Work Text:
London
He only finds out about it because of the commendation. America is a bit outside of Crowley's usual stamping grounds really; he's developed a fondness for London. A fondness which he will deny even unto the eventual death of the universe has everything to do with it being a hot bed of sin and villainy and nothing whatsoever to do with a certain bookshop. Besides, when you can travel along a telephone line, it doesn't entirely matter where you choose to base yourself. But still, the commendation. It cuts into his listening as he's driving to the bookshop in question, for an evening of good wine, Good company and possibly, if he lets Aziraphale talk him into it, good dinner. Crowley is humming along to another Queen tape. He was almost certain it had been a country rock compilation when it had gone into the car, but no matter, and then suddenly Freddie Mercury's high pitched whine had dropped like a lead balloon into the significantly less pleasant tones of Hastur.
“...You got skeletons in your closet it's written all over your face,
Every little lie stacked so high Can't keep your story... Hello Crowley.”
Crowley very definitely did not flinch, and if he did, it definitely didn't result in him jerking the wheel in a way which ought to have resorted in multiple fatalities and miraculously didn't, as he all but swallowed his own tongue before managing a reply. “Hastur! Dude, nice to hear from you, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Hastur ignored him, going on as though he hadn't spoken. “Congratulations are due Crowley. The idea of having a convention of serial killers so that they can become more effective in spreading torment and misery is a very good one. His Highness commends you.” Crowley suppressed the horrified noise he wanted to make, and instead limited himself to one that sounded like a mouse being squashed. “You know me Hastur, always innovating. What... ah, what venue did they settle on in the end? You know, so I can go and enjoy my own... success.” There came a grinding noise and for a moment Crowley thought that something was going wrong with the Bentley before he realised it was the very rare sound of Hastur laughing. Then the horrible chilly knowledge dropped straight into his brain, and by the time Crowley was aware of the road again, he was back to the dulcet tones of Queen singing country and the realisation that at least he was only 10 minutes away from the book shop.
*
20 minutes later, having gotten caught up in traffic he was too distracted to bother with, Crowley burst in through the locked door having forgotten it existed, already mid-flow on a rant to Aziraphale. That was the advantage to having someone around for a couple of thousand years, you could usually rely on them to keep up with you. “They think its me Aziraphale, and it's these humans! It's always the humans. As if i'd go around encouraging murders. Me! I've got style, i've got panache. Why would I do that? And now i'm going to have to go there and see if I can do something about it, NOT because i'm good but because if they're going to think it's me the very least I can do is make it something i'd actually do. I suppose if I get there and frustrate all their attempts that would balance out the agreement wouldn't it? Oh, and it would annoy them all! And then they'll take their little frustrations out in a thousand petty, less murdery ways, now thats much more my style, and,”
“Tea dear? Or shall I just uncork now? I'm sure i've got an 1970 Chateau here somewhere.” Aziraphale cut straight into Crowley's rant, knowing far better than to wait for him to stop for breath. Crowley didn't, strictly speaking, need to breathe, a trait which made him astonishingly effective in an argument.
Crowley flopped suddenly onto the sagging sofa in the backroom which flexed alarmingly under his weight and held out a hand. “Wine. I've had to talk to Hastur today, tea isn't going to cut it.” Aziraphale cooed supportively and uncorked the bottle, fussing about finding glasses and coasters before pouring and placing a large glass of red into Crowley's still outstretched hand. “Shall we try again?” he asked lightly, once Crowley had taken several fortifying gulps, “with more spaces for me to catch up with you?” So Crowley related his frustrations again, but more slowly, and Aziraphale nodded supportively and chipped in that it was indeed terrible Hastur might think he'd done it, and it would indeed be very trying to have to go to America, even by telephone. “You know, if you're going to go anyway perhaps you might do me a favour?” Aziraphale asked eventually, once Crowley had almost worn himself out. “Fine, who and what am I giving a flash of divine intervention to this time?” Crowley wasn't sulking, at least not much. “Ah, it's rather simpler than that. There's a girl and a boy, separated for quite some time, they're due to be at your hotel tomorrow. If you could ensure they're reunited whilst you're there. That would balance things out rather nicely. I'll do that temptation up in Canterbury you've been avoiding in return?”
And so the plans were set, and Crowley and Aziraphale set about getting Crowley as blind drunk as possible ahead of his trip to America, land of the free - provided you were reasonably well off, ideally white and ideally male - the following morning.
*
Crowley woke up feeling remarkably like a hedgehog had taken up residence between his temples and was trying to force its way out through his eyes before he miracled the hangover away, but even with the physical effects gone he felt unpleasant and off kilter. He put it down to sleeping on Aziraphale's sofa, which was somehow so soft as to be uncomfortable for long term use. Aziraphale of course, never one for sleeping, was sat opposite, reading something old and dusty in the morning light and drinking a cup of tea. He sat so perfectly still Crowley could see the motes of dust settling on him in the morning light, and took a moment to enjoy the sight before he moved.
“Wtimzit?” he enquired, attempting to right himself and only briefly flailing like a stuck beetle. “11, would you like tea before you go?” came Aziraphale's dignified response, clearly pretending not to have seen the flailing. “No, fuck, 'm gonna be late.” Crowley was now finally upright, but not entirely ready for standing, or going to Aziraphale's ancient landline ready to unmake his atoms and throw himself along it. “Georgia is 4 hours behind dear.” Aziraphale replied smugly, standing and coming to offer Crowley a hand which he begrudgingly accepted. “I looked it up on The Internet” Crowley could hear the capitals, “whilst you were sleeping. It's still early there.”
“I'll still pass. Its' hard enough rearranging my own atoms without trying to put the tea in the right place.” Crowley straightened slowly, feeling his spine crunch almost pleasantly, as he approached the telephone. “Now,” Aziraphale was giving him one of those intense looks. “you be careful in the Americas. If you go around getting discorporated...” Crowley didn't hear the rest of the sentence as he vanished into the telephone line. That was he could pretend it was something nice, like i'll miss you, and not the more likely think of the paperwork.
Waco, Georgia
Crowley spouts suddenly, like water from a burst pipe, out of the broken down handset of a phone box in Georgia. Opposite is a hotel which advertises itself, in the faded glory of its neon as “The Empire Hot__” The last two letters have gone out. Below this is a banner, welcoming attendees of the Cereal Convention. This almost makes Crowley laugh. It's so perfectly, ridiculously human, hiding in plain sight.
Crowley straightened his sunglasses, and sauntered across the hot asphalt of the parking lot into the cool of the hotel building. “Excuse me sir, but, we're booked out for the convention.” The smile the night receptionist gives him, and she must be the night receptionist because it's still early and she looks tired and fed up, whatever her voice is doing, is as fake as her nails. Not a problem for Crowley, who simply wills it that his name is on the guest list and there's a room in his name. “Oh yeah, i'm just early,” he improvises, “early flight you know?” and he gives her his own, winning smile. She recoils, just a tiny bit, in her chair. “Crowley, Anthony J, I don't suppose there's any chance of an early check in is there?” He knows there is, because miraculously one of the rooms that was empty last night has now become his and The Family Man has found himself unaccountably attained at the border, possibly indefinitely. Oops. “Certainly Sir, room 602.” It's a protracted interaction, she's definitely not offering to show him the way, and in truth, Crowley is not especially interested in being shown the way. He saunters over to the lifts, gives her another, broad grin as the doors close, and heads up in search of a cup of terrible coffee, and another lie down.
*
Three appalling cups of instant coffee and a stab at the New York Times crossword later, Crowley rouses himself from the bed, heads on downstairs, ready to see what this nonsense is about.
He joins a short queue of, mostly white, mostly male, and all quite odd humans at a check in desk, where a stout man in a baseball cap with a badge proclaiming his name as “Fun Land” is checking them in. “Preferred soubriquet? Remember no civilian names here.” the man asks with a nasal whine that cuts to the core of Crowley's being. “Crowley.” Crowley replies, on the basis that this is in fact entirely true. Crowley isn't really his name, and it is very much his preferred name, as well as the one most people know him by, and normally, on the odd occasion he has to properly interact with humans, he calls himself Anthony. “Crowley, Crowley...” the man mutters quietly, tongue stuck out between his teeth in concentration as he goes down the list in search of the name Crowley has just placed there. “Crowley!” He sounds triumphant. “I can't say I know you that well, but you're here on the list. And you're British! Cute.” He doesn't sound like he believes it, more like he knows this is how the British expect to be referred to in the States. “Here's your attendees pack, make sure to wear your badge at all times or inside the convention or you won't be allowed in, the opening address is at 10.” Having rattled this off without pausing for breath he takes in a big lungful of air before shouting “NEXT” and Crowley is dismissed.
Crowley is about to go on through when the, thing arrives. He can smell it from across the lobby, whatever it is its not a human. But he's confident it's not an angel, nor a demon either. Crowley pauses, on the pretext of checking his pamphlet, takes a deep sniff and flicks his tongue out, tasting the air, gathering the smell before he goes through the door. Half turns as he goes through so he can put a face to the smell and sees, a man. A handsome, blonde, white, man-shaped being, waiting politely, half smile, a young black boy hanging off his sleeve, looking around in wonder. Dressed smartly in a pale suit, with dark glasses as opaque and occlusive as Crowley's own. The man shaped thing tastes of the hot sands outside the Eastern Gate, of ozone, and the smell of Crowleys own pillow. Crowley is fascinated, intrigued, and a little unbalanced. Whoever or whatever this creature is, Crowley wants to know more. He almost turns to go over, but then two people are descending on the man, skipping him to the head of the queue, which he accepts with grace and tact, and Crowley lets himself be moved on inside by the flow of people. He can smell the man-shaped thing, he'll find his way back.
Crowley smells him before he sees him, like a crisp sharp sea breeze cutting through the fog of a diesel engine on a ferry, the un-man. He's there, in the hall, sitting and watching the opening address. Crowley sneaks a glance from behind his glasses, he's not the only one, everyone is staring, so when the strange un-man is revealed to be the replacement keynote speaker, Crowley is not surprised. The Corinthian, he muses, interesting. The man at the front, whose name tag proclaims him to be Nimrod, makes another series of terrible jokes, before sending them off to watch the first panels.
Crowley has no intention of attending any panels, Crowleys current intention is only to find this Corinthian, and ask who, and indeed what, it is, and it seems he's in luck. As he exits the hall, briefly flicking his tongue out once more to guide him, he finds the man-shaped thing waiting for him, leaning against a wall, beautifully dressed, dark glasses in place and just the hint of a smile.
Crowley can practically feel the man-shaped thing look him up and down and he finds he's temporarily lost for words, which is a new one for him. He quite likes it. “Crowley. As in Aleister?” The man-shaped thing has a slight drawl to his voice, a soft way of talking that suggests he's never needed to shout to make himself heard and never will. “If you like.” Crowley retorts, finally finding his voice, trying to be smooth back when all he wants to say is what are you? But that's not polite, not in front of the humans. “The Corinthian.” He reads back, taking an opportunity to take a really good look. He has to admit, that he likes what he sees. “The letters, the pillars, the leather, the place or the mode of behaviour?” because the kind of human Crowley is pretending to be would know those references he feels. The Corinthian smirks, and mimics him. “If you like.”
There's something deeply freudian about how much Crowley would like to peel this man-shaped things clothes off, assuming it has a body under the clothes. Crowley is aware, standing there, that The Corinthian is, in looks at least, like a pale golden mirror image of himself, but he likes it. “I don't recognise you.” The Corinthian says, “Are you new?” and Crowley has to fight to get his brain back on track. “In a manner of speaking. I don't normally hang out around here. London's more my game. But I don't think you're local either, are you?” He tilts his head with the emphasis, to try to get across what he means. He gets a smile in return. “Not exactly, no. But I think you might mean something very specific by local. Perhaps there's somewhere we could talk? Maybe get a drink?”
At this point, Crowley throws any remaining caution to the wind and lets his downstairs brain do the talking. “It's a little early for that, but i've got coffee in my room.” He can't see the Corinthian's eyes, but one eyebrow raises with just a hint of suggestion. “Lead the way then, Crowley.”
They share their lift up with an agitated young woman, with rainbow streaks worked into her dreadlocked hair, and Crowley cannot resist the urge to taste the air again, to try to work out what the man-shaped being is. He so desperately wants to know, and the not knowing excites him. The man-shaped thing beside him watches the girl intently, but when she exits the lift all his attention is on Crowley and it is intoxicating. They make it out of the lift and along the corridor to Crowley's room keeping a polite distance between them, but barely.
Crowley politely lets The Corinthian into the room first, steps in after and is immediately pressed bodily against the door for his troubles. The Corinthian scrapes his teeth ever so gently against Crowleys throat in a way that makes Crowley whine, before flicking out his tongue to lick gently at the skin there. “What. Are. You?” Crowley gasps out, trying very hard to remember that he doesn't in fact need to breathe air and feeling lightheaded all the same. He feels that the very least he should do is know what manner of creature he's about to go to bed with, if they make it as far as the bed.
The Corinthian breaks away from him, by the barest few inches, and Crowley can feel his breath, hot against the damp line licked up Crowley's neck. The Corinthian worms his leg between Crowley's thighs and replies. “I'm a man, of sorts. A nightmare, rather than a human one, if you want to be specific. But you, you're something else aren't you?” He dips his head again, bites gently on Crowley's exposed collarbone, and sucks. “You're not a human man either, however much you might look like one.” Crowley's breath hitches in his throat, he's heard of it, of course, but really, he's had very little dealing with The Endless and their creation, not his realm at all, and it would explain the smell of the pillow. “A demon.” He replies, because hell, in for a penny in for a pound. “Nominally of hell I suppose but i've not spent any meaningful time down there in a good couple of thousand years.” The Corinthian humans a noise of ascent, moving to the other side of Crowley's neck, and he goes slightly weak at the knees as the other, well, man, bites gently again and pulls back, his words creating a delicious chill on Crowley's skin. “Then it seems to me all that matters right now is that we both have a form the other finds appealing, and are willing... Well, I sure am, I hope i'm not reading the signs too far amiss?”
“Oh, absolutely, willing as can be” Crowley replies, bringing up a hang to tangle in The Corinthians pale hair and finally, finally pulling him up for a vicious, biting kiss. Kissing The Corinthian tastes of the iron tang of blood, the sharpness of ozone, the smell of ground after a storm and the warmth of a bed, and Crowley isn't sure whether the blood taste is real or imagined as the other man nips hard at his lip and Crowley responds in kind.
They stagger backwards, towards the bed, shedding clothes as they go. Crowley lets the Corinthian remove his clothes in the usual, human way, and revels just a little in the gaze he can feel raking his body, as the other man kneels, to remove his trousers, still somehow wearing his own, although at some stage he has stepped out of his shoes and socks. He's still wearing the dark glasses, and Crowley wonders what a nightmares eyes might look like, but it doesn't seem polite to ask, and after all, he's still wearing his. It's nice actually, freeing, to be naked but for the glasses, and he'd give it more thought except that then warm breath is ghosting along his cock as the man at his waist says “May I?” and all Crowley can find to say is “fuck yes” descending into a high pitched whimper as the man licks a stripe along the underside of his cock, from base to tip, before opening his mouth wide and swallowing Crowley almost completely.
He curls his toes so hard they crack, and arches his back far beyond the limits of what should be achievable by any human man, and is grateful for strong hands on his hips, holding him up, guiding him backwards until he's seated on the bed, leaning back into the sheets. He flexes his fingers like a concert pianist, not quite touching The Corinthian's hair, wanting to grip the back of his head and lose himself in this sensation, but trying to be polite. With Crowley safely laid back on the bed, Corinthian stops holding his hips, holding him down, and moves one hand to join his mouth, the other he catches Crowley's flexing hand with, guides it into his hair as he glances up. Even through the dark glasses, Crowley gets the impression he's being watched and he finds that he really enjoys it. He feels a slight pressure on his own hand, willing him to press down, and so he does, loosing himself in the rhythm, fucking the Corinthian's throat, loosing himself in the joy. It seems only a short time before he's losing control and stammering out “I'm going to,” but even though he's let go the other man doesn't move, swallows hard, comes up grinning like the cat that's got the cream.
Corinthian climbs gracefully to his feet and lifts Crowley up onto the bed proper as though he weighs no-more than a rag doll. He feels like a rag doll right now, warm and limbless but with the nagging sensation that he really ought to, at the very least, return the favour, although he's keen to go for a round two, just as soon as he can get his limbs to co-operate. “I'll show you mine if you show me yours?” He says, suddenly, gesturing towards the frame of his glasses. There's not many people he's met where he'd feel comfortable with them seeing his eyes, but he feels like the Corinthian wouldn't mind, wouldn't judge. “Not yet,” comes the reply, but it's gentle, friendly, like it's not a big deal at all. “I don't think you're ready for what i've got behind the glass, and it would be a real pity if you left before we fucked.” He enunciates the last word in a way that makes Crowley shudder with another wave of arousal. “Now there's a feeling I know well. I'm very flexible, if you'd like to?” He lets the sentence trail off, raises an eyebrow suggestively, The Corinthian practically pounces, and Crowley takes a moment to show off, simply wishing the other mans trousers and underpants away. It's a cheap trick, but it works, and the sudden contact stills them both with a gasp.
“Do you have?”
“Bedside table.” Because sod it, if he's pulling miracles he might as well do this one, and rely on the fact that no-one, not Ligur or Dagon or Hastur will want to make eye contact with him to ask why he's miracling up condoms and lube. He's in absolutely no state of mind to work out how STD's might work with a man who calls himself a nightmare, but he asked and it only seems polite. Corinthian reaches out, snags them up, and in the brief moment where he moves away, Crowley chooses the moment to show off, putting one leg up high on the other mans shoulder, allowing it to be pushed all the way back, pressed between them. A slick finger presses against him, pushing in, and Crowley gasps out a string, muttering his partners name mixed with invectives and almost nonsense, pressing down, and whining for more, in the same moment as he twists himself, ignoring all physics, to fist The Corinthian's stiff cock with the hand that he isn't using to grip the other man's back. The Corinthian adds another finger, and then another, and Crowley keens non words with impatience until he's almost babbling “please fuck please” with his eyes squeezed shut. He opens his eyes just long enough to see that sharp, lazy smile, and then, The Corinthian does.
It's the most wonderful feeling, Crowley has forgotten how nice it can feel, grips tight to the other man and urges him on with “yes” and “more” and “harder” and “please” and the Corinthian, for his part, obliges, rakes his fingers down Crowley's spine so hard that he can feel them scratching, Crowley loves it, pushes himself tighter towards the other man, gripping back in return, digging his nails in. The Corinthian bites down hard on the junction of Crowley's neck and shoulder as he climaxes, and Crowley makes a soft keening noise of pleasure.
Little by little, they break apart, and lie, side by side. Sticky, and hot, and spent. Two men, one pale and golden, the other pale and dark, in their dark sunglasses, on a bed in a cheap hotel in Waco, Georgia. Corinthian gets off the bed, crosses the room to the waste paper bin and comes back, without bothering to clean up further, re-entangling himself with Crowley's limbs, his wide hands tracing patterns on Crowley's chest. “Keep that up and i'll be ready to go again.” Crowley mumbles, but he's not complaining, the opposite in fact.
“Maybe that's the idea” comes the reply, hot breath against the shell of his ear, and then, quieter, almost on the edge of hearing. “I don't have eyes.”
This takes Crowley quite a long time to puzzle out, a non-sequitur, until he realises this is a response to his earlier question. What he wants to say is, so how do you see? But he is aware this would be at best, quite rude, to ask the man who has so thoroughly and delightfully fucked him, so what he says instead is, “I have the eyes of a snake. People tend to run screaming when they see. I'm sure it can't be that bad.” He turns his head to find the Corinthian looking at him, definitely looking at him, he's getting easier to read Crowley realises, even without the eyes, or lack there of, visible. He wonders if this is how people feel around him. “Go on,” Crowley says, “You don't even have to show me yours if it helps, but you can take them off.” He turns properly, reaching out a hand to trace his own patterns on The Corinthian's hip, as though it might help. The man raises a careful hand, removes Crowley's glasses with reverence and then holds them, staring into his eyes, his hand stilled for a moment holding the glasses between them with something that feels like reverence, the other arm holding his head up so he can really get a good look. “You have,” The Corinthian begins, and Crowley braces himself, “the most beautiful eyes Crowley. The things they must've seen.” And his tongue flicks out to wet his lips. Crowley is taken aback. Beautiful is not a word anyone has ever used in conjunction with his eyes before, and he doesn't really know what to do with it, so he grabs the man, pulls him in for a kiss that he hopes communicates the depth of his surprise and wonder of his feeling as arousal surges again, for once, not caring what happens to his own sunglasses in the crush.
They break, eventually, for air, The Corinthian pinning Crowley down, still holding onto his sunglasses carefully. He stays there for a moment and they both breathe hard, neither looking away as Corinthian carefully places Crowley's sunglasses on the bedside table. Then, he rolls himself off, takes a deep breath as though he's readying for something, centring. It's Crowley's turn to prop himself up on an arm for a better view, as the other mans hand hovers, uncertainly over the arm of his dark glasses, and then, finally, grips it, lifts it away. At first, Crowley is looking at what seems to be a normal human man, eyelids closed, and then they flutter, and he sees a shard, bright white like bone, and he suddenly understands what The Corinthian meant when he said: “I don't have eyes.” His lashes flutter fully open, and Crowley is staring into the dark depths of two, tooth lined mouths. He wonders briefly if maw is a better term. But, in greatest honesty, Crowley is not that surprised. Is he not a demon of hell? He's seen weirder things. Hell, he's been weirder things, so he listens to the held breath of the Corinthian, and then he smiles and leans in for another kiss, but gentler, leaving plenty of space for the other man to move away if he needs to. Something in the tiny part of his brain still active, the bit that isn't entirely devoted to arousal finds this funny, the demon making space for the comfort of the nightmare, but he ignores it, and the kiss is soft and sweet and short. The Corinthian places his own sunglasses carefully on the other bedside table, with the same care and attention he gave to Crowley's, but he doesn't try to push Crowley away, keeps an arm wrapped around him, almost possessive, as if to say let me just deal with this, so I can really concentrate. The level of attention to detail does something very odd to Crowley, making his stomach drop with a gut punch of “oh fuck yes take me now” like they haven't just been at it already.
“It doesn't bother you?” He asks, quietly, and for one tiny moment sanity reasserts itself in Crowley's brain and it strikes him how funny that the key note speaker at a serial killer convention is worried about being rejected and he smiles, but kindly. “I'm a demon of hell Corinthian. Do you really think this is my real face? It's just the one I happen to like best.” He doesn't get any further, because this time he's met with another kiss, with the deep, bruising physicality of their first, as he's rolled onto his back, the other man lying on top of him, pinning him comfortably into the bed. Even nightmares want someone to tell them they're beautiful just the way they are... is the last sensible thought he manages for some time.
Corinthian breaks the kiss this time, they're both gasping, and Crowley doesn't really think it's about the air any more, for either of them. He puts his mouth, the one in the place you'd expect at least, to Crowley's ear again and pants out, “I want to come on your face Crowley. Will you let me?” And all Crowley can think to say in response is,
“My eyes aren't the only snake-like thing about me” as he grabs the other man by the hips, dragging him up the bed. The noise the other man makes as Crowley opens his mouth and engulfs his cock in one go is gratifying enough, but the physical shudder and goosebumps that accompany it are intoxicating. Crowley gives a happy little hum, unhinges his jaw, and proceeds into doing the things with his tongue which got him such a favourable reputation in all of Soho in the late 60's. Corinthian occasionally grips his hair tightly, and that, Crowley really enjoys. Quickly, he discovers an interesting feedback loop, where the pull makes him groan, which makes the other mans hips judder and his grip get tighter, and so it continues. Crowley has never really been one for time-keeping, and the ability to simply unhinge your jaw means that tired muscles aren't something that's ever bothered him, so he doesn't know if the time is short or long or somewhere in between until the man is suddenly panting raggedly, pulling back from Crowley's mouth with an obscenely wet pop. Crowley politely re-hinges his jaw, and gazes up through his lashes, leaving one hand steadying The Corinthian's hip, and using the other to help bring him to climax.
It's sudden, warm and salty like any human might be, and Crowley enjoys it, enjoys the debauchery of giving himself up to someone else's joy, even as he darts his tongue out of the corner of his mouth to lick what he finds there. Corinthian sags forward over him, with a sigh that sounds like happiness, but he keeps his own weight up, carefully moves, so that he doesn't fall forward onto Crowley but instead flops beside him, and then takes his face, carefully between his palms, turning it so they're facing. “Allow me?” And Crowley gives a small nod of ascent, not quite sure where this is about to go. Corinthian takes his face very gently, licking the mess with obvious relish, and when their mouths come close they kiss again, and Crowley can taste it there in a way that goes straight to his own cock, now interested and ready to go again. Crowley closes his eyes as The Corinthian licks delicately across his eyelids with a little moan, “so beautiful” and as the man moves his face he can feel the gentle scrape of two extra sets of teeth brushing his face, and what he could swear are two, small tongues behind them. It feels not unlike standing in a river and having small fish nibble at the toes, but weirder, so much weirder, so that Crowley stops thinking about the details and opts just to enjoy the sensation. Not unpleasant at all really.
He stops, finally, and Crowley opens his eyes again, looks up at the golden haired man above who is once again staring at him. Crowley finds he's still reading all the emotion in the mans eyebrows, but then, there are no pupils to dilate, nothing to read in the teeth which shine with a very slight wetness. “What?” he asks, reaching out to cup the other mans face gently, half wondering if he moves his thumb over wether one of the sockets might bite it. “You're allowed to ask for more than one thing you know. Even you, Corinthian.”
“Silly really, isn't it? I'm the anthropomorphic representation of a nightmare, i've killed more people than I can even remember and i'm too shy to ask you. But I've already asked.” Crowley pulls him in for another kiss before he replies as his thoughts run that maybe this could count as the balance for The Agreement? It's not completely self serving if he lets this man unburden something from his brain.
The Corinthian lays his head on Crowley's shoulder, goes back to tracing patterns on his stomach, so close, tantalising. Crowley can hardly concentrate. But the man is speaking again, in his very soft drawl, muffled where he is speaking into Crowley's chest rather than his ear so that he strains to hear almost as much as he strains to move his hips, to move the path of the hand, but he plays along. He's got the feeling it's going to be worth it. “I was thinking,” Corinthian says, very softly, as if to speak the desire would be to break it, “I could get you off again, however you like best. You can fuck me, or I can suck you off again, if you like, it's up to you. But if you, could...” A long pause, a deep breathe. “I've never been able to experience it before you see, not with the glasses off, not with anyone I was expecting to let live... and well. A nightmare can't dream, but I've thought about it often.” Even now, he's still speaking around the subject, so delicate, but Crowley knows what he's being asked for. Knows a desire, a temptation to perform when it's staring him in the face. After all, it's not as though he's getting nothing out of the deal. “Do you want me to fuck you? Bend you over the end of the bed and then,” he doesn't get to finish the thought because The Corinthian is moving with a noise of keening desire that might've been an expletive and might've been a yes, and might simply have been just a noise, which makes Crowley smirk. Yes, this isn't just a desire he can fulfil, it's one he'll actively enjoy.
Crowley slips in the first finger, and The Corinthian gives a strangled gasp that transmits itself straight to Crowley's cock, twitching against his own stomach. Crowley adds another and leans forward to whisper dirty nothings in the other mans ear. “How long have you thought about this? Imagine this? What it might feel like to kneel at another mans feet, and have it just, hit you. I'd ask if you imagine it going into your eyes but it's just all mouths with you isn't it? Mouths hungry for it, hungry for me.” He adds the third finger on the final word and the noise he gets along would do it for him if he hadn't already come, and he's got his end of the bargain to keep up. He slips in and god it's good, he'd forgotten how nice, tight, hot desperate, and every movement of his hips makes more of those delicious noises come tumbling out. The Corinthian has gone somewhere beyond understandable words now, just keening and whining and “yes please yes fuck more”. Crowley pushes in harder, and the Corinthian reaches back to grab for his hips, urging him on, harder, faster. After absolutely too short a time, Crowley finds himself on the edge, but then he thinks, anything shorter than most of eternity would be too short for this. He pulls himself out and Corinthian whines again at the loss of contact, but then Crowley grabs him by the shoulders, turning him and pushing him to his knees at Crowley's feet, where he gazes up, waiting, mouths open like a supplicant at the altar. He licks across his teeth briefly in anticipation, and that's what does it for Crowley. The sheer wanting and wantonness of it.
Crowley comes so hard he sees stars, but he forces himself to stand, to keep his eyes open and watch. The man at his feet has the beatific look of someone who's had a holy visitation from the messenger of their chosen religion. He's confident in that exact metaphor because he's seen it, he's caused it. He loves how it feels. It's not the only reason for The Arrangement, after all, he's damned good at his job, but he does enjoy those moments where he is the one to make someones entire life a little better for seeing him, instead of a little worse. Crowleys knees start to protest at holding him up, so he sinks slowly to them, manoeuvring himself to sit beside The Corinthian where he tilts his head to watch the other man, who has yet to move from his look of rapturous bliss. As he watches, The Corinthian sticks his tongue out, and licks, and even as Crowley watches he could wear the eye sockets have tiny tongues too. Crowley watches with fascination as the Corinthian raises a hand, finger extended, and drags it through the streaked come on his face, places the finger gently into one of the places where an eye should be, and closes the teeth on it, scraping it off with obvious relish. He does it again, offering the finger up to the other socket this time, and gives a little shudder of obvious pleasure. Crowley is fascinated, but then, he supposes that in all the infinite mysteries of humanity why not? Why should anthropomorphic man shaped beings not also want to collect new experiences? He certainly does, it's what he loves so much about the earth and the humans on it, their consistent variety and inventiveness.
Crowley watches the Corinthian repeat the motion until every last trace is gone, and now he feels spent. Is it possible to become jet-lagged from travel by telephone atoms? But even if it was, logically it's barely mid afternoon back in London. They sit side by side for a while and then suddenly Crowley is greeted with another hungry, all consuming kiss, which he enjoys, albeit lazily. “Thank you, Crowley. Thank you for an experience I thought I might never have.”
“My pleasure” Crowley winks, because he can't resist it, and laughs, gets a chuckle in return. “I should return to the convention, or they'll be wondering where i've gone.” Crowley gestures vaguely in the direction of the en-suite bathroom. “Shower's all yours if you want it, i'm going to sleep now, possibly until tomorrow. I promised someone i'd re-unite a brother and sister before I go home.” Crowley slithers up onto the bed, in defiance of both physics and his theoretical bone structure. He hears the shower start, but almost immediately he lets it lull him into a doze.
He is half awakened some time later but a gentle touch to each eyelid. If he was pushed, he might've said it was a kiss, or perhaps a small lick, like a dog investigating its masters hand for a treat, and a voice which seems to worm it's way into his sleeping brain. “Thank you, Crowley. Don't worry about the brother and the sister. I've got it in hand. I'll see that no harm comes to them.” He half hear's the click of a door, and then he's asleep again.
*
By the time Crowley wakes it's dark outside again. He lurches vaguely for the shower, which contains miniatures of significantly nicer shampoo and body wash that it did before he stepped into the cubical, and tries to wash the sleep from his mind. He had the oddest dream, a tall man with dark hair and a long coat, murderers in sterilised rooms and a boy and a girl at the centre of it, screaming.
Crowley makes his way down to the lobby, thinking that he did promise Aziraphale and he should at least try to see if he can sort out the siblings. He see's a girl and a boy run out hand in hand, and goes to follow them, but he knows already that they're who he was looking for. It looks like The Corinthian kept his promise, the siblings are reunited.
The first gunshot rings out as Crowley enters the phone box, sharp and loud over the sound of engines revving. He glances round, and sees the blood splatter against the car window. Well, no-one's really going to miss a few extra murderers. It's hardly his fault if the endless are going to get involved in messing up Hells plans, however relieved he might be personally. He thinks he can see a figure in a pale suit, and raises one hand in greeting, before he unmakes his atoms, goes whizzing down the wires, towards London, towards home.