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The unsettled feeling in the back of Crowley’s mind hadn’t left him ever since Aziraphale insisted on borrowing the Bentley to drive himself all the way to Edinburgh. There was no sense in both of them going, after all, and someone had to stay behind to make sure Gabriel wasn’t discovered, or worse—accidentally sold any books.
Not that he didn’t trust the Bentley to do its job—it knew better than to put his angel in any sort of real danger—but the thought of not doing it himself set his teeth on edge. He could always tell where his car was and what condition it was in, through some kind of bond he didn’t fully understand and hadn’t previously thought to explore. It just was, and that suited him just fine.
It had, however, meant he’d felt the nails-on-a-chalkboard scrape of Book Girl’s bicycle frame, the searing agony of the burning M25, and every little scratch and ding in the short time he’d had it until it learned it was better to avoid any damage entirely. He felt a rush when he got it up to speeds that made the numbers on radar guns blink in astonishment, a full-body adrenaline thrill that raced through him, ramping up with each gear change. He regularly delighted in a narrow escape from the front end of a double-decker bus, his foot pressed to the floor as he broke every traffic law at least twice while making a direct path to the bookshop through central London—and he often felt more than his own excitement, as if the Bentley was pleased by its performance too.
And now, it was… purring.
It was the only way to explain the softly pulsing warmth and feeling of goodwill that had settled low in his belly, enjoyable in a way he wasn’t used to. At least, not from his car.
He could always count on Aziraphale’s soft, comfortable presence to soothe the low-grade aggravation and self-loathing jangling in his bones, but this was… not quite that.
If Aziraphale’s familiar presence felt like a rainy Tuesday in the bookshop spent curled half-asleep on the sofa while his angel read beside him, a cashmere throw draped over his lap, this was—this was sitting atop a running clothes dryer, all heat and gentle vibration radiating up through his spine and along his limbs, filling him with static that snapped with anticipation. It was that angelic comfort turned up to 11, thrumming inside him in a way that suggested certain things to his corporation.
And there was an empty-headed archangel in the next room who would almost certainly walk in at an inopportune moment should Crowley need said particular moment to himself.
Right on cue, Gabriel—Jim—whoever appeared out of nowhere, jolting Crowley nearly out of his skin.
“Oh, rats. I forgot about the making-noise thing.”
“The what?” Crowley hissed.
“The thing where I’m supposed to make noise when approaching Aziraphale, but not eeeeerrrrk or crrrrrnnk or anything like that.”
“What the Heaven are you talking about? What’s—argh.” Crowley groaned. “Never mind, ’s not important. What do you want?”
“Can I ask you a question?” Gabriel asked, a placid smile on his blank face.
“What is it?” he snapped, eyes narrowing at the small stack of books in Gabriel’s hands.
“So I’ve been thinking…” he trailed off, possibly for dramatic effect.
“Good for you.”
“Oh,” Gabriel paused. “Thank you!” He smiled, face still incredibly punchable even when it wasn’t spitting hateful lies and insults at Aziraphale. “But I haven’t even told you what it was I’ve been thinking of!”
Crowley rolled his eyes, bit back an agonised groan, and shrugged his shoulders as if to say just get on with it.
“So far I’ve been organising books by the first letter of the first word of the first sentence in the first paragraph,” he continued.
What an idiotic way to organise books. Even I know that.
Crowley wasn’t up to explaining the intricacies of Aziraphale’s elaborate shelving system, and he was sure to get it wrong anyway, even if he knew most of it by heart.
“…okay?”
“But there are a lot of books that start with the same word. You wouldn’t believe how many books start with the letter ‘i’! ‘In the beginning,’ ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged,’ ‘It was a good day’—Gabriel made a face as if he’d pulled off a particularly clever joke. Crowley didn’t laugh.
Gabriel continued, unfazed. “Well, I was thinking, what if I went to the next word, and put them in order that way?”
He’d barely heard the rest of Gabriel’s idiotic explanation when the Bentley’s low-grade delighted purr in the back of his mind both got louder and shifted lower, settling in his hips and the base of his spine, making it very difficult to think.
“Yeah, yeah, ’s prob’ly fine.” He waved a dismissive hand vaguely in Gabriel’s direction and sauntered away, slithering behind a bookshelf and clawing around in his pockets for his phone.
“Thanks! I’ll take them all off the shelf first and start over!” Gabriel called after him, but Crowley couldn’t be fucked to listen any longer when something weird was going on with his… car.
Sliding his thumb over the perfectly smooth black screen of his mobile, he waited as it rang, only for the usual tone to be replaced by…
Saint-Saëns?
Is he corrupting my car with classical music?
“Angel?” Crowley hissed, his voice issuing from the Bentley’s speakers in a crackle of static. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” replied Aziraphale, in a tone of perfect innocence. “We’re getting along terribly well together.”
The low sensation thrummed again, warm and pleasurable, as if the Bentley was agreeing with him. It felt syrupy, like the drip of honey. Too slow. That must be it.
“You realise I can feel when you drive the Bentley under the speed limit,” he growled, pushing that warm feeling away.
“…I’m sure you can’t,” Aziraphale replied with a nervous half-chuckle. He was perfectly aware that Crowley had never once let the speedometer dip below forty-five outside of town, even if he asked nicely.
“I can. So put your foot down!”
“Alright, alright,” Aziraphale huffed, and he felt the faint whisper of miraculous intent in reluctant agreement beside his own.
Instead of the expected spark of energy and rev of the engine, that warm-syrup sensation deepened, trickling lower down his spine and pooling in his thighs. The Bentley wasn’t listening. To make matters worse, his corporation was beginning to stir.
Fuck, no. No, no, no. Don’t you dare, Crowley hissed at himself, willing his body to stay exactly the way it was if it knew what was good for it. The lines of his painted-on tight trousers would be compromised by any additional volume, not to mention there was a bloody archangel puttering around two or three shelves over. It wouldn’t do to be caught with a hard-on.
“I’m awfully sorry,” Aziraphale murmured, his voice sounding perfectly smug. “It doesn’t seem to want to.”
Crowley began to steam, little wisps of vapour curling up out from his collar.
Doesn’t want to? Who does it think is in charge here?!
He felt the faint tingle of another miracle, and for the briefest moment caught the scent of sweetness on the tip of his forked tongue. The cloying flavour was identical to the tin of sweets Aziraphale kept in his valise.
“Was that… a travel sweet?”
He’d always caught Aziraphale looking fondly at them, opening his bag just enough to try and sneak one out until Crowley caught him with a stern look that made him sigh and put them away. There was to be no eating in the Bentley.
A beat of suspicious silence, and then—
“No,” articulated carefully, as though by an angel with a boiled sweet resting on his tongue. Its flavour melting slowly, running in rivulets of saliva over his tongue and down his throat…
Crowley took a deep breath and gritted his teeth, trying to calm himself. The last thing he needed was this distraction.
A series of soft thuds echoed from the other side of the bookshop.
“Oops! Clumsy me!” Gabriel’s voice rang out, pleased even by his failures to fucking stack books correctly.
Crowley hissed another deep breath through his nose. This was all going splendidly. Aziraphale was only two hours away and he was already losing it.
“Ghh—”
Through the speaker Crowley heard the faint, cheerful honk of a horn. It was a friendly ‘hello there, fellow motorist!’; it was decidedly not the authoritative ‘get out of my way, you bloody imbecile, or I’ll run you into a ditch’ type of attitude he’d trained into his Bentley.
“My car does not make that noise,” he growled, skin crawling at the very idea of using the Bentley’s horn for something as mundane as a friendly greeting. He’d tuned it specifically to strike fear into the hearts of jaywalkers and lorry drivers, not to deliver a twee hello. “What are you doing to it?”
“Nothing.” Too innocent by far.
“You’ve done something to the car, haven’t you? I can feel it.”
It was something distinctly cheerful, a quality that he was certain had thoroughly burned out of him during his involuntary fiery swan-dive.
“I really don’t know what you mean,” Aziraphale replied smoothly, nothing but honey sweetness on his lips.
Crowley knew he was being teased, but he shivered at the tingle of pleasure he felt through the Bentley when smooth, manicured hands gripped its steering wheel in a loose, relaxed grip. He wanted nothing more than to curl into it, to roll over and offer up his soft belly scales for more of those gentle caresses.
Gah! No! Focus!
The Bentley was sleek and black picked out with bits of shining chrome, elegant and classic and shining as dark as his wings or the void of the night sky. That fact was a very large part of why he’d bought it. That, and he never wanted to experience riding a horse ever again.
It had always been sleek and black, and just to be sure, he reached out to picture it—he had a very good imagination, even for a demon—and…
There it was, puttering along the asphalt, pleased as Punch with its miraculous new buttery hue.
Crowley’s hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, the wrongness of it all curling beneath his skin.
“My car is not yellow,” he growled. “It has never been yellow. It is not going to start being yellow now!”
He knew he was getting out of control, his limbs shaking with the effort of keeping himself together, of keeping his voice to a reasonable volume so as not to invite nosy questions from an amnesiac archangel, of keeping his infernal corporation within the previously set limits of its gender expression, of keeping himself from bursting into flame in the middle of the bookshop.
His eyes were full snake-gold at this point, and he could feel his control slipping.
“Change it back!”
“But it’s pretty!” Aziraphale pouted.
Crowley could picture the way his lower lip stuck out, tugging at that not-insignificant part of him that desperately craved the validation of giving his angel exactly whatever his adorable bastard heart desired. The praise shivered through the Bentley and into Crowley’s hips, adding extra pressure against the vice grip of his trousers, molten desire oozing all the way down to the scaly tips of his shoes.
If he wasn’t careful, his corporation would start manifesting those ideas he’d envisioned. It was all getting to be a bit much.
Crowley gritted his teeth.
“If you don’t change it back right now,” he growled, “I’m going to start selling people books!”
Aziraphale was silent. He knew Crowley wouldn’t dare, but wouldn’t insult his pride by saying as much. Crowley continued, determined to push Aziraphale into allowing him a modicum of peace in his own body.
“In fact, I might even give some away.”
He’d never stoop so low; he’d seen the look on Aziraphale’s beautiful face time and time again when the safety of his books was called into question, and he wouldn’t dream of causing such distress—but Aziraphale needed to know he was serious, that he needed to stop this now before Crowley lost full control of himself.
Finally, he felt the resistance give way. The Bentley yielded to his will, Aziraphale’s reluctance notwithstanding, and its engine roared, sending a familiar blaze of heat searing through his chest. The engine leapt into gear, the accelerator flooring itself and its daffodil yellow paintwork fading back into cool, stately black.
Crowley let out a shaky breath. Okay. He was a little bit more in control now, a little bit less likely to go off like a firecracker inside the bookshop.
“That’s better, angel. Let’s keep it that way, yeah?”
Aziraphale gave a nervous little hum of agreement, and Crowley hung up the phone.
Still, he could feel Aziraphale’s grip tighten around the wheel, his body tensing at the Bentley assuming its proper degree of speed. Crowley sighed in relief, a shiver chasing up his spine at the memory of Aziraphale’s tense body, fingers clenched in a white-knuckle grip on the overhead handle with each exaggerated jerk of the steering wheel weaving them in and out of oncoming traffic.
Crowley was always secretly delighted by the way his angel’s skin flushed, pink spreading up his ivory throat to the apples of his cheeks, accurately named for the way Crowley wanted to bite into them and gain the knowledge of Aziraphale’s gloriously soft, generous body…
He could feel the Bentley showing off a bit, arousal lurching in his chest when Aziraphale’s hands clasped the wheel in that very same white-knuckled grip—the phantom pressure of those strong fingers clutching to his hips for dear life. After a moment the grip eased, but Aziraphale’s thumbs began tracing a calming pattern against the inner curve of the Bentley’s steering wheel—and the crease where Crowley's not-quite-human hip met his equally improbable thigh.
“Ngk—”
Crowley’s knees wobbled, tipping him sideways against an as-yet untouched bookshelf.
So much for regaining control.
Glaring furiously at no one in particular, he stomped up the stairs and into Aziraphale’s room, locking the door with a flick of his fingers and pitching himself face-down onto the bed.
Aziraphale never slept, but he maintained a luxuriously soft four-poster bed for the look of the thing. Crowley had never been more glad for Aziraphale’s habit of stretching out on it in order to read, slipping into soft silk pyjamas and burying himself beneath the tartan cashmere duvet. This activity had left his scent behind, mellow and sweet like old paper and vanilla with a punch of bright lavender, a more recent recommendation from his barber.
Crowley shut his eyes and breathed it in—a guilty, necessary pleasure. He deserved it, after all that nonsense with the Bentley, and he could feel it curling into his bones, soothing his frazzled nerves.
His mind still buzzed with thoughts of how Aziraphale had to have caught on to the full implication of what he’d said about the Bentley; his angel was incredibly clever, far more so than Heaven had ever given him credit for. The stupid bastards never knew what they’d overlooked. And Crowley loved that about him.
Rolling onto his back, he waved a hand and slipped into something more comfortable. Snug trousers shrunk down to an abbreviated pair of shorts, his jacket replaced by a filmy sleeveless tee.
It wasn’t long before his suspicions were confirmed. The purring sensation had altogether faded, but it was odd for him to feel nothing while driving. He reached out in his mind and found that the Bentley was idling somewhere—keys in the ignition, lights off—and to the best of his knowledge Aziraphale hadn’t left it.
What’s he up to?
Re-dialling his car, he dropped his phone onto the bed beside his head and just listened. No music filtered through the tiny speaker, but he could feel something building in the back of his mind. There it was again—a tingle of interest. Something like anticipation rippled through the Bentley, fluffing its seat cushions as it made itself as comfortable for Aziraphale as possible.
Fine. As long as its appearance didn’t fundamentally change, he wouldn’t argue with making Aziraphale more willing to accompany him on drives.
It was something more than that, though.
It took him a long moment to realise what, exactly. The faintest of sounds pieced together slowly in his mind: the susurration of smooth palms over leather, the muffled whisper of metal, perhaps, and wool. A tiny hitch of breath, and—
Aziraphale was… was—touching himself.
Inside the Bentley.
White-hot arousal lanced down Crowley’s spine, the realisation stunning him so thoroughly that he couldn’t quite stifle the high whine that left his throat.
“So good of you to join me,” Aziraphale murmured, his smug grin perfectly audible through the phone’s speakers.
“You—”
“Mhmm. You never told me the nature of your special bond with our car.”
“My car,” Crowley replied, too defensive.
“I see that, now.” Aziraphale agreed smoothly, his voice rising at the end in a tiny, bitten-off moan.
Crowley could hear the slick, deliberate slide of skin on lubricated skin, and knew that Aziraphale was stroking his cock. Crowley could easily imagine it—Aziraphale’s favourite choice of effort, not too long but with generous girth, a perfect match for the corporation to which it was attached.
“Tell me, Crowley. Did you ever plan on mentioning it to me?”
“Didn’t really think it was worth mentioning,” Crowley mumbled, flushing hot with the sounds he was still hearing through the phone.
“Oh—” Aziraphale huffed. He had to be playing it up for Crowley’s benefit, slick sounds growing louder and more pronounced in order to rile him up. It was working.
“I do enjoy learning these little things about you, my dear,” Aziraphale cooed. “And now that I know, I can be of assistance.”
“Ngk—assistance? How is this assisss—” Crowley hissed, his back arching with the sensation of fingers skimming up his inner thighs.
“Did you like that?” he asked, chuckling softly.
Crowley huffed, nodding in agreement before realising that Aziraphale couldn’t see.
“You—mmh, gah…” Crowley managed, his body twitching with sparks of heat and before he knew it he was forming an effort. Inspired by the careful, determined strokes he could feel through his connection with the Bentley, a beautiful, slender cock emerged from the blank plane of Crowley’s hips, jutting up and tenting his thin shorts.
“Fuck,” he hissed..
“Have you made an effort for me, dear boy?” Aziraphale asked, his voice pitched low.
The words vibrated over Crowley’s skin and he gasped, pinned by the sensation of an invisible hand on his cock. Aziraphale had grabbed the gearshift with his free hand and was rubbing his palm over the metal handle, gently nudging the button at its tip.
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, his voice achingly fond. “You have, haven’t you?”
Crowley could imagine the little scrunch of his nose, the flutter of eyelashes that always accompanied such a delighted expression. His cock twitched, a pearly bead of pre-come forming at the tip.
“Mmmyeah.”
“Will you touch yourself for me?”
Crowley nodded frantically, hands flying to his waistband and shoving his shorts down, freeing his cock and circling it with shaking fingers. His chest heaved as he panted, his corporation’s lungs woefully unequal to the task of containing this degree of arousal.
“Nnh… okay,” he choked out into the silence, knowing Aziraphale was waiting for him to respond.
“Perfect, my dear.” Aziraphale hummed softly to himself, and the slick sounds resumed in Crowley’s ear. “Now, move with me.”
“Nghh—” Crowley groaned as the pressure of Aziraphale’s hand increased, and steadied his own grip.
Aziraphale curled his fingers into a loose circle, dragging them down the smooth shaft of the Bentley’s gearshift. Impossible softness stroked down its length, brushing over cool metal as though it were heated flesh. Crowley followed along as best he could, miracling lube into his palm when the friction got to be too much.
“That’s right,” Aziraphale murmured, sliding his fist up to the gearshift’s handle and tweaking the button at its tip.
“Nnh—!”
A desperate sound tore free of Crowley’s throat. He clawed at the duvet with one hand, grasping a fistful of cashmere and wishing like anything he could put his hands on Aziraphale the same way, that he could tangle his fingers in that cloud-soft hair and pull him close.
“Fuck—Aziraphale!”
“Don’t worry. I’m—oh—right behind you.”
Aziraphale had been stroking himself at a steady pace this entire time, Crowley realised, the slick-slick-slick sound of his hand on his cock a steady background of pleasurable static.
“Mmm,” Aziraphale murmured, half-moaning into Crowley’s ear through the phone. “I’m—I’m close. Are you?”
Crowley groaned. He was so close he was pretty sure he’d be able to come without being touched at all, just from hearing that voice in his ear.
He ached to see Aziraphale’s beautiful face lit up in rapturous pleasure, cheeks flushed pink and head thrown back to expose the ivory column of his throat, perfect and soft and ready to be marked. His mouth watered at the thought of burying his teeth in that soft skin, sucking a mark that would paint the angel as his own, so no one else would dare touch him, not even Heaven…
Aziraphale’s feverish panting echoed loud in his ear, the warm puffs of damp air falling from between soft lips in desperate little whimpers almost tangible in the heavy silence. The hand on the gearshift faltered slightly, and Crowley reeled with a second realisation.
Aziraphale was going to come.
Aziraphale was going to come in the Bentley.
The strangest sensation of distressed arousal twisted in his gut, and his eyes flew open, wild and full amber with the pleasure threatening to overwhelm him.
“Oh, oh—Crowley—I’m—”
“Don’t—ah—Aziraphale! Notinthecar—!”
Aziraphale gasped, the sound of his hand stopping entirely and leaving an echoing silence in its wake. The fingers on the Bentley’s gearshift tightened almost painfully as he held back both of their orgasms.
After a beat, a tiny whine escaped his lips. “Not even a little?”
Crowley panted hard, caught on the knife edge of arousal just this side of no return.
A little?
“Ngh—I—”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale teased, his voice raspy with need, “are you worried I’ll make a mess?”
“Nnh—no,” he mumbled.
“I’ll miracle it away, you know.”
“’s not about the mess.”
“No?” Aziraphale asked, voice curious. He hummed softly, considering for a moment.
“Are you jealous?”
“Jealous?” Crowley hissed, his tongue forking of its own accord. “Of what?”
“Of the Bentley, you silly serpent.”
“Nnno—”
“It really is a beautiful car,” Aziraphale mused, interrupting Crowley’s flimsy protest. “So sleek and lovely, so accommodating. So eager to please.”
Crowley gritted his teeth against the static tension shimmering in his bones, overlaid by the molten heat of Aziraphale’s praise.
“You’d do anything I asked, wouldn’t you, my dear?” Aziraphale murmured, brushing his lips over the top curve of the wheel.
Crowley’s vision went white around the edges, and a desperate moan tore itself from his throat. Yes.
“Are you alright, dear boy?”
“I’m… mmh. Mhm.”
Crowley’s head spun with the praise and the almost-touches and the molten affection the bond was pumping directly into the back of his brain. It was too much, it wasn’t enough, he couldn’t move for anticipation…
Aziraphale stopped, his fingers resting still against the wheel. “You know I wouldn’t do this in just anyone’s car,” he murmured.
Crowley heaved a shuddering breath, his wits too scattered to respond immediately.
“I simply thought that since you could feel it, and the Bentley really is an extension of you…”
Aziraphale rested a hot palm over the gearshift handle, his index finger and thumb idly stroking its metal shaft.
“How about,” he suggested, “I finish this little trip and come back home to take care of you properly, hmm?”
“Please,” Crowley begged, biting the words down too late. Embarrassed, he shut his eyes, with the unintended effect of allowing him to focus more on… everything else.
Each touch sent sparks through him, tiny jolts of pleasure that homed in on his flushed, needy cock. He wanted so badly to hold Aziraphale, to touch the way he’d always dreamed of—now that—that this was happening, but the thought of stopping now was pure agony. He was so close, and it would be hours before Aziraphale returned, even if he found whatever it was he was looking for immediately.
“Unless, of course…”
Crowley’s breath caught and held. He did want this. He wanted it so badly, and Aziraphale was taking too bloody long to finish the thought—
“…you can’t wait.”
“Can’t wait,” he whined. “Need you.”
He could practically feel Aziraphale’s smug, victorious grin.
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed deliciously.
Crowley could feel fingers tracing across his jaw and down his neck, golden affection radiating through the bond. Those same fingers traced the curve of the Bentley’s steering wheel hundreds of miles away, and he groaned with renewed need.
“I need you, too,” Aziraphale breathed, and just like that, Crowley could hear the whisper of skin on skin, the knowledge that Aziraphale was touching himself again, stroking himself to completion in the car he drove every day, that he slept in…
Aziraphale’s fingers ghosted from the wheel to the gearshift, tracing a fingertip delicately along its length.
“Please, angel,” he groaned, holding onto his control by the finest of threads. His body felt like a spring wound too tightly, the tension ready to burst free at any moment. Each caress burned across Crowley’s skin, molten heat pooling low in his hips.
“That’s it, my dear.”
Crowley’s mind swirled with a dizzying onslaught of sensation. Turning his head to bury his face in Aziraphale’s pillow, he breathed in the lingering scent of him. Eyes shut tight, he vividly imagined Aziraphale smiling down, blue eyes creasing with delight, the sun streaming like a halo through his hair.
Crowley groaned into the pillow.
“I have you, dearest,” Aziraphale murmured, almost tangible in Crowley’s fevered imagination.
The warmth in Crowley’s chest burst and swept through his limbs, setting off a chain reaction with the molten lust in his hips and he arched back, tears pricking his eyes as he came, painting white-hot stripes over his fist and belly.
“Oh, ffuck—” Aziraphale swore softly and followed immediately after, spilling into his fist and murmuring incoherent words of praise that washed over Crowley’s body, making him quiver with a cascade of tiny aftershocks.
Crowley stared unblinking at the ceiling for several long moments, drifting in a warm, euphoric haze. His mind felt scoured clean; all the lingering fears and doubts swept aside by the power of that orgasm. As such, it took him several moments to notice Aziraphale was speaking.
“—be home soon.”
“Nonono, don’ go—” Crowley protested, slurring his words as he turned his face toward his phone.
“I’ll see you in a few hours,” Aziraphale murmured, a smile on his lips, his voice a soothing rumble in Crowley’s ear.
“Azira—wait—”
“Try to get some rest, okay?”
“...mhm.”
As if knowing exactly what was expected of it, the blanket at the foot of the bed unfurled itself, slithering up and over Crowley as he drifted off into a light doze.
It had been a long morning, after all.