the shelves of the storefront. Nothing. If they'd put the bottle there, they weren't here to explain it. That, in itself, wasn’t too odd. The little angel had taken to wandering through London, meeting people and learning about humanity. It was good for them to do more than read, in Crowley’s opinion.
“Hmm,” Crowley said, picking the bottle up by the neck. The golden liquid inside sloshed easily, with all the viscosity of a fine wine. There was no label on it. It had only a simple cork with an emblem of a blooming rose burned into the side. Crowley was curious.
Technically, he should leave it be, shouldn't he? It probably belonged to Aziraphale. Maybe a human had given it to Muriel for him, and they’d left it on the desk here for whenever he returned.
The ‘Supreme Archangel’ had a habit of sneaking into the bookshop when Crowley was out. Crowley knew because Aziraphale was bad about leaving half full mugs of cocoa on the desk and rearranging the books.
Crowley was more hurt than mad. Aziraphale was puttering around his bookshop like nothing was different… nothing except his uncanny ability to be there when Crowley wasn't.
And Crowley was basically living in the bookshop now. How could he not? He didn't trust Muriel not to sell any books.
And… well, it was as much his bookshop as it had ever been Aziraphale's. What had the angel said? They “both got plenty of use out of it.” If he could commandeer the Bentley to go to Scotland, Crowley could squat in the bookshop.
If Aziraphale had any objections to it, he knew where to find him. So he must not mind. Or he must be too cowardly to face Crowley and tell him to leave.
Which, at least, didn't really fit Aziraphale. Aziraphale was many things. Ridiculous. Old-fashioned. Pent up. Impulsive. Self-righteous. A bit naive. But not cowardly.
Crowley missed him so much.
That wasn't the point. The point was if this bottle was a gift from a human, Muriel probably left it here for Aziraphale to get whenever he snuck in from Heaven. So Crowley should leave it alone.
But as much as Crowley missed Aziraphale, he was also pretty damned pissed off at him. It would serve the angel right if he drank his fancy bottle of whatever without Aziraphale ever knowing.
He quickly scanned it with his demonic senses to make sure it wasn't sacramental wine, something made with holy water, poisoned, or otherwise tainted.
Nothing. Just alcohol. It wasn't even high proof. Was it wine?
Only one way to find out. He walked into the little kitchenette and grabbed a couple of glasses and a corkscrew. When he got back to the desk and realized he'd grabbed two glasses out of habit, he nearly threw one at the wall, but he reigned in the impulse.
It wasn't the glass’s fault he was a heartsick idiot.
He opened the bottle and took a sniff. Immediately, warm spices and the sweet smell of honey filled his nose.
Not wine, then. Mead.
“Excellent,” Crowley said with a smile. “Nice change of pace.”
He poured himself a glass, settled onto the sofa, and took a sip. It was really quite excellent mead, crisp and bright, with a warm baking-spice finish, not too sweet, nor too dry. He swirled it around his mouth, savoring the flavor, the body, the aroma of the drink.
“Ahhh,” he breathed after he swallowed. “An excellent vintage. Or whatever the mead equivalent of that would be. Your loss, Aziraphale,” he said, toasting the air. “Cheers.”
Several sips later, and he settled more fully into the sofa. He was nowhere near drunk, but the warm, sweet taste of the mead had left him feeling lax, soft, as if the golden liquid had replaced the blood in his veins. It was so easy to tip his head back, to sigh and idly trace the pads of the fingers of his free hand over the ridge of his jaw, down the line of his throat.
Behind his closed eyes, amid the smell of the bookshop– the comfortable leather sofa, old wood, older paper, traces of wine and tobacco and cocoa– Crowley could almost imagine that the fingers sliding over his skin weren't his own. Could almost imagine them being replaced by hungry lips eager to leave kisses and love bites up the column of his neck.
Crowley’s eyes snapped open and he scowled. Fuck, he did not need to go there. He certainly hadn't had enough to drink to hurt himself with those fantasies. He knocked back the rest of the glass, no longer interested in savoring the spicy sweetness.
As he stared up at the moon-lit skylight over his head, he could feel his heart pounding, slow and ponderous. He could feel his blood pumping, his temperature rising. Fuck, how long had it been since he'd had a wank?
Maybe before Shax had taken his flat. He certainly hadn't wanted to do that in the Bentley.
He rubbed his hand down over his chest, let it settle over his crotch, already half-hard and blood-hot, and let out a shuddering sigh. He considered taking himself out here, on this sofa– could almost imagine a familiar face gazing down at him from that armchair, hungry and wanting. But, fuck, if Muriel came in, how in all the circles of Hell would he explain it to them?
And besides that, he didn't want to imagine Aziraphale right now. He was still furious with the angel, hurt and incensed. He wanted to give Aziraphale a piece of his mind not– not–
His cock throbbed underneath his hand.
“Fuck!” Crowley threw himself upright and poured himself another glass, downing it carelessly. He paced, trying to will away the heat between his legs, the images behind his eyes, the faint whispers in his ears, but no matter how much he paced, how fervently he cursed at himself, nor how much he drank, he couldn't calm down.
Every step seemed to chafe his sensitive skin against suddenly too-rough denim, the jagged cut of his belt into his hips. His jacket, waistcoat and long sleeves, previously perfect for the early spring weather, now felt oppressively hot, stiflingly tight.
He heard the storefront bell jingle, and he snapped his attention to the door, heart racing with a sudden wave of hope, of longing, of need.
But it was the wrong angel who walked in.
Muriel smiled at him. “Oh! Hello, Mr. Crowley! Happy to see you again,” they opened their mouth and kept talking, but Crowley didn't hear a word they said.
—
The new Supreme Archangel was extraordinarily busy. Angels of every rank wandered in and out at all hours. Scriveners with their reams of papers to sign. Principalities with reports. Dominions with banal questions about the most basic of tasks. And the Archangels. Always popping in to “check” on Aziraphale.
Just checking in. Checking up. Do you need help? Their smiles and offers were insincere. The happiness in their faces seemed to be at his expense.
Aziraphale was fine. Fine, he insisted. Hadn't had more than a moment to himself. Hadn't had time to think, much less…
He could still feel soft, desperate lips against his, tight hands clenched around his lapels, a warm, solid, real, wonderful presence in his arms, finally… For all too brief a time.
He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, taking a deep breath to once again rein in the wave of anguish that threatened to break him.
We could have been… us.
Damn Crowley. Damn him back to Hell. Why did he have to give him this ridiculous, impossible choice?
Aziraphale took in a shuddering breath, throat tight and raw. He would go back to the bookshop tomorrow, he promised himself. It helped him ground himself, to be around his familiar things, to drink cocoa and occasionally nibble on something delivered.
Not that delivery was really feasible anymore. He had had to start going to the bookshop at night. The last time he'd gone during the day, he’d seen Crowley napping on the sofa, long limbs sprawled, sunglasses on but askew, red hair mussed. He'd been so tempting. Aziraphale had wanted so badly to sit beside him, to set the sunglasses aside, to smooth the waves of his hair, to bury his face into that narrow chest and weep, frustrated and longing and heartbroken as he was.
At night, if Crowley was in the bookshop, he wasn't on the sofa. Aziraphale didn't go looking for him. He wasn't sure what would happen if he found him. He wasn't sure what he wanted to happen, either.
Tomorrow night, he promised. After he finished yet another needless report.
A polite knock drew his attention. Aziraphale yanked his hands down, folding them primly in front of himself and forcing himself to smile. “Michael,” he said as pleasantly as he could manage. Which with Michael wasn't saying much.
“Supreme Archangel,” she said, expression polite, but voice dripping with disdain. “We have a bit of a problem.”
“Problem?” He asked. He tried very hard not to think about the various subtle bugs he’d woven into the careful plans for the Second Coming. Had he been caught? How could he have been? So much of what he'd set up relied heavily on human expectations, on things angels wouldn't see as amiss but would make humans immediately doubt, recoil, evade.
“You remember Shax? The demon who took over for your–” her lip curled and she took a second to think of a word, “--opposite, Crowley?”
“The one who attempted to raid my bookshop, insulted me and my friends, and would have destroyed me if given a chance, yes. What about her?”
“She's made a bit of a mess of things, unfortunately. Demons do love to get carried away.”
Aziraphale swallowed around a lump of anxiety. “What has she done?”
“As I understand it, she is attempting to mete out some sort of justice from Hell against the demon Crowley. But she did it in a way that leaves little Muriel in danger.” Michael walked in and gestured. An image of a black rose appeared in the air between them like a hologram in a science-fiction novel.
“Rosa melanthia,” Aziraphale breathed. He knew it well. He had even once broken up a frightening ritual of sex and violence the alluring blossoms had incited, or at least exacerbated, back when some pagan fertility cults used them. “But those are extinct.” He should know. He had worked diligently to ensure it.
“Yes,” Michael agreed, “but they weren't some centuries ago. Apparently one of Hell’s monasteries used them to make honey. And from that honey, they made mead.”
Aziraphale’s brows furrowed. “Mead?”
“A human drink. An alcoholic drink, as I understand,” she said, oblivious or apathetic to the fact that Aziraphale knew very well what mead was. “She arranged it so that Crowley would drink the substance and be caught in its snare.”
Cold rushed through Aziraphale as he remembered the screams of the crazed humans caught in the throes of the melanthia pollen. Humans brought unwillingly to the ritual, humans who'd been unaware of exactly how the pollen would make them react, humans terrified of the urges that had been awoken in them, forced from the realm of idle fantasy to inescapable reality.
Aziraphale hadn't been affected because, as an angel, he didn't need to breathe. The pollen had never gotten into him to work its evil upon him.
But if Crowley had drunk mead made from it…
If he hadn't known…
“What Hell wishes to do to their disobedient operatives is not our problem nor my concern,” Michael continued, “but Muriel is still an angel. Technically they're one of my direct reports. I wouldn't want anything to happen to them.”
Aziraphale stood, knocking his chair back into the wall. “You knew about this, and you didn't warn Muriel?”
Michael brought a hand to her chest and gasped. “They are always in the bookshop. Where the demon is. I don't want to be anywhere near a demon under the influence of melanthia pollen,” she said, disgusted. “Who knows what sort of sick, depraved fantasies a creature like that would concoct?” Her nose wrinkled, and she shook her head.
Aziraphale stormed past Michael, walking urgently to the elevator to Down. He heard the crisp little click-click of her heels as she rushed after him.
“I can't help but wonder if your fervor to get to Earth is to protect Muriel or to indulge the demon.”
Aziraphale froze, hands shaking as he resisted the urge to ball them into fists. He very slowly pressed the elevator button. “I have seen what melanthia pollen does to humans,” Aziraphale said quietly. “Even the ones who knowingly partook often found themselves horrified by what they did under its effects.” He looked over his shoulder and glared at Michael as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. “Muriel is an angel, and beyond that, they are an innocent. Crowley may be a demon, but he is my friend first and foremost, and I know him well enough to know that he wouldn't want to lose control and hurt someone.” He straightened his shoulders and arched an eyebrow, wielding his moral superiority like an expert fencer. “I will do what must be done, Michael, to protect the innocent and to thwart the machinations of Hell. And I will be making a note on your quarterly report that you were unwilling to do the same.”
He stepped into the lift and jabbed his thumb into the door-shut button before Michael could retort.
—
The guest room no longer smelled like Gabriel. Or Jim. Whatever. The smell of cocoa had finally drifted out of the open windows, replaced rightly by the smell of lush foliage and Crowley’s cologne. It didn't make the room feel anymore like “home,” but at least he wasn't reminded of his Supreme Smugness whenever he wanted to get a nap. Crowley set the bottle of mead down on the bedside table with an angry thump.
How could he have been so stupid as to hope that Aziraphale would have come? Of course it would be Muriel instead.
Crowley tossed his sunglasses onto the bedside table, followed quickly by his keys and watch. His skin felt too tight, too hot. Fuck, he was really keyed up.
A wank would do him good. A chance to relieve some of the tension he’d been carrying around since Shax had kicked him out of his flat. Tension that had only rocketed higher when Gabriel had tromped stupidly back into their lives.
He hadn't gotten himself off since Aziraphale left, either. He hadn't been bold enough at first to make space for himself in the bookshop, not for weeks. And truth to tell, he definitely hadn't been in the mood, even once he had moved all of his things in.
He didn't really want to be in the mood now. But sometimes the corporation got like this. Tense. Sensitive. Hot. And it was hard to deny that an orgasm felt good.
It's just that his usual wank fantasies before were, well, not really appropriate now. They hadn't technically been appropriate before– wank fantasies never were– but at least before there had been that glimmer of hope. Of possibility.
Aziraphale hadn't really reciprocated that damned kiss, though. There was no way he would reciprocate–
Crowley shook his head and unfastened his belt, shoving his hand unceremoniously into his pants and squeezing his aching cock. He hissed with pleasure. He needed this. It wouldn't take long. He had almost forgotten how good it felt, the softness of his skin over the aching hardness inside.
He slid his palm over the underside and gasped, lolling his head back. He could feel his hair tickling against the back of his neck, a testament to how long he’d gone without changing the style. What would be the point? It wasn't like he had anyone to impress. No one was there to admire a new style, to tease him about his vanity while coyly peeking at him whenever Crowley seemed like he wasn't looking (he was always looking).
Crowley shook his head. No. Not thinking about Aziraphale.
A few strokes in, and he felt a simmering of heat beginning to build. And build. And build.
Release seemed perilously close, but he couldn’t quite get there. He shoved his pants and trousers down with a frustrated grunt, then opened his bedside table and took out a bottle of lube. As he squirted some of the cool gel into his hand, he sat on the mattress and spread his knees wide.
The first stroke over his aching cock was shockingly cold, and he winced in response, but in a matter of a few slow strokes, both it and he were warmed up, and he was rubbing himself faster and faster, chasing the pleasure, the relief that he needed so badly.
The physical relief, anyway. It wouldn’t help with the ache in his chest, with the way that the shadows seemed darker than before, the way music seemed quieter, less vibrant.
Satan’s sake, he didn’t even want to come as much as he wanted–
He scowled and squeezed himself tighter. “Doesn’t matter what I want, does it? Ah–” he groaned, bracing one hand behind himself to keep upright. “Fuck!” He began to thrust with every movement of his hand.
But he realized after a few more frantic thrusts that this was getting him nowhere. He wasn’t rising any higher, reaching any closer to the peak he needed. It was like running on a treadmill or gunning the Bentley’s accelerator with the tires stuck in the mud.
He flopped back onto the bed with a frustrated growl. After glaring at the ceiling for a few ragged breaths, he looked down at his defiant cock.
He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to be furiously wanking in an attempt to distract himself from how badly he missed his best friend. He didn’t want to be chasing a fleeting orgasm alone, in the dark, just shy of drunk and long past sad.
He wanted Aziraphale. His cock twitched and a bead of precum dripped from the slit, as if his body were enthusiastically cheering him on for stating the obvious to himself. Which made it worse.
Because he couldn’t have Aziraphale. Aziraphale was up in Heaven doing God only knew what (literally).
He hissed and cursed a blue streak just to get it out of his system. Once his screed of invectives was done, though, he was no closer to orgasm, nor any less keyed up.
He wasn’t going to be able to come like this. He wanted his angel too badly, and he knew it.
His eyes landed on the door and he arched an eyebrow. Well, if he couldn’t have Aziraphale, he could at least have the next best thing.
—
As the elevator descended, Aziraphale rested his head against the mirrored wall, trembling.
Rosa melanthia. An innocent enough name. The Greek literally just means “black flower.” Apropos for a blossom that once had such dark petals… and a dark purpose. Trust Hell to try and cultivate it, to harness its insidious power in other forms.
They had probably bred the damned thing. Strains of wildflowers whose pollen had an aphrodisiac effect had been fairly common some millennia ago. Fortunately, in general, they smelled awful, and those that could be tolerated by human noses had almost all died out either due to humans over-harvesting, as with silphium, habitat loss, or Heavenly intervention. What few other wild aphrodisiacs still remained were no doubt hidden in the depths of the rainforests or the jungles, helping animals keep their numbers up, but blessedly far from any humans.
Melanthia was different. It was a rose, and thus, frighteningly easy to hybridize with other roses, relatively easy to grow, beautiful to look at, and divine to smell. Aziraphale could remember early in its cultivation when a single bloom was given to newlywed couples as a fertility charm. It wasn't long, however, before more and more potent specimens were being bred. And with its potency came a peculiar effect.
Relief, release, whatever you wish to call it, could not be reached until the one affected succumbed to their deepest fantasy. Whether that was to seduce someone else’s spouse, to fornicate with an animal, to allow oneself to be used by a dozen strangers, or any other depraved working of the human mind. Aziraphale often wondered if Hell had coaxed that quirk into the effect to unleash more sin, or if Heaven had done it to punish and shame humans for daring to have impure thoughts– thoughts which might titillate in the privacy of one’s own mind, but would never be feasible or even desirable in reality.
Some humans did find the effects of melanthia liberating. Being free to admit, to seek, to need to have the one thing they had locked away in the darkest recesses of themselves with the helpful excuse of being under the influence, being out of control… even Aziraphale understood the temptation that offered. But not all humans were scrupulous, and too many “fertility cults” and charming seducers lured hapless victims in with the promise of uninhibited sex, and used them cruelly until they broke, or helped them enact that secret wish, only to blackmail them into submission after the fact.
The “orgy” he had broken up, if one could call that nightmare such a thing, had been the catalyst of four hundred years of work. Aziraphale had scoured the planet looking for any of that damned flower. It seemed like every decade after he’d thought he'd gotten the last specimen, a new rumor of the plant’s return, crossbred from other rose strains, had uprooted him (pun not intended) from his business and driven him to confirm if the rumors were true.
But who knew how old that mead was. Or the honey from whence it had been derived. Honey was notorious for keeping for millennia. Hell’s monastery could have stockpiled it across the centuries. He would have to find out.
After he helped Crowley.
As he stepped out of the elevator, he worried that perhaps he ought to be more concerned about Muriel. Innocent, naive Muriel, who might instinctively try to help Crowley if they saw him in some sort of compromised state.
Aziraphale had no way of knowing what Crowley's deepest fantasy could be. Like Aziraphale, he was six thousand years old (technically; though he had existed long before time was technically a thing), and had no doubt seen every possible permutation of human sexuality imaginable. Hell, he could be a snake– or any animal, really– why limit himself to human sexuality?
And… and he was a demon. A demon who had no interest in being anything else. Perhaps, deep down in a part of himself he’d never shown Aziraphale, he wanted something demonic.
That was, perhaps, the best way he could justify being here at all. Muriel was an angel, bestowed with as much holy power as any other angel, and certainly capable of teleporting themself away should the need arise.
But Crowley, in his right mind, would not want his darkest, most depraved desires to be brought to the surface where anyone could see. He would never want to give Hell the satisfaction of giving in to their machinations, of humiliating himself for them.
And if he did need… relief. Well, Aziraphale's corporation could look like anything. Like anyone. It wouldn't matter if he wanted Muriel or Satan himself, an animal, or a human long since dead. Aziraphale could be that for him. He could bear whatever Crowley needed him to bear.
—
Crowley slid into the dark room, bottle of mead loosely gripped in one hand, bottle of lube in the other. He took a swig of the mead and shuddered.
He knew what Aziraphale smelled like: vanillin from old wood and paper, glue and dust from old books, cocoa and wine and cooked food, and a sharp spicy aftershave that had been recommended by his barber. The angel’s bedroom smelled like him.
Crowley could see well enough in the dark to see a couple of old books piled on the right bedside table underneath an antique lamp. It wasn't at all surprising that Aziraphale might spend his nights snuggled up with a good book, and Crowley felt his lips twitch with amusement despite himself. He wondered if Aziraphale changed into some sort of sleepwear when he did – an old dressing gown and nightcap like Ebenezer Scrooge, perhaps, or maybe a set of tartan pajamas, just as primly buttoned up in bed as he was during the day.
Crowley strolled to the left side of the bed, took another sip of the mead, and set the bottle down. Then he tossed the bottle of lube on the quilt. It knew better than to leak and ruin the antique material.
What would make for a better setup for a wank fantasy, he wondered. Perhaps he would imagine Aziraphale was already there, naked but modestly covering himself with the quilt, an adorable blush on his cheeks. Eager, ready, hungry.
Or maybe buttoned up in soft cotton sleep clothes, pretending to read but sneaking coy peeks to his left, to Crowley. It could be fun to imagine taking his time, working his hands under the cloth to warm skin, plucking at ivory or mother of pearl buttons while the angel played at being engrossed in his novel, annoyed by the distraction, even as the color rose up his neck and his breaths grew heavy and turned to sighs. Distracting the angel while he read was an old favorite fantasy, one he’d honed from the days when Aziraphale wore tunics and read scrolls.
But he didn't really want to imagine Aziraphale saying ‘no,’ tonight, even temporarily, playfully, before melting into breathless ‘yeses.’ The taste of Aziraphale's last rejection was too fresh, too bitter.
Crowley shrugged out of his jacket and let it fall to the floor, then kicked his boots off. His eyes drifted from Aziraphale's bed to the bedroom door.
Oh, yes, he definitely had something else in mind tonight.
He closed his eyes and snapped his fingers. Once upon a time, he might have imagined real candles, the smell of beeswax and flame, but ever since Armageddon, the idea of anything burning in the bookshop would have been a terrible mood-killer, so he settled for electric candles with LEDs that flickered and cast light just as well as the real thing. Better than real LEDs could.
When he opened his eyes, it was perfect. Warm, soft light flickered along the walls.
He took his time shedding his clothes rather than using a miracle. The feel of the cloth sliding away, his skin slowly exposed to the warm air of the room, was intoxicating. Sensual.
He pulled back the pale bedclothes, chuckling as he took in the buttery softness of the high thread count cotton. Aziraphale didn't even sleep, but of course he wouldn't settle for anything less than luxury in his bed.
Crowley’s chest ached at the thought.
He slid into the bed, and it felt even better on his naked skin than he’d expected. Cool, smooth, light. And the smell of Aziraphale was so much stronger here. Crowley moaned, lost for a moment in the idea of being wrapped up in his angel.
He slid all the way to the middle of the bed, fingers stroking into the divot of the mattress worn down by the angel’s presence. As he did, the sheets rose and fell, huffing air over his too-hot skin, and washing over him a very new dimension of scent.
It was Aziraphale – unmistakably – but headier, muskier. Like sweat, yes, but also something rich and primal. Like sex, but unadulterated with the scent of any other being, any intruder into this space that was uniquely Aziraphale's. Well, none except Crowley.
“Oh, you naughty angel,” Crowley purred, sliding his leg further over to Aziraphale's side of the bed. “Maybe I shouldn't imagine you so coy.” He chuckled as he imagined Aziraphale's flustered expression, the hemming-and-hawing of excuses and equivocations. “Shhh,” he whispered into the empty room. “I definitely don't mind. How do you like to pleasure yourself, hmm? Do you just use your hands, as God intended?” He snorted at his own joke. “Or do you prefer one of the sundry human inventions to heighten the experience?”
His eyes flicked to Aziraphale's bedside table, and he considered opening the drawer to peek in and find out. He even rolled onto his belly, arm extended, tempted by the thought, but when his cock slid against the smooth sheets, the shock of it caused him to overbalance, flopping artlessly into the angel’s pillow.
He ground desperately against the mattress, aching with need. Awash in the smell of Aziraphale, thrilled with the taboo of being here, in his bed, without his knowledge, electrified by the thought of Aziraphale indulging himself, he found himself zapped back to the precipice, helpless against it.
He moaned, grasping at Aziraphale’s pillow and burying his face into it. He hadn’t realized how much smell would help; he’d hoped and suspected, of course, but the reality was so, so much better. The softness of the bedclothes, the scent of his angel, just being in the same room knowing that Aziraphale had been there, getting off… it was incredible. So much.
But even as he fucked desperately into the mattress, even as thoughts of Aziraphale fingering himself or stroking his cock with slow, hedonistic rapture flooded his mind, it didn’t help.
He found himself sitting at the top of a roller coaster hill, peeking down the descent, but stuck. Frozen.
“COME ON!” He groaned with desperation into the pillow. Then he let out a frustrated scream. He shoved a hand down and tried to get a good grip on himself, but it didn’t matter either. “Why in hell can’t I– Argghhh!”
He fucked into his palm, anger starting to bleed into the frustration, self recrimination whispering in his ear. Maybe he was doing this to himself. Maybe if he’d been smoother, suaver, more charming, Aziraphale would have stayed. He would be here instead of in Heaven.
He would be here. Where he belonged.
“Aziraphale,” he sobbed. “Fuck–”
—
The bell over the door jingled as Aziraphale stepped into the bookshop. The store, previously closed, was perfectly quiet. Muriel was sitting in Aziraphale's armchair reading.
They glanced up. “Oh! Supreme Archangel, sir!” They said, standing and setting the book down on the desk. “It's wonderful to see you at seven o'clock on a Tuesday morning. The shop isn't open yet.” They beamed, then blushed. “But of course, you know that. It's your shop hours… gosh, I didn't realize that would sound so ridiculous –”
“Muriel,” Aziraphale interrupted, relieved that the scrivener was apparently unaffected, but concerned still gnawing at his insides. “Have you seen Crowley?”
“Mr. Crowley? Oh, yes!” Muriel’s megawatt grin was back in full force. “He’s upstairs. Sleeping, I think.”
“Sleeping?” Aziraphale breathed, relief washing over him. Perhaps he hadn't drunk any of the mead at all! “Oh, thank God.”
Muriel wiggled, brushing their hands over their skirt. “Yes, it's lucky. He looked very flushed when I saw him last night, and he spent a lot of the night moaning and swearing. When he finally went quiet, I used a miracle to peek in to check on him. He was sound asleep. That was around two o’clock last night. Morning? It’s funny how humans think the dark time is morning.”
Aziraphale's shoulders slumped. “I see.”
“I was a bit worried he might have got ill,” Muriel said, “but then I remembered that he's a demon. Demons can't get ill. Obviously.”
“So he's upstairs right now, asleep?”
“Yes.” Muriel nodded. “I mean, probably. I haven't checked. Do you want me to –”
Aziraphale shook his head and held up a hand. “My dear, it's quite alright. Perhaps he’s slept it off by now. In either case, you were enjoying a lovely book, and I hate to have interrupted you. Why don't you leave the shop to me for the day and go over the road to read at the coffee shop?”
Muriel looked sincerely tempted. “Well, it is your shop.” They bounced and grabbed the book, rushing out of the shop eagerly.
Aziraphale waited a moment to make sure they were gone and locked the shop up tight with a miracle. The shop knew better than to let anyone else's miracles override him, even if he could sense its displeasure with his absences.
He rushed upstairs to look in the guest room first. He’d seen many of Crowley’s things there since the demon had taken up a more permanent residence. His plants sat in the window, shivering slightly once the door opened. Several table books of astronomy and botany sat atop a dresser. A pair of sunglasses, one of many no doubt, were on the bedside table next to the keys to the Bentley and a sleek black mobile phone, plugged into the wall. The bedside table drawer was slightly open, and the sheets of the bed were rumpled and unmade– quite unlike how he’d seen them any other time he’d peeked in when Crowley was out.
Aziraphale gathered by the effects that Crowley was still in the bookshop, but he wasn't sure where.
Aziraphale stepped back out onto the landing and looked around. It was then he realized his own bedroom door was shut. Aziraphale had little use for his own bedroom other than as a place to change clothes, attend to his morning grooming, occasionally read, and, well… what any lonely male-shaped being might do in the privacy of his own bedchamber.
He blushed and pushed that thought away. What terrible timing to think about himself. Selfish.
He tried the knob, and the door opened easily. The curtains had been drawn, but the room was lit by several flickering electric candles. Candles Aziraphale wasn't entirely sure he had owned, actually, with burgundy ‘wax’ and silver candlesticks. The dim light gave the room a cozy, intimate feeling.
Aziraphale’s heart clenched at the sight of this place, his refuge, awash in golden light, glimmering and dreamlike. It made the antique wooden furniture seem shot through with brass, the cream walls appear saffron sweet, the royal blue curtains shimmer like sapphires, their gold embroidery glistening like jewels.
But the real jewel in the room was not something Aziraphale had ever expected to see there. Hoped, maybe, or – were he the type to sleep – dreamed, most definitely, but expected? No. Never.
A spill of ruby poured out over the pillows, a shocking realization of all the fantasies Aziraphale had tried to suppress since he’d bought them, during the centuries of glimpsing to his left after finishing a particularly satisfying book or enjoying a particularly satisfying — well, no matter – and seeing unrumpled white pillows, smooth and pristine.
The bed was definitely rumpled now, the antique quilt and cotton bedclothes cast in haphazard waves, more or less piled up over the sleeping figure in the center. A pale arm spangled with freckles stretched out from the pale cloth, reaching over the right side of the bed.
Almost like he was reaching— no. No. Aziraphale shook the selfish thought away.
He realized he’d raised his hand when the twitch of his fingers caught his attention, as though of their own volition his fingers had reached out to map constellations between the points of copper within a sky of gold. He pulled his hand back, clenching it into a loose, trembling fist at his chest and taking a steadying breath.
He dragged his eyes away from that pale arm, desperately glancing around, a habit born from centuries of practice. Pools of black on the floor, indistinct in the candlelight, spelled out that the figure under the bedclothes was nude as clearly as black ink on a page. Aziraphale clamped his eyes shut and trembled.
He shouldn’t be surprised. He knew why Crowley was here, or rather, he knew what had happened to him.
Come to think of it, he wasn’t entirely sure why Crowley was here, sleeping in Aziraphale’s bed.
Oh, of course, he had his hopes. His daydreams. His fantasies. The thousands of implications buried within and I would like to spend… But he didn’t know. And he couldn’t unless he dared to wake the demon.
He opened his eyes and saw one other thing that didn’t belong in the room. Lying sideways on the bedside table, uncorked and far more than half empty, rest a glass bottle, its contents the same color as the light, which almost made it seem as clear as water, but as Aziraphale took in another deep breath, he could pick out the damning scent.
Sweet and crisp and the razor sharp tang of alcohol. Mead.
He looked down. The floor and bedside table were bone dry and there was no tingle of hellish energy to suggest a miracle had been cast.
So, no spill. A fool’s hope.
Aziraphale sighed and walked over, picking up the bottle and setting it upright. Even though he’d tried to set the bottle down gently, the thunk of the glass against the wood startled a sleepy grunt from Crowley.
The angel froze as he watched Crowley stir, waking slowly. He saw the way the softness of sleep faded and the way his eyes blinked open, the flicker of confusion, the spread of wide fingers over an empty bedside, and the dark shadow of disappointment.
Then Crowley rolled onto his back, and his yellow eyes widened as they met Aziraphale’s. The angel’s heart ricocheted in his ribs, trapped between the dizzying elation of once again seeing the face of the one being in all Creation who ever made it beat and the crushing guilt left in the wake of how they parted.
Crowley shot upright, expression wild, unguarded, his hair in disarray, and the bedclothes slipped down.
Aziraphale gasped and forced himself to stare determinedly at the point of Crowley's widow's peak lest his hungry gaze devour the demon whole.
God, and Aziraphale hadn’t even drunk any of that damnable mead. He was supposed to be stronger than this.
“Ah,” he said, feeling adrift and out of sorts. How in Heaven’s name could he start this conversation? “Crowley–”
“Aziraphale–” Surprise flickered to disbelief, and cautious fingers traced over the edge of the threadbare lapel of the angel’s favorite coat. “You’re here.”
Aziraphale swallowed and slowly sat on the edge of the bed. “I am.” He opened his mouth to keep talking, to explain about the melanthia and the mead, but words failed him as the corners of Crowley’s eyes crinkled, and the corners of his mouth twitched into a soft, sincere smile.
How could Aziraphale manage to find words in the wake of that? For God’s sake, he wasn’t even wearing his sunglasses. Hellfire would have been less devastating.
Crowley’s fingers trailed up the line of the lapel, curled around the back of Aziraphale’s neck, and he stroked the tip of his thumb against the edge of his jaw. “For me?”
Was Crowley pulling him closer, or was Aziraphale just being drawn to him?
Crowley’s lips landed on his cheek, featherlight and just a little bit dry, rasping against his skin. For a wild moment, Aziraphale realized how long it had been since he’d been to a barber, not that he needed to shave, needed creams and lotions to keep his skin smooth like he preferred. And he certainly didn’t have something as human as stubble, but–
Crowley sighed contentedly and pressed another kiss at the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth, somehow not claiming his lips like– like he had. Once.
God, why not? Did he not realize how badly Aziraphale needed it? How frequently he’d reflected on that moment and heard a treacherous voice in the back of his mind pleading him to do it again?
Aziraphale felt like he was falling apart. Tears stung at his eyes. “Yes,” he confessed.
Crowley chuckled, the sound damp despite the dryness of Crowley’s lips. “Fuck, angel. What took you so long?”
Finally, he tipped his head and molded his lips over Aziraphale’s. It was everything. Nothing like the last time, bitter and sharp. Well, in one way it was the same– at least in the way Aziraphale’s hands found their way around the broad spread of his shoulders, fingers clinging into the ridges of his shoulder blades, halfway convinced that if he let go, he would find himself back in Heaven, stark and alone.
Unlike last time, Crowley moaned, shifting onto his knees, wide-spread hands and long fingers slipping up to run through the angel’s short curls, to cling to the weathered and well-worn fabric of Aziraphale’s coat. He broke the kiss with another unexpected chuckle, and though Aziraphale’s gut twisted with a sudden wave of nerves that he was somehow not measuring up, not doing it right, the look on Crowley’s face, open and wondrous and so unabashedly joyful, quickly disabused him of that notion.
Without thinking, Aziraphale slipped one hand down to Crowley’s narrow waist and surged up, knocking the demon onto his back in a desperate need to taste that smile. Crowley melted into him, parting his lips so easily, wantonly groaning and arching into Aziraphale’s grip.
But when Aziraphale slipped his tongue between those lips, starving, ravenous for the taste of him, his gourmand’s palate caught the sweet and spicy taste of mead, even stale and hours old. He gasped and pulled back. “Crowley–”
Crowley hungrily pulled him back, nipping at his lips and licking at the seam, trying to coax them open. A long leg worked its way between Aziraphale’s, a thin thigh pressing greedily at the angel’s already aching cock. “I knew it,” Crowley laughed, and rolled them both over. He cupped Aziraphale’s cheek and looked into his eyes. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, angel.”
Aziraphale shuddered, resolve cracking. “Oh, my dear, you always do, but–” The tears he’d tried so hard to trap slipped down, and Crowley, bless his damned soul, murmured soft sounds as he thumbed them away and pressed soft kisses against his lips.
“I always do,” Crowley breathed, gentle, another light laugh joining his words. “Oh, my angel, I always will.” He began tracing soft kisses over Aziraphale’s jaw, down his neck.
Aziraphale shuddered, his body trying to tell him to just lie back and enjoy it, to take the pleasure on offer and surrender to it. But how could he take advantage of Crowley like that? Even if it… even if it seemed like exactly what Crowley wanted?
No. It wasn’t right. “Crowley, I– have you ever,” the demon’s teeth grazed lightly over the edge of his adam’s apple, and Aziraphale’s head swam, “oh God, please–”
He felt Crowley smirk, the fiend.
The angel shook his head. “Ha– have you heard of melanthia?”
Crowley hummed, lapping at the hollow of his throat. “Rose,” he murmured, then bit at the tail of Aziraphale’s bowtie and pulled back, meeting the angel’s eyes and giving a playful wink. “Before I got into plants, though,” he said, letting the tartan fabric fall from his lips. “Look at you,” he breathed, capturing Aziraphale’s lips before the angel could explain further. Clever fingers began to pluck at the buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt.
If the Lord was testing him, Aziraphale was failing. Badly. He groaned and forced himself to turn his head. “Do you know what it does?”
Crowley looked a bit startled by the sudden question. “Smell nice? You want flowers, angel?” He snapped his fingers, and in an instant, vines of beautiful red roses coiled around the LED candles. For a frightening moment, Aziraphale’s heart froze in desperate fear that Crowley had inadvertently brought the baneful blooms back from extinction, but fortunately, the blossoms were far too red, fiery rubies instead of wine-dark garnets.
Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand in his own and pulled it to his jackrabbiting heart. “No, no. I mean, it did, once, but– Melanthia is not a normal rose.”
“You’re frightened,” Crowley said, spreading his palm over Aziraphale’s chest. “What’s wrong?”
It would have been comical to see such a serious expression darken the demon’s face despite the high flush on his cheekbones, the sweat beading over his skin, the ruddy and proud erection that Aziraphale was definitely not going to allow to distract him.
“Melanthia is– it’s like a drug. It, oh,” he covered his face with his elbow, “it makes someone, makes them need to enact their deepest desire. No matter how dark or wanton it might be.”
For a long moment, there was stillness and silence. Then Crowley took Aziraphale’s wrist, pulled it up, uncovering the angel’s eyes, and pressed a gentle kiss into the palm, yellow eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s, burning and intense. Even though his lips were blazingly hot, Aziraphale shivered.
“Whatever you need,” Crowley said, sucking an achingly sweet kiss into the fragile dip of the angel’s wrist. He was breathing hard, narrow chest rising and falling, trembling. “I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you.”
Aziraphale pushed up onto his elbows. “I mean you, you–” he bit back his frustration. “The mead,” he said, nodding at the bottle. “Shax sent it. It was made from melanthia honey.”
Crowley turned his head to look at the half-empty bottle, the scarlet strands of his hair dancing over his shoulders. He furrowed his brows then clicked his tongue. “Explains some things, I think.” He rolled his eyes, then chuckled. “But it doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter? Crowley–” but Aziraphale’s protest was cut off by Crowley’s lips, sweet and sensual, coaxing all the hunger the angel had tried to push down back to the surface. He wrapped his arms around Crowley, pulling him close, thrilling as he felt Crowley tugging his shirt free of his trousers, the cool rush of air against fever hot skin.
“What do you want, angel?” he asked, bending down and kissing the vee where Aziraphale’s chest was beginning to peek out of his shirt. He plucked at the mother-of-pearl buttons, huffs of his breath swirling against the hair on the angel’s chest.
“You,” he answered, skimming his hands down Crowley’s sides, delighting in the way the flesh jumped and shivered at the light touch.
Crowley’s already flushed cheeks darkened, and he peeked up, another beautiful smile playing about his lips. “You don’t need to flatter me. I’m already here.” His yellow eyes dragged down to his fingers, where they fluttered over the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “Nothing could drag me away,” he said, quiet, like the words weren’t quite supposed to have slipped from his lips. He parted the fabric, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle at the sight of Aziraphale’s braces, and then unclipped them. “Not a horde of demons, nor the whole host of Heaven.” He pressed a kiss at the top of the swell of the angel’s belly, then dragged his tongue up from there to Aziraphale’s ear, dragging a ragged moan from deep within the angel.
Crowley was vibrant, an artist’s palette and a sunrise. Warm and radiant, like living flame in Aziraphale’s arms. Aziraphale wanted to do the right thing, to give Crowley whatever he needed, but he couldn’t help but indulge, shrugging his clothes off his shoulders, basking in the shower of Crowley’s delighted kisses, seeking to press his own against sharp cheekbones and stubble-rough jaw. It was his greatest weakness, his most sinister vice, and Crowley was his eternal temptation. He’d captivated Aziraphale since before there was time, curious and joyful, and somehow over the millenia had only become more and more captivating: beautiful and brilliant, curious and kind, sinful and sweet.
He was also searingly hard, grinding a bit against Aziraphale’s thigh. It was intoxicating, more than any damned mead or sacred wine. He thrust up against Crowley to slake some of his own raging need, hands greedily finding their place in the hills and valleys of the demon’s hips, perfectly shaped to hold, as if the glorious being had been created specifically for him.
“Do you like that, angel? Do you want more?”
Aziraphale shivered at the seductive words, smooth and sweet against his skin and bit down on his lips to try desperately to clear his head. “Whatever you need, Crowley. It doesn't matter what I want.”
“Doesn’t matter?” Crowley stilled. “You don't want this?”
Aziraphale hesitated. “I'm… I told you, I’m here for you.”
“You said that, but–” He looked over at the bottle of mead and scowled. “Oh, you bastard. You came here just to get that out of my system. What exactly did you think it was going to do to me? Or what I would want to do to you?”
Aziraphale felt his throat go tight. This was going entirely the wrong way. Why couldn’t this be easier? If Crowley could just stop making this about him, could just take whatever he wanted, burn the mead away and then… well, maybe they could– God, he needed to get ahold of himself. He bit his lip.
“I bloody well don't want to force myself on you!”
“You aren't forcing yourself!” Aziraphale gasped, cupping Crowley’s jaw with trembling hands, but the demon just looked skeptical. “I… I know what I’m doing.”
“Offering yourself up as a little fuck toy so the big, bad demon can just get off and get it over with, hmm?” The demon pulled back, running his hands through his red locks, tugging at them.
“Crowley, you're being ridiculous,” Aziraphale sighed, feeling lead in his veins, cold and terrible. “You aren't raping me, and… and I’m not afraid of whatever else may come. I came here entirely of my own volition to… to take care of you.” He swallowed. “Whatever way that may be.”
“Then why can't you tell me what you want?”
“Because this is supposed to be about you,” Aziraphale said, exasperated. “It doesn't matter what I want.”
Crowley recoiled with a scowl. “How uncharacteristically selfless of you, Supreme Archangel,” he spat mockingly.
“Excuse me?”Aziraphale pushed himself up, unwilling to have this conversation on his back. “Would you rather I be selfish?”
“When are you not?”
Aziraphale gasped, face flaming. “I beg your pardon!” Crowley tilted his head and gave him a pointed look, and all the guilt and self-deprecation and self-recrimination that Aziraphale had beat himself up with for centuries churned in his gut. It wasn’t that Crowley was wrong; Aziraphale knew himself well enough to know that.
Michael had seen it, up in Heaven, in Aziraphale’s haste to get here, even if he had tried to make it about protecting Muriel, or sparing Crowley the indignity of being seen out of his mind with lust by a stranger. Part of him, he had to admit, just wanted Crowley, lost of inhibitions.
He sniffed and bowed his head, clenching his eyes closed. Tears spilled down his cheeks. What kind of angel was he? He swallowed a wet lump in his throat. “I– I’m trying not to be.”
“Don’t,” Crowley said softly, hooking a finger under Aziraphale’s chin and tilting his face back up. “I didn’t mean it was a bad thing, Aziraphale. You think I would have spent the last six thousand years doting on you if I didn’t like it?”
Aziraphale’s eyes flashed open, feeling his lower lip wobble and something like a warm ember kindle inside him.
“You have me wrapped around your fingers, angel. I always come when you call. Give me a smile, I’m on my belly. Give me a frown, I’m on my knees. You want to give me what I want?”
Aziraphale nodded slowly, head spinning as everything he thought he knew, thought he should be, was upended.
The corners of Crowley’s mouth twitched, and his posture softened. “Barely two minutes ago, fuck– That was it. You, gone on me, absolutely wrecked by my lips, my hands, my body. Now, do you want that?”
“More than anything,” he answered, then bit his lip. “But what, I mean– I just,” he cleared his throat. “I want to make it good for you.”
Crowley hummed and shook his head, a glint of amusement dancing in his serpentine eyes. He snapped his fingers, and Aziraphale gasped as his clothes vanished, appearing neatly hung on or folded neatly beside a nearby coat rack that Aziraphale had not owned seconds ago. The demon then took a long moment, trailing his fingertips over the angel’s bare skin, dancing over the peaks of his nipples, over the curve of his belly, treacherously close to his somewhat flagging cock (which twitched with reinvigorated interest at their approach), then over the sensitive insides of his thighs. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to do, clinging desperately to some modicum of composure, though his body was already singing, begging for more.
Crowley pressed his palm over Aziraphale’s chest and gently pushed back until the angel found himself settled back onto his back. “Gorgeous,” Crowley said, “so flushed and breathless. Do you know how long I’ve imagined you like this?” He dipped down to mouth over a nipple, and Aziraphale gasped and arched into the touch, his fingers finding their way into the demon’s silken scarlet strands like a traveler finds his way home: eager to arrive and delighted to be there. “That’s it,” Crowley said, his breath cool and thrilling on Aziraphale’s wet skin. “Let go, angel. Indulge. You’ve no idea–” he cut himself off by taking the other nipple into his mouth, sucking, tongue flicking over the hardened bud.
Aziraphale sobbed, nodding desperately. “Your mouth, Crowley, oh G– hnnn,” he keened as Crowley pulled back and blew a cool stream of air deliberately over his sensitive skin.
“Is that what you want, angel? My mouth?” He used his fingers to roll Aziraphale’s nipples lightly. “You’re so hard, love. I could make that better,” he traced the tip of his tongue down the angel’s sternum, a thrilling promise of more. “I can do some really weird stuff with my tongue if you want.”
Aziraphale whined, pressing down on Crowley’s head, blazing at the mere thought of it, and eager to let Crowley show him how talented his tongue could be. Crowley wasted no time shimmying lower, palming at Aziraphale’s bollocks and kissing the trail of fine blond hair on his belly as he went.
“The sounds you make,” the demon purred, then flicked his tongue in a sweet, shocking lick over the leaking tip of Aziraphale’s cock, which earned him another whine. “Delectable.” He kissed the head softly, then tilted his head and traced his lips and tongue down the length of him, squeezing at the angel’s bollocks, the contrast between the pressure below and the featherlight skim above absolutely maddening, and Aziraphale’s feet scrambled in the bedclothes, toes clenching into the fabric.
“Please,” Aziraphale begged, breathless, impatient.
Crowley beamed at him, then took him into his mouth. His mouth was smoldering, wet and intense. The point of his tongue lapped at the sensitive frenulum before nearly discorporating Aziraphale as it split, twin serpents coiling around the head. Aziraphale’s eyes rolled back, and he thrust helplessly, frantically against the sensation. Crowley braced himself against the moment, grasping Aziraphale’s hip with one hand to still him.
With the other, he blindly groped into the bedclothes. Whatever he was looking for didn’t distract him from his ministrations, his tongue moving in strange undulations, shifting periodically back and forth between human dimensions and more serpentine ones, driving Aziraphale mad all the while. Finally, he grunted victoriously as he pulled a bottle of lubricant free.
The shock of cold slickness against his hole made Aziraphale cry out, and the slow slide of the pad of his finger around his rim, around and around eventually made the angel moan, thrashing his head left and right and flexing his fingers in Crowley’s hair. When the first digit slipped in, Aziraphale gasped, and Crowley waited for him to adjust, bobbing his head over Aziraphale’s cock. Once the angel’s fingers relaxed in his hair, Crowley began to work it in and out, never too much, never too fast.
Aziraphale had no idea how someone affected by melanthia could be so blessedly considerate, but he certainly wasn’t complaining. He definitely wasn’t complaining when a wicked finger grazed over a deliciously sensitive spot, though he did let out a surprised squeak. Crowley snorted, then teased at that spot until Aziraphale was a writhing mess. Then he slipped in a second finger, gently continuing to relax the angel, to help kindle his already raging desire. Perhaps the foul fiend wanted Aziraphale to be just as on edge as he undoubtedly was.
Of course, then he relaxed his throat and tongue, and unceremoniously sucked Aziraphale down deep, bobbing lower until Aziraphale thought he would drown. But as wonderful as it felt, he started to hear Crowley making his own grunting sounds, but they didn’t sound at all pleasurable.
He looked down, and found himself caught in wild, desperate eyes, no longer confident and gentle, but crinkled with discomfort, and Aziraphale blazed with a far greater need than the urge to come. He pulled Crowley up, capturing his wicked lips with a ravenous kiss. Crowley tensed for a moment, but then melted, melding his lean frame to the angel’s softness, fingers stroking and squeezing over whatever flesh he could reach, soothed, but shaking.
After a moment, the fervor of the kiss softened, the angel no longer overwhelmed like a starving man faced with his first taste of real food, but instead savoring. He knew how to take his time, to indulge, as Crowley had said, to take in the richness of taste, the sumptuousness of mouthfeel, the decadence of scent. And Crowley’s mouth was a banquet.
Crowley whimpered, hips stuttering against Aziraphale’s, fingers clenching desperately. He had to break the kiss, whining, “Aziraphale… I’m gonna discorporate, please–” He was trembling, sweating, and ruined, a thin line of frustration cutting its way between his brows.
“You poor, aching thing. You must be so close,” the angel murmured. Crowley grit his teeth and nodded, a quiet growl rumbling in his throat. “Shh, none of that. You’re wonderful; you’re making me feel wonderful, and I hate that this awful pollen has you in its grip. I want to savor this, savor you. When you’ve finally come, I want to taste every inch of you,” the angel promised in the scant space between their lips. “But for now, I want you inside me, and I want these lips on mine,” he traced his thumb over Crowley’s lower lip, fascinated at how the thin skin caught to the ridges of his thumbprint, at how the demon’s tongue flicked out to capture a taste. “Your kiss has been tormenting me for months. I will discorporate if you stop kissing me; I’m sure of it.”
Crowley made the most delightful noise as he shuddered, expression melting from that tense frustraion to a charming lovesick grin. “Oh, God, yes,” he said, not bothering to correct himself before wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and capturing his mouth with a satisfied sigh.
Aziraphale leaned them both back, shifting his hips and shoving a pillow under himself. Crowley pressed the head of his cock against Aziraphale’s opening, hissing and tensing the muscles in his shoulders.
“Fuck– Ah– It’s almost, hnng,” he slid in, dragging ragged breaths of air into his narrow chest, every pant “‘ssalmost a good thing that stupid mel-mela– ah– angel, you’re so tight–”
Crowley felt thick and blazing hot there between Aziraphale’s legs, but the angel shifted his hips and did what he could to ease the demon’s entrance. As Crowley’s breaths sped, Aziraphale wiped sweat-damp red hair off of his forehead, smiling shyly, bashful at this intimate joining. “Easy now, you’re doing so well.”
Crowley’s nostrils flared, and he sucked Aziraphale’s lower lip into his mouth, laving over it with his tongue. Aziraphale sighed rapturously and tilted his head to catch his lips in a deeper kiss. Crowley seated himself fully as their tongues caressed. If a moment could stretch on into eternity, Aziraphale was certain this was the one he would live in. Then Crowley started grinding, working into minute thrusts, each slow drag sending shivers of bliss through Aziraphale. The demon broke the kiss to groan and bow his head. “I need– ngggh, Aziraphale–”
The angel thrust his own hips and gasped at the rush of pleasure, “Yes, oh, go on–”
Crowley wrapped his hands around Aziraphale’s shoulders for purchase and started to work himself harder and faster into the angel, and Aziraphale clung to his hips, meeting him with every movement. Kisses soon lost their shape, becoming more the brush of gasping, panting lips, filling one another’s mouths with gasps and sighs and moans. Crowley was by far louder, more vocal, but wordless in his ecstasy.
Aziraphale, though, feeling the crest of his pleasure beginning to carry him forth like a buoy on a restless ocean, let words spill from his lips. “Oh– there, there, oh my love– I–”
Crowley heaved, breath pressed from his lungs as his release crashed over him. He managed the barest gasp before being drawn under again by the riptide of his pleasure, with Aziraphale caught in the current right along with him.
Crowley swayed, blinking the daze from his eyes, and his arms buckled. He collapsed onto Aziraphale’s chest, knocking a huff out of them both. For a long moment, they both lay there, just breathing, the scent of them both mingling in the air.
“Wow–” Crowley said finally.
A laugh bubbled out of Aziraphale, and he gathered Crowley in his arms, helping to settle his head on the angel’s shoulder. As he nuzzled the crown of the demon’s head, a thought occurred to him, and he bit his lips and tried to hold back a wave of giggles. Crowley couldn’t help but feel the angel’s chest shake.
“What?” He looked up, then narrowed his eyes at Aziraphale’s expression. “What, angel?”
Aziraphale clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Nothing.” Aziraphale was a notoriously bad liar, though, and couldn’t hold back his smile.
Crowley pushed himself up onto a still-wobbly arm, giving Aziraphale a serious, sinister glare, but it had even less effect than usual. “What?!”
Aziraphale traced a finger from one dark freckle on Crowley’s shoulder to another. “Melanthia doesn’t let someone have their release until they enact their deepest fantasy.”
Crowley arched an eyebrow and opened his mouth, but Aziraphale continued. “And you said what you wanted was me, lost in you. But that didn’t do it, either.” He kissed the tip of Crowley’s sharp nose. “Me calling you ‘my love,’ though–”
Crowley growled and kissed him roughly. Aziraphale laughed despite it, caressing Crowley’s sides.
“It’s very sweet–” Aziraphale said.
“Shut it.”
Aziraphale rolled to his side, finding another freckle to trace. “No, I shan’t. It’s lovely to know your beloved loves you back. Even if he isn’t as big and bad a demon as he claims.”
Crowley stilled, and his grumpy countenance softened. “You– you do? You weren’t just saying–”
Aziraphale huffed and nodded decisively. “What kind of being do you think I am to say something so carelessly in the throes of passion? I do. I love you.”
The demon lowered onto his side, facing Aziraphale and resting a tender hand on his waist. He licked his lips, struggling to speak for a long moment. Finally, he managed to choke out, “Love you. Too, I mean.”
Aziraphale beamed, eyes feeling damp again. “Oh, Crowley,” he said, pulling him into an embrace.
“Will you stay?”
The question was like a cold draft in a fire-warmed room. Aziraphale sighed and rested his head against Crowley’s shoulder. “There’s a lot I need to tell you. Things I need to do.” He sniffed and looked up to meet the demon’s concerned eyes. “And I will tell you about them,” he promised. “But for right now, I want– Oh, my dear, I have you in my arms for the first time. I want to make it last.”
Crowley skimmed his knuckles over Aziraphale’s cheek. “I can appreciate that, angel. Did you have something in mind?”
“Quite the long list, I’m afraid,” the angel admitted, a blush spreading over his face. “But I’d like to start, if you don’t mind, here.” He kissed one of the freckles on Crowley’s shoulder.
The demon sighed contentedly and tilted his head to give Aziraphale better access. “What’s so special ‘bout my shoulder?”
“It’s lovely,” Aziraphale’s lips moved to another dusky spot, “broad and strong, but I am talking about your freckles.”
“Hmm?”
“I plan to map them out.” Aziraphale traced a line between the two points with his tongue. “Like the stars in the sky.”
“Hmm…” Crowley leaned into the touch. “Got a lot of freckles. ‘S gonna take a while.”
Aziraphale sucked a lovebite into the skin, leaving a ruddy nebula of his own in his wake. “Good. I felt quite rushed, no thanks to that wretched mead.”
“I dunno,” Crowley chuckled. “It had its uses. Wanna give it a try?”
Aziraphale snapped, using a miracle to drop the half-empty bottle of mead into the center of an actual star. One several million light-years away. “Absolutely not. I do not need chemical assistance to take my fill of you.” He sought another freckle with his lips.
“You’re no fun,” Crowley said, voice thick with a pout.
Aziraphale smirked against his skin. Crowley did not yet know how wrong he was, but the angel would be happy to show him. Repeatedly.