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There had been a time once, in the 1970s, when Crowley had spirited the angel away to Southeast Asia, to the dry rice fields at night covered in the stubble of harvest. He had taken him there, and then he had taken him there on a blanket, beneath a eucalyptus tree while they listened to farmers in the distance; muffled shots as they hunted for rats.
And later another time he had driven a motorcycle (a 1938 Brough Superior Golden Dream) while the Angel reached around to unzip his fly and jerked his hard prick brazenly in the sunlight as he pulled harder on the handlebars, the bike flying down the highway.
And there were the times, both earlier and later, when back in London, Crowley became so pent up and drove the Bentley careening through the Mayfair and Soho roads to the bookshop where he snapped his fingers to open the doors and again to slam them shut behind him, changing the sign to read, “Closing The Pestilential Bollocks Out Of This Shop: Go Away;” although people where apt to misread it as saying only “Closed.”
And then perhaps he’d snap his fingers again and remove all the angel’s clothes without asking, pent up frustration and lust burning through him as the Angel looked up with a raised eyebrow, all his naked skin glowing pink. “Were you wanting something, Crowley?” Aziraphale would raise an eyebrow at him and look thoroughly amused.
“Shut up.” Crowley was embarrassed at just how much he wanted that something. And Aziraphale knew it.
“Avaunt, foul demon,” said Aziraphale lazily as he miracled a binding rope ever so loosely over Crowley’s body and across his arms. “InthenameoftheAlmighty, I commandtheeBegone!” he continued in the same lazy voice. Then his voice changed to an excited tone: “Now get over here!”
Crowley snapped his fingers again and the rope had disappeared and reappeared on Aziraphale’s wrists and forearms, binding them tightly together in front of him as if in prayer.
“No,” Crowley growled, slinking forward swinging his hips.
But Aziraphale’s breathing increased and his cock strained and he turned and walked into his back room, checking behind him that Crowley was still following. Aziraphale didn’t miracle off the rope from his arms. Instead he sank to his knees and Crowley fumbled with his trousers and then put his hard cock into Aziraphale’s soft delicious mouth. Aziraphale groaned with longing and Crowley came just like that that day: fucking into Aziraphale’s mouth while the Angel kneeled, bowed down in bound supplication before him.
* * *
There was the time during the whole ‘raising the antichrist’ debacle when they were driving in the Bentley and Crowlely’s hand wandered over the gear shift to the passenger seat and opened Aziraphale’s trousers, not missing a beat as he drove out to the countryside. Just a quick temptation to perform in Oxfordshire. But he made Aziraphale come in the seat beside him, gasping and moaning until he could no longer complain about Crowley’s driving.
* * *
In 1772, he and Aziraphale had both wound up at Carlisle house in Soho in drag costume for a masquerade. Aziraphale in cream-gilt mask framed in Angel wings to either side of his head; and ruffles and creamy brocade dress. A white french wig crowned his head in tight ringlets.
And Crowley wore black dress, glittering with jet; red hair curled and piled on his head. At his throat, a necklace of blood red garnet interspersed with jet and set in silver. A black glittering mask from which sprung curling devil horns hid his face. But he sniffed and felt in the air the angelic presence and he watched the crowd for a sign of Aziraphale.
He spied the Angel out, knew him in an instant; he was clutching greedily at a cluster of grapes dangled above his open mouth. And just as he found him, Aziraphale looked round sharply, also finding Crowley and popped in a grape before giving a mischievous smile and run-dancing away.
But Crowley came on faster, didn’t lose track of Aziraphale’s rustling cream-coloured dress; found him, and took Aziraphale’s arm in his; Aziraphale caught his breath, and Crowley could sense his quickening pulse and lust. But he walked sedately now, Aziraphale’s arm trapped at his side. just two aristocratic women delighting in a ball, thank you very much, goblets and grapes in gloved-hands.
And he took his angel to hide in the servants’ stair and lifted her dress, disappearing his own dark overdress and panniers and silk gloves so that he was only in black shift and silk hose and black silk bodice. And he lifted the Aziraphale’s heavy brocade and petticoats, hoisting them over the angel’s shoulder and with myrrh suddenly dripping down his hands pushed inside Aziraphale with his fingers and then his prick. He miracled his fingers clean and, masks still in place, they fucked against the wall on a narrow wooden landing with guttering candlelight from a wall sconce.
When a servant opened the door quickly, bearing a tray of delicacies, Crowley turned toward him and froze. But Aziraphale snuck out a hand to take a canapé off the tray, the bearer of which looked on with shock. But Crowley grabbed the canapé out of Aziraphale’s hand and he unceremoniously pushed it into Aziraphale’s open mouth.
The Angel choked on his morsel and the servant clattered backward through the door, red faced, and closing it, fled. And Aziraphale licked crumbs from Crowley’s hand.
“You got us caught,” said Crowley.
“I got peckish,” said Aziraphale prissily.
“You wanted an audience,” said Crowley, pushing into him and making the Angel groan. “Yeah, don’t do it again, Angel, or I’ll have to punish you.”
Aziraphale made a show of pouting, his face pressed up against the wall.
“Next time you get peckish for food or audience,” Crowley continued, “ you will beg meee.” And he hissed as Aziraphale gasped and twitched in pleasure.
And Crowley seeing this came inside him and then turned him around and sucked him off under the heavy dress and against the wall.
* * *
There was a reason why Crowley knew he could miracle off the angel’s clothes on a whim, unilaterally decide to close the angel’s bookshop and bind him without asking. And a reason why he could hunt him through a masquerade ball, trap his hand and drag him roughly to the stairwell for a quick fuck. And the reason had been negotiated on a damp day in the drenched fields of Northumberland.
That day marked their first time. And it was sometime after their initial arrangement had been negotiated, during the autumn of 1605. Aziraphale and Crowley had been walking along a sunken road, sodden wet fields on either side, and a mist so thick they could barely see in front of themselves. Certainly couldn’t see the gently rolling hills on either side.
“What a cock-up that was,” said Crowley after they’d been walking in silence for a while.
“Yes, well, I wasn’t the one to insist we hide in the Lady’s chamber. We could have smoothed things over if you hadn’t lost your head,” said Aziraphale.
“I didn’t lose my head. I just didn’t think being run through by a dozen swords in the hands of a bloodthirsty mob was the best use of our time. You would have been discorporated without me dragging you into that room and under the bed and you know it.”
The situation had been simple really: bless the new baby who would grow up to be a powerful ruler in his own right, and keep a steely peace for a few decades and at the same time, tempt the local Lord Percy (the new baby’s father, for the record) into trying to settle the score with his cattle rustling neighbours.
But what with the drunken feast and the zeal of the Lord’s men, and the absolute lacklustre pill that the baby had turned out to be (he really would grow up fine, but at 6 months of age, he was not at his finest), Crowley had accidently and rather lovingly bestowed the blessing on the beautiful Lady of the house, who had gone and told her husband just as Aziraphale was tempting him into violence.
The general energy of the temptation had been a total success and two-dozen angry Elizabethen lunatics waving swords and pokers had chased Crowley and Aziraphale through the large stone country house until Crowley had stuffed the angel under the Lady’s bed.
At this Lord Percy had been rather angrier. “You dare to sully My Lady’s chamber with your strumpet!” he shouted at Crowley. “You, waggletail. Thieving varlets. Take me for a cuckhold do you?!” This sort of speech had continued for some time as Aziraphale and Crowley had worked their way under the bed and out the other side to the mullioned window.
At that point Aziraphale had realized that he could of course just perform a miracle and save them both, but he was rather enjoying Crowley pulling him desperately along behind him. It took Crowley a little longer to realize that he too was capable of performing miracles but he was so terrified that Hell would find out about the Arrangement that he didn’t dare use one to rescue Aziraphale.
Hence, it was ass-over-teakettle for the pair of them out the window. Luckily it was not far to the ground, and the general drunkenness of Lord Percy and his men meant that their pursuers were hardly capable of working out a plan for following them and soon gave up and went back to their beer, muttering darkly about handsome rakish beanpoles and their fancy ganymedes .
So now they were walking down that sunken road, wet and horseless. The angel was frowning. “You’ve ruined my hose. Just look at them! Runs in my stockings, scuff marks and burns all over my coat. I look like that mad king that Mr. Shakespeare was thinking of adding into his next production.”
“Ah, nah. Well, I mean, according to Lord Percy just now, you look like a dastardly young Hyacinth, debauched and depraved ,” said Crowley, repeating the angry words that had been yelled at Aziraphale in the castle, though in Crowley’s mouth, the words sounded amused and ironic.
Aziraphale tutted. “Nonsense; Utter poppycock.”
Crowley stored the term “poppycock” in his head to tease Aziraphale with later. “Oh, I don’t know, Angel. You look at least a little debauched to me.”
Aziraphale spluttered a bit, and made a show of disagreement though nothing approaching Good Queen Bess’ English was forthcoming.
Crowley felt like he was putting something fragile out on the line. Like when he had tested the waters by first mentioning the idea of an arrangement with the angel. Which admittedly hadn’t gone well at first though it had been worth it in the end. Now, the scent of offering temptation began to take over; that feeling of wanting to convince Aziraphale of something. Although, of what exactly he wanted to convince the angel, he wasn’t entirely clear.
But with the arrangement of helping each other complete temptations and blessings, and the clandestine meetings to shore up plans, the drinks and meals at lonely inns, in the backs of theaters or haylofts, they had been growing closer. And each little flirtation and meeting had felt increasingly intimate.
Crowley liked how Aziraphale currently looked. He liked it a lot. Disheveled clothing; rips down his hose: one of these was on the inside of the angel’s thigh and exposed soft pale skin that did things to Crowley. He couldn’t help throwing sideways glances at it that then traveled up his legs to his equally ripped and voluminous breeches.
And Aziraphale’s mouth was catching up to his brain and had begun to form words again. “I don’t look debauched. If anything you’re the one who –” But Aziraphale didn’t finish his thought.
Crowley raised an eyebrow at him. “Go on, angel. I’m the one who, what, looks debauched, you were going to say? Well, thank you.”
“For what?”
“The compliment, Angel!”
“It wasn’t, it wasn’t a –” Aziraphale stuttered for a bit. “Wait, did you mean it as a compliment?”
“Obviously.”
“How is that obvious?” scoffed Aziraphale. “I would have thought the opposite. Which I have to assume is how Lord Percy meant it.”
“Come on, Angel. Think! I’m a demon: I like debauched: big fan of debauched, me. So, you looking wet and clothes all ripped up,” Crowley glanced at Aziraphale’s soft thigh showing through his shredding hose. “Well, all that to say, Demon’s gonna like something like that, yeah? Shows a job well done; something wicked this way comes…and it’s an angel!”
The rain had been slowing for a while but finally stopped as dusk began to fall. There was no one on the road, and the banks reached up high on either side. Aziraphale slowed down slightly and they walked in silence for a little while.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale had said, as if he was thinking hard. “I have a proposal for you. Well, not a proposal, per se. A game, rather. If you might… possibly think about… perhaps, maybe –”
“Anything,” said Crowley, looking sidelong at Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale was staring straight ahead but his eyes darted to Crowley and away again.
“Well, that is to say, to pass the time, and warm up, as it were; if we’re not using miracles at the moment. I just thought, perhaps we might, well, play tag.”
“Tag,” said Crowley, doubtfully. “Not following you.”
“No, but you do, you see,” said Aziraphale, his voice getting excited. “I run that way,” he pointed ahead. “And you follow, and tag me; that is to say, catch me. And that way the time will pass all the faster and we’ll be back in civilization in no time at all. Find an inn, and we can have some ox ribs…or…or something?”
Crowley thought about this. All of a sudden he flung his arms around Aziraphale’s waist. “Like this, Angel?”
Aziraphale made a surprised sound and caught his breath. “Yes, yes, like that but…you need to give me a head start, Crowley dear.”
Crowley had let go and Aziraphale smiled at him and then began to run. He wasn’t exactly very fast, so Crowley hung back until he judged the distance enough and then tore down the road like a hare. He caught up easily, and threw his body on Aziraphale and the pair of them tumbled and rolled, landing near the bank under some brambles. Crowley’s body covered Aziraphale’s, and he raised his eyebrows and looked like he was holding back laughter; looked amused, as if he knew something the angel didn’t.
Aziraphale was breathing hard and he made no effort to heave Crowley off of him. They looked at each other, each one sizing the other up, wondering how far they could take this. Aziraphale’s hands were trapped between him and Crowley. But he moved them until they touched Crowley’s waist.
“You like that, do you?” said Crowley knowingly.
“Oh. Oh yes,” breathed Aziraphale, blushing.
“Fun was it?”
“Oh quite. Naturally. Quite stimulating, really.”
“Turned you on, then, did it?” tried Crowley, willing to go out on a limb.
“Oh yes,” sighed Aziraphale. “I mean, no! No! Not, what I meant. I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“So, you would not like it if I did this,” said Crowley, and he brushed his lips softly over Aziraphale’s, and drew back, watching the angel closely.
Aziraphale’s fingers flexed at Crowley’s waist, pulling him closer. He didn’t say anything.
“And you wouldn’t like me to do this?” said Crowley as he bent down again and kissed the angel’s cheek slowly. Then he lifted his hand and ran a finger over Aziraphale’s mouth and bent down again and kissed his lips a second time.
“I – I wouldn’t,” agreed Aziraphale breathlessly, fingers flexing again, pulling on Crowley’s hips.
“But if I were to trap you here, well, a bad demon like me –”
“I couldn’t stop you,” agreed the angel quickly. “And…and if you were to chase me and tear my clothes –”
“Leaving you naked.”
“Naturally.”
“Very natural,” agreed Crowley. “You would let go, wouldn’t you.” And he meant, let himself go, give in, let his worries go until he could enjoy himself.
“Or hold on,” said Aziraphale, coyly, fingers clenching Crowley’s hips.
“And if more happened?” tried Crowley.
“I should still hold on...” Aziraphale didn’t end the thought, with to you, but they were both thinking it.
“I don’t think Hell would mind if I were to chase an angel and steal his clothing,” said Crowley thoughtfully.
“No,” Aziraphale agreed. “And Heaven couldn’t exactly fault me for being held against my will.”
“‘Gainst my, ahem, ‘will’,” and Crowley laughed. “My ‘will’ be thine, Angel.” And he shifted his hips gently against the angel so that Aziraphale could be in no doubt as to what the demon meant.
“And mine,” agreed Aziraphale softly. And Crowley leaned down and kissed him against his mouth and Aziraphale opened his and drew in his tongue.
Crowley’s hands crept down Aziraphale’s face, to glide over his neck, toying and teasing at the ruined ruff. And Aziraphale squirmed under Crowley until Crowley began grinding against him harder. And Crowley put his hand loosely over Aziraphale’s throat And kissed him harder, groaning against his lips.
“Angel, Angel,” he whispered, grinding his hips harder against Aziraphale. He was already hard, as was Aziraphale under him. And as he pressed against the body under him, his desire grew and heat and pressure intensified. He pushed his feet against the hard road, gaining leverage to move. And they could hear the sharp scrape of the remains of Aziraphale’s clothes against the hard earth.
Frantically, they clung to each other, in the sunken road near the bank with the overhanging brambles, in the wetness of Northumberland. They moved against each other, grinding their hard pricks through their breeches as the dark descended. And just as Aziraphale felt like he might explode if they kept going, just as the pleasure became so much between his legs, he felt a sudden tightness and then after a breath, his balls and prick released in pulses into his breeches. He cried out quietly as it happened. And felt the waves of pleasure crush him like Crowley was crushing him and the pleasure was Crowley; all Crowley.
Crowley slowed for a moment and stared down at him, yellow snake eyes gleaming. “Did you, did you just come?”
Aziraphale felt his face redden further, though really his entire body was radiating heat. He wouldn’t be surprised if his clothing was steaming. He breathed heavily and looked shyly at Crowley.
“Oh fuck… that’s fucking…Angel, fuck,” moaned Crowley and he started grinding his hips harder, pushing his own hardon down on Aziraphale’s softening prick. “Fuck,” Crowley said again, grabbing at Aziraphale’s ruff and pulling it aside, biting gently at his neck as he rutted against him.
Aziraphale cried out again softly, feeling the gentle pain of teeth on his neck and knowing the demon was using him now.
And Crowley thought that Aziraphale’s prick would be sticky with come within the confines of his breeches. And it was this thought made and Aziraphale’s soft cry that made Crowley scramble back on his knees and stare down at the angel again.
Aziraphale looked longingly back at him. “Keep going fast,” he whispered.
And Crowley fumbled with his breeches. “I’m going to come on you, Angel.”
And Aziraphale folded his hands in front of him as if begging. “Whether it be my will or yours.”
“You know, Angel, there’s such a thing as flogging a dead pun.”
“And there’s such a thing as mixing metaphors,” said Aziraphale drily. But he couldn’t really make himself care very much about Crowley’s teasing or misuse of the English language right now.
And Crowley opened his breeches and tore at the lacings of his own stockings until he could take his prick in his hand – marble hard and glistening – and kneeling above Aziraphale, staring down at his ruined clothes, he jerked rigidly until he froze for a moment and then spurted seed onto Azirapahel’s stained doublet.
And they stayed like that, a frozen tableau for several moments before moving: Crowley kneeling above Aziraphale, semi-hard prick in hand, staring down at the ruined angel who lay under a bramble bush on the sunken road. Crowley gently tucked his softened cock away and laced his hose again and refastened his clothes. But Aziraphale had mud down his back and was stiff and crushed and needed to be helped up. There was dirt in his golden hair; the ruff at his neck, torn fully away now. Tears in his stockings and now Crowley’s come splattered across his front.
“Come on, Angel. Let’s get you up. Come on.” and he helped him sit and at least took a handkerchief to wipe off the come. But then he hugged Aziraphale long and hard. And Aziraphale held him fiercely.
“New arrangement then, Crowley?” he asked cautiously.
“Mmmyeah,” agreed Crowley. “New arrangement.”
“This game,” said Aziraphale, mildly. “It was quite good. Just remember, if I run…”
“Ngk…”
“Quite,” said Aziraphale with tired satisfaction. “I don’t know about you, but I rather fancy some ox ribs right about now.”
“Yeah, course, but Angel, we’re miles from a town and I don’t want to get in trouble with Head Office at the moment.”
“Oh well, then I’ll just need to do it myself.” And then he miracled them a mere half a mile from the nearest town with a good inn where ox ribs just happened to be on the menu.
* * *
Crowley knew Aziraphale. He knew his glances, his expressions; the eager ones, the cagey ones: when he was amused, or feeling ruffled. When he was worried and wanted Crowley to take control from him so that he didn’t have to think; and when he was worried and wanted Crowley to slow down or stop, or try nothing at all. And since that day in Northumberland, they had continued to negotiate this new arrangement until they knew this dance; backwards, forwards, up walls, in dark alleys, under other faces at masquerades. And of course, in the Bentley after Crowley bought it and on the back of motorcycles and lying on blankets in the harvested rice fields in Southeast Asia.
And that night under the eucalyptus tree, with Aziraphale’s legs wrapped around Crowley, and Crowley inside him, Aziraphale had whispered, “I like this. I like this so much. Why does this feel so good?”
And Crowley had sighed into his mouth, hot tongues touching. “Ah, Angel. I don’t know. You’re so good, you’re so tight.”
“Hurts,” said Aziraphale. “I need it, I love it when it aches like this.”
“Yeah, I know, Angel.” And Crowley gazed down at him and pressed in further.
The velvet night covered them like a blanket, and far away, the monsoon winds started to change.