Archive of Our Own ^beta

"What,” Crowley says, and scurries backwards so fast he falls off the bed.

It is, all in all, a fairly big bed. Aziraphale had to be cajoled into bringing it to existence, because his idea of a bed consists of a little twin-sized mattress that Crowley couldn’t fit into by himself if he tried—and he likes sprawling, thank you very much.

Aziraphale had grumbled about it for approximately five minutes, until Crowley plastered himself along his back and whispered into his ear a few suggestions of what, exactly, they could be doing with a king-sized bed, and Aziraphale had blushed red and swatted at his arm and the rest was history.

So the bed is nice, at least. Crowley stares up at it from where he’s flopped over on the floor and tries to rearrange his brain into something with a semblance of rationality. Aziraphale’s worried face appears over the edge, hair mussed all over.

“Are you all right, dear? You took a rather hard tumble.”

Crowley squints upwards. “Aziraphale, what the fuck?” He gestures wordlessly. Aziraphale frowns at him.

“No need for all that, is there?”

“Oh, I think there very much is.”

“I thought I explained quite well,” Aziraphale says affably. Crowley gapes at him.

“Quite well? Sorry to break it to you, angel, but I don’t think moaning ‘oh, yes, Crowley, that thing you’re doing with your tongue is very nice—and by the by, I’d like you to hit me while we fuck’ is explaining much!”

A loud silence spreads. Crowley very pointedly stares at the lace hem of the comforter. Aziraphale sighs.

“Come up here, Crowley, you’ll get cold on the floor,” he says. Crowley scowls harder at the sheets, although it is kind of nippy down here, especially naked. Aziraphale sighs again, like he’s dealing with a recalcitrant child—it makes Crowley want to drag him off the bed. “And I did not, for the record, ask you to hit me. I thought we might start off with light slapping and work our way from there.”

“Oh, well, it’s all right then,” Crowley hisses. He realizes he’s clenching his fists so hard his nails are digging into his palms. He can’t quite bring himself to unclench them.

“Crowley.” There’s some rustling. Crowley keeps pointedly glaring and does not look up as Aziraphale fumblingly lowers himself to the floor next to him. “I don’t think the bedding has done anything to warrant your wrath.”

“Got to direct it at something,” he murmurs, and Aziraphale flinches a little, and Crowley hates himself. But he’s mostly still angry. 

“Please,” Aziraphale says, and he leans in and takes Crowley’s balled-up fists in his hands. “Talk to me. What’s wrong, dear?”

Crowley makes a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat. Aziraphale’s bare knee is brushing his thigh—he radiates warmth like a coal stove, and it always makes Crowley want to crawl up into his lap and never leave. Now, irritated and chilly and secretly a little afraid, it just makes him more tetchy. 

“What’s wrong, he sssays,” he hisses, and scrambles back on his feet. He waves his clothes back on, both because he’s cold and because he feels awfully vulnerable in a way he’s not enjoying, and crosses his arms. “You really have to ask?”

Aziraphale looks up at him. It takes all of Crowley’s considerable self-restraint not to jump on him again—he always looks good, but there is something deadly alluring about him sprawled naked on the wooden floor, all pale skin and fat and soft, dusty hair, the inside of his thighs still wet from his slick and Crowley’s efforts just before. But—no. Crowley ignores the hot flash in his stomach and looks away. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, in that I-am-trying-to-be-the-reasonable-one voice of his that drives Crowley up the walls, “had I known you would react like this I wouldn’t have said anything.”

He has the gall to sound hurt. Crowley paces—well, attempts to. The room is not really big enough for that, because Aziraphale is naturally prone to clutter and Crowley moved in half of his plants last week and he still hasn’t found the prime spots for them. What remains free is a two-foot square of floor that he twists around in, like a very agile peg-top.

“You’ll scour a hole into the floorboards,” Aziraphale says. “It was only a suggestion, Crowley. We don’t—we don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, obviously.”

“I just don’t understand,” Crowley growls, “why you’d ask that of me. Is it—why would you—I’ve never wanted to hurt you.” 

Aziraphale tilts his head. “No, of course not. That’s not what—“

“Never,” Crowley says, too-fast and pacing again, skin too tight and his palms and feet prickling. Aziraphale is reaching for him, concerned. “I—“

"Crowley—" 

He can’t be here, all of a sudden. 

He doesn’t even make his way out grandiosely, door slamming behind him—he just taps his heel and all of a sudden he’s standing in front of the sofa in the bookshop downstairs, clutching at the back cushions like a dying man.

It takes him a few minutes to collect himself. He’s not sure what is wrong, exactly—after a few minutes the feeling returns to his extremities and he finds himself faintly embarrassed. Crowley thinks about Aziraphale, left sprawled naked on the floor. He puts his head in his hands and groans.

It’s so late by now that it’s practically early. Aziraphale still isn’t totally sold on the whole sleeping thing, but he seems to find spending the nights either rolling around with Crowley in bed or holding him while he sleeps acceptable enough. Crowley tugs aside the curtains to let a stream of moonlight pour into the shop and he takes a long look around—familiar shelves, stacks of books haphazardly shoved to the side, the same faded rug Aziraphale has been claiming he’s going to change for fifty years. He lets out a breath. Then he marches back up the stairs.

Aziraphale is sitting at the edge of the bed, wrapped in his fluffy robe and pensively staring down at his hands on his lap. He looks a bit upset, in an absent sort of way. He doesn’t twitch as Crowley slowly cracks open the bedroom door, and only seems to snap out of his reverie when he clears his throat.

“Oh!” His smile is uncertain. “I thought you might be a while longer.”

“You didn’t come after me,” Crowley says—it comes out more accusing than he intends. Aziraphale looks, if anything, more upset.

“I thought perhaps you would like some space.” He fidgets. “I’m truly sorry, Crowley.”

Crowley sighs. He crosses the distance until he’s standing in front of Aziraphale, and he leans back against a box full of Brahms records. 

“I overreacted,” he says. “Let’s just get it out of the way.”

“No.” Aziraphale is clenching his jaw like he’s trying to swallow something unpleasant. “No, you didn’t. It was… insensitive of me, to bring it up like this.”

Crowley clicks his tongue and looks up at the ceiling. A serene sort of calmness had washed over him when he stepped inside the room and set eyes on Aziraphale, as it often does—the certainty that things will work themselves out, as long as they’re in the same place. 

“Nah,” he says. “You didn’t know I’d react like that. Hell, I didn’t know.” He nudges Aziraphale’s bare foot gently, and a reluctant smile flickers on his face. “Although next time—maybe not while I’m eating you out.”

Aziraphale flushes. Crowley grins at him, feeling more and more even-footed by the moment. 

“Er, well,” he says, and clears his throat. “Yes. Of course. I was not… thinking clearly.”

Crowley waggles his eyebrows and slides his tongue out, slicking his lower lip. “Can’t blame you there.” 

Aziraphale reaches forward to flick him in the knee. 

“Yes, yes, you’re very good at that,” he says indulgently, as if Crowley can’t see him squirming in his seat. 

“I could finish what I started,” Crowley offers. He lets his eyes wander down to Aziraphale’s bare legs. “I’m not just offering.” 

“I think I would like to hold you while you sleep instead,” is what Aziraphale says. Crowley makes a tiny noise and flushes.

“Your loss,” he says, but he crawls into Aziraphale’s arms with a sigh of relief. He rubs his face against Aziraphale’s chin as they shift beneath the covers. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispers. Aziraphale hums. “I’m sorry too.”

“Oh, hush.” There’s a rustle as Aziraphale shifts. “The blame is all mine.” He’s quiet for a moment. Crowley can see his face in the dark perfectly—he’s pursing his lips. “Believe me when I say I know you would never hurt me?”

“I know,” Crowley murmurs. His face feels hot with embarrassment. “I do. Already said I’d overreacted.”

“No, that’s not why I’m bringing it up.” Aziraphale shifts closer. “That’s why… I’m not certain how to explain. I know you’d never hurt me, Crowley. I just wanted…” He sighs. “It doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t want you to—to believe I think ill of you in any way, my dear. It would be immeasurably distressing.”

“I know,” Crowley repeats, because he does, and he tucks his face against Aziraphale’s throat. “We’re good, angel.” 

Aziraphale sighs, wrapping an arm around Crowley’s waist and scratching the back of his neck with the other. Crowley noses further into him, surrounded by Aziraphale, safe and completely pleased. 

What must be five long minutes later he whispers, “I still don’t get it.” Aziraphale makes a small, sleepy noise. “I mean. I know it’s not a—a moral judgment on me, or whatever.” He presses an absentminded kiss to Aziraphale’s neck. “So, why?”

“I would think you’d understand,” Aziraphale says, sounding contemplative. “Although perhaps not, considering…” He makes a gesture with his hand that Crowley can’t really make sense of until he realizes Aziraphale is pointing downwards. 

“Yeah, plenty of pain down there already,” he murmurs. 

“But you do like pain,” Aziraphale muses. “Well, perhaps not as such, but you like it when I’m… rough.” He coughs. Crowley smiles against his skin, feeling it warm. 

“Different, though.” Crowley traces a nail over the tender skin at Aziraphale’s throat and watches him swallow. “Who doesn’t like a little teeth and nails? You just want me to hit you.”

Aziraphale shifts against him. Crowley can feel him swallow. 

“Yes, well.” He clears his throat. “I’m afraid I don’t have a good answer for you, my dear. I only…” He shrugs, makes a short vocalization on the back of his throat.

“You really do want it,” Crowley says slowly, realization blooming. “It properly turns you on.”

Aziraphale groans. Crowley shifts back to look at him—sure enough, he’s blushing, biting his lower lip. 

“There truly is nothing more to it,” Aziraphale admits. “And it’s quite alright, anyhow, and we don't need to discuss it further.”

“Mmm.” They lapse back into comfortable silence. Aziraphale is petting his hair again. “What if we did, though?”

“Hmm?”

“Discuss it further.” Aziraphale cracks open an eye. 

“Crowley,” he says, exasperated. “You quite literally just—“

“I know, I know,” he says quickly. “But I didn’t really get it.” He leans up to brush their noses together. Aziraphale sighs, but he’s smiling a little, and when he kisses Crowley it’s short and sweet. “I mean, I still don’t. But I think I’d be fine, if you really do want to try.”

Aziraphale looks at him in silence for a long moment. His hands come up to cradle Crowley’s jaw, gently sweeping a thumb back and forth beneath his ear. His eyes look so loving.

“My dear,” he says, “you ran out of the room when I suggested it.”

“You caught me off guard!” Crowley huffs. “And, in case you don’t remember, you brought it up while I had my mouth on your cunt.”

“No need to be vulgar,” Aziraphale murmurs. Crowley reaches under his nightgown to pinch his nipple, enjoying how he squirms. “Crowley!” 

“Yeah, sorry,” he says, not sorry at all. “My point stands.”

“I don’t want you to do it just because of me.” He sounds conflicted. Crowley shakes his head.

“’S not just that, angel.” He clears his throat. Now he feels warm. He plasters his face to Aziraphale’s skin again. “I want to do things because you like them. Why else would I go to the theater with you?”

“You enjoyed Company,” Aziraphale accuses. “I saw you wiping your eyes during intermission.”

“That’s not the point!” argues Crowley, who had in fact needed to turn over his sunglasses to empty out the water, “The point is—you like it. We’ll try anything out at least once, right?”

“Except for spelunking."

“Obviously.” Crowley runs a hand over Aziraphale’s leg, just touching, enjoying the give and suppleness of it. 

“You’re really sure?” 

“Yes, angel!” 

He pinches Aziraphale’s inner thigh and he jumps and makes a noise. Okay, Crowley thinks. Aziraphale’s face in the dark looks bashful, but there’s a small joyous smile growing. He cradles Crowley’s face, thumb brushing over his mouth. 

“You are a marvel, my dear,” he murmurs. Crowley scoffs.

“Lay off the flattery, angel, and start cuddling.”

It doesn’t come up for a while. It's not as if they have sex constantly—Crowley's appetite, as it does with most things, varies wildly on the day, and Aziraphale often cannot be bothered to do anything about it on his own, so in the end an erratic schedule suits them both perfectly. 

Even then, it takes Aziraphale longer than he expected. Crowley begins to think he might have to push the subject a little—not that he’s not used to nudging Aziraphale, but this feels different. A bit fragile.

“I’ve been doing some reading,” Aziraphale says to him first thing in the morning two weeks later as Crowley sits down at the kitchen table (Crowley had pushed for a wide kitchen aisle. Aziraphale had compromised on a square, wooden polished table, on the grounds that thanks to him the kitchen was already mostly marble). 

Aziraphale pushes a cup of tea towards him—no milk, no sugar. Crowley makes an inquisitive noise, brain still half-off. Next to the cup Aziraphale has slid a stack of thick paper scrawled in his flowery, inky script. Crowley squints at it for a good ten seconds and then gives up. 

"Abridged version, if you don't mind." Aziraphale gives him a look. "You know I’m not reading all that.” He pushes the stack of papers back. 

“I made very descriptive notes,” Aziraphale grumbles, but he folds his perfectly manicured hands on top of the papers. “About our… sexual venture.” 

“Don’t call it that, but go on.” Crowley props his chin in his hands. 

"Well, there is, as it turns out, a lot of literature on the topic." 

"'Course there is. Did you go on the Internet for this, then?" 

"I tried," Aziraphale admits, and Crowley grins at the frustration in his face. "A lot of it didn't seem—er. Applicable." He clears his throat. "I don't think either of us is interested in flogging or caning right now." Crowley winces, despite himself. Aziraphale dips his head. "It was very enlightening, I should say. Sort of lovely, actually, the widths of human pleasure, don’t you think?" 

"The point, angel." 

"Right, yes. Well." Aziraphale falls quiet again. Crowley looks at him intently—he’s squirming a bit, and his face is going pink. 

Always funny, seeing what will make Aziraphale blush like a prude—Crowley still can't exactly narrow it down. He'll put his tongue up Crowley's ass happily and then stutter and go red when Crowley fucks his tits. This seems to be getting to him, even though he was the one to bring it up, so Crowley lets him flounder in revenge. Aziraphale gives him a look that says he knows exactly what he’s doing. Crowley doesn’t think he minds it so much.

“You still, er. Want to, then?”

“Want to what?”

“Crowley.” 

Crowley smiles. “What’s that thing they say, angel? If you want something you’ve got to be able to ask for it?”

“You are insufferable,” Aziraphale tells him, and Crowley grins at him with all his teeth. “You’ll, erm. Hit me?”

Crowley grimaces. “Don’t put it like that.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, the bastard. “Engage in consensual impact play with me, then.” 

“Worse, somehow.” 

Aziraphale stands up, looking slightly exasperated, and sets their cups on the sink—as if either of them are going to manually wash them. Then he walks over to Crowley and slides sideways into his lap. Crowley automatically reaches out to steady him, hand on the small of his back, and leans in to nose at the place where collar and skin meet. Aziraphale smells like he always does, of clouds and incense and something vaguely dusty. 

“If it really makes you so uncomfortable, Crowley,” he starts, and Crowley sighs against his throat.

“No.” He shifts in place to slide a hand against Aziraphale’s warm thigh. Aziraphale hums, content, thumb rubbing patterns on the back of his neck. “No, I’m… What if something goes wrong? Really wrong. They’re not gonna issue you a new body just ‘cause I slapped you to death.”

Aziraphale doesn’t laugh, even though Crowley is fairly sure he’s being ridiculous. Instead he thoughtfully runs a hand through Crowley’s hair and kisses his forehead.

“Humans do this regularly,” he says. “With risks involved, certainly, but they are much, much less durable than I am, my dear. As you well know.”

“Yeah, well. Knowing and believing. And all that.”

Aziraphale cups the edge of his jaw to look at him. He’s smiling a bit. It makes Crowley want to turn into a puddle and slide down onto the floor, as it often does. 

“I trust you,” he says. “And I’d like you to trust me on it, too. I wouldn’t put you in this position if I thought otherwise.”

Crowley runs two knuckles over the soft skin of his face. Aziraphale leans into it, lashes fluttering, and sighs. Something squirms in his stomach.

“Yeah,” he says, mouth dry. “Yeah, alright. Let’s go through those papers of yours then.”

In the end, as humans often do, they compromise. 

There’s a certain tension as they go to bed that night. Aziraphale is wearing that look he gets when he's particularly excited about something—Crowley isn't sure how he feels about being on the same level as braised pork cheeks, but it helps, how visibly enthusiastic he is.

Crowley sits on the corner of the bed and pats his thighs. 

“So,” he says, to break the ice, “shall I bend you over my knee and we’ll get on with it?”

He means it as a joke—Aziraphale will scoff and blush, and tell him off, and then they’ll kiss for a bit, and then—well, do it. 

What happens instead is that Aziraphale flushes bright red, makes a noise in the back of his throat and very much does not meet Crowley's eyes. 

"Right," Crowley says, breathless and lightheaded. Something in his stomach feels tight and his mouth is dry. He reaches for Aziraphale, who practically materializes into the kiss with an intensity that makes him dizzy. 

It gets heated quickly. Aziraphale crawls into his lap, ungainly and so eager already, making sounds into Crowley's mouth and clutching at his shoulders. Aziraphale tugs on Crowley’s jacket insistently, but he seems more preoccupied with licking into his mouth than actually undoing any buttons. Crowley huffs and clicks his fingers. 

“You know I hate it when you do that,” Aziraphale grumbles, wide-eyed and red-mouthed. Crowley bites at his lower lip and grins. “My clothes are old and real, Crowley! They need to be handled and folded carefully.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Crowley runs a hand down Aziraphale’s bare skin, flicking a nipple and grabbing at the swell of his chest. “Your clothes are perfectly fine, angel. I know you’d kill me if I damaged your waistcoat.”

“Some light maiming, perhaps.” Aziraphale sighs as Crowley mouths at his shoulder. He tugs on Crowley’s loose tie, looking offended. “And why are you still clothed?” He raises a hand. Crowley takes it before he can do anything.

“Later,” is all he says. Aziraphale stares at him with a half-opened mouth and then looks down at himself, naked over Crowley’s leather-clad legs, and licks his lips. Crowley bites back a smile. 

Aziraphale's skin, Crowley had learned over the years, is soft, sun-sensitive and well-moisturized at all times. In the past few months he has also discovered that it bruises beautifully, whether it be under his hands, teeth or tongue. 

He runs his mouth over Aziraphale’s collarbone and throat for a while. Aziraphale is squirming, breathing harsh in Crowley’s ear. Crowley ducks his head to lick at a nipple and he gasps and tugs on the ends of his hair.

“You’re the one always going on about foreplay,” Crowley says, smirking. Aziraphale makes a noise and rubs against him, impatient. 

Aziraphale’s already hard, he realizes, going hot all over, cock short and fat and steadily leaking against the flesh of his stomach. Crowley ghosts long fingers around it, barely the hint of nails, and Aziraphale groans. 

“Barely touched you yet, angel.”

“You very much have,” Aziraphale pants. His hand comes up to press against the blooming marks on his neck, and the expression on his face—wondrous, almost disbelieving even now. It melts something in Crowley’s twisted up insides, makes him want to give Aziraphale anything and everything he wants. 

He runs a hand up the back of Aziraphale’s thigh to his ass. Aziraphale makes a contented noise and wriggles a bit, pushing back against his palm. 

“Impatient.” He grins at the look it gets him—mouth pursed, eyes twinkling. Crowley pinches him, experimentally, and Aziraphale bucks on his lap, gasping. Crowley thinks he might be starting to get the appeal.

Even then, with Aziraphale so impatient that he looks like he’s halfway to getting up and getting on it himself, Crowley takes his time. He’d love Aziraphale’s body in any way, because it’s Aziraphale, but it’s also true that after six-thousand odd years Crowley has grown almost conditioned to it—that is, if he ever had a type, it would just be him. All that to say: he does have a nice ass. 

“You’re teasing,” Aziraphale accuses. Crowley has both hands on his ass, rubbing absentmindedly; the flesh is so pliant under his fingers. 

“You handed me the reins knowingly, didn’t you?” He smirks at Aziraphale’s glare. “We’ll go at your own pace, Crowley, you said.”

“I didn’t realize that pace was glacial.” 

Crowley snorts. Aziraphale is smiling, too, below the put-upon snappiness, because if there’s something they both love is being contrary. 

“You’ll have to put up with it,” he says, and lightly smacks the back of his thigh, right where it meets his rear. It’s barely a slap, more of a forceful tap, but Aziraphale clutches at his shoulders and gasps and nods fervently. 

Crowley rolls them over onto the bed. Aziraphale laughs into his mouth, the breath knocked out of him, and shifts onto his stomach, spread out on the bed luxuriously. Crowley perches on top of him and Aziraphale wiggles in pleasure, but something about it feels off.

“I know I said it as a joke,” Crowley starts, and Aziraphale shifts to look back at him with a raised eyebrow. Crowley sits back wordlessly and spreads his legs. Recognition and then slow delight blooms over Aziraphale’s face.

He splays perfectly over Crowley’s lap. He’s a pleasant weight, although it does make Crowley aware of the fact that he’s been hard and straining in his trousers practically since they started. Like this, he can curl an arm around Aziraphale’s chest and cradle him close, and Aziraphale arches into it with pleasure.

It’s not in any way distressing, as Crowley had imagined in the back of his mind. He keeps it light—kneading, lightly scratching and softly smacking the back of his thighs and ass until Aziraphale’s flesh is shiny pink and he’s squirming in Crowley’s lap. His breath hitches every time Crowley’s hand makes contact.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, sounding irritated but breathy, as Crowley trails his nails over the small of his back. His voice wavers.

“Hmm?”

“Enough warming up, don’t you think?”

“Is that right?” 

Aziraphale twists to look back at him with pursed lips and Crowley grins and leans down to kiss him—his mouth immediately slacks and his tongue is wet against Crowley’s teeth. Crowley counts to three in his mind and pulls his hand back.

It’s not terribly hard, but it makes a noise— Aziraphale cries out into his mouth and bites down so hard onto Crowley’s lip that blood spills into their mouths.

“Oh,” he breathes, hand reaching towards him. His eyes are wide and glassy. “I’m so sorry, my dear, I—”

Crowley licks his lip, coppery and wet. His heart is pounding in his ears. Aziraphale jumps when he hits him in the other cheek and then melts down halfway across his lap and into the comforter, completely loose-limbed.

“Yeah?” Crowley runs his hand down his thigh. Aziraphale nods rapidly. 

“Harder,” he groans, and Crowley goes hot all over in a flash. “Please?”

Crowley can't possibly deny him.

It’s not like Crowley is particularly strong. Aziraphale was right—he’s sturdier than humans and definitely sturdier than Crowley, who without miracles can’t really lift much more than an armchair. He has to put some weight into it, for Aziraphale to gasp and moan in delight. And Aziraphale gets loud like this, and appreciative.

“Yes,” he sighs, “just like that, dear, oh! I knew you would be wonderful at this.”

“Kind of a backhanded compliment,” Crowley murmurs, but he feels warm all over. 

“Not at all. You're—ah—precisely what I was dreaming of.”

Crowley doesn’t respond, both because he’s not sure what to say and because he’s too distracted by the way Aziraphale rocks against him. He sneaks a hand around his midriff and finds Aziraphale’s cock rock hard and beautifully wet. 

“You’re leaking all over my lap, angel,” he murmurs in wonder. Aziraphale moans, almost drowned out by the next slap, Crowley’s palm cupped just enough to make it really echo. It’s a study in micro-reactions—his hips twitch, his fingers snag on the sheets and his toes flex, a microcosm of uncontrolled trembling. Crowley wouldn’t be able to say it aloud, but he’s the loveliest thing he’s ever seen. 

Aziraphale grabs at his left hand. Crowley leans forward to take a look at his face, suddenly concerned—Aziraphale looks blissed-out, mouth half-open, but his eyes are wet. 

“Hey,” Crowley says, and brushes his hair back. Aziraphale sighs and brings his hand up to his mouth to kiss it, a little sloppy. Crowley’s insides melt into a disgusting puddle. “Alright? Wanna stop?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No,” he says, voice hoarse. “No. Please.” His diction is still perfect, but the vowels are softening around the edges, like it’s harder for him to make the right shapes with his mouth.

“You’re doing so well,” Crowley murmurs, running his palm over the pink skin of his thigh. 

Aziraphale makes a contented noise that trails off into a moan when Crowley spanks him again. The noise of skin-on-skin seems to turn him on almost as much as the actual pain, Crowley thinks.

"How long have you wanted me to take you over my knee, hm? Were you looking at Nanny and thinking about how nicely she could punish you?" 

It slips out of his mouth without any actual input from his brain, like a thought that has been lurking beneath his tongue for this past week. Aziraphale, desperately clutching at the bedsheets, makes a wounded noise. The flush spreads from his neck all the way down to the small of his back. Crowley can't help laughing in wonder. 

"She didn't use physical discipline," Aziraphale gets out. His voice is airy and wobbly, like he’s barely there. Crowley smooths a hand over the pink skin of his ass and squeezes his hand. 

"I would have made an exception for you," Crowley says, changing the lilt of his voice, a little higher, vowels more pronounced. Aziraphale trembles. Crowley has to blink twice to stop himself from setting the sheets on fire. "Good to know," he breathes out, and hits Aziraphale on the edge of his bottom, clipping across both cheeks, a little harder than he initially meant to. The noise is sharp; his palm stings.

Aziraphale makes a garbled sound that Crowley has never heard from him before, tenses, ruts hard against his thigh and comes with a cry.

It looks intense. Crowley holds him through it, an arm wrapped around his chest. Aziraphale’s weight on him has shifted from comfortable pleasure to teasing friction, just-barely-there and not enough. His mouth is soft and slack when Crowley bends down to kiss him, cradling his face. He protests when Crowley tries to pull him into his arms. 

“Now you,” Aziraphale mumbles, muffled into his arm. He reaches to paw at Crowley’s lap gracelessly—Crowley swears, hips bucking. 

“Angel,” he gets out, straining. He takes Aziraphale’s wandering hand in his and shifts until he’s kneeling on the bed above him. Aziraphale turns to look at him over his shoulder, face mashed against his forearm. His eyes are sleepy and content. 

“Come on, dear.” Aziraphale wiggles a bit. He looks so blissed-out. 

Crowley rips open his belt with shaking hands and undoes his fly. He doesn’t bother rolling his trousers down and instead pulls himself out over the waistband and tugs hard on his cock. His trousers are wet, he realizes, from Aziraphale’s come. He groans and grips himself harder, almost painfully—he’s almost there already.

Aziraphale is watching him with half-lidded eyes and his mouth open enough to show the pink of his tongue. His ass is starting to turn from pink to red, awfully alluring. Crowley’s breath hitches and precome dribbles onto his palm. Aziraphale moans softly, his eyes focused on Crowley, and juts his back forward towards him, like he's presenting himself.

Crowley comes with a groan, spilling over Aziraphale’s ass and thighs, so hard he shakes. He leans half-crouched on the bed, panting, until Aziraphale pulls him down by the lapels to crush them together.

They lie there for a long moment, just catching their breath. Crowley's brain doesn't come back online for a good minute.

“Wait,” Crowley mumbles, “I should—I have—” He clicks his fingers. Aziraphale allows him to feed him three sips of tea before he’s wrestling the cup from his hands and shoving it towards the nightstand. “But—”

“Hush,” Aziraphale says, and waves two fingers. Crowley’s clothes vanish—so does the stickiness in his fingers and thighs. Aziraphale plasters himself all across Crowley and tucks his palms over the back of his neck, pulling him close. 

“Oh.” Something in Crowley settles. He lets Aziraphale scratch his blunt nails over the edge of his hair and he exhales against his collarbone. Aziraphale is warm and pliant against him. Crowley shuts his eyes and presses his mouth to Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Alright?”

Aziraphale laughs. His breath ruffles Crowley’s hair. “More than all right, I'd say.”

“It was what you wanted, then?” Crowley tries not to sound like he’s fishing and fails dreadfully. Aziraphale pulls gently at his lobe. 

“Better than I could have dreamt of,” Aziraphale says, and kisses him soundly. He’s still softened around the edges, a dreamy sort of air about him. Crowley pets his back and gently presses a hand to his ass—Aziraphale hisses and shifts in place, but not away, instead grinding back into the touch. Crowley huffs. “You didn’t… I didn’t think you did, but you didn’t hate it, did you?”

“Seeing as I almost came in my pants, evidently not.” 

Aziraphale smiles—not that radiant beaming but a soft, gooey thing. That and Aziraphale’s heel pressed against Crowley’s bare calf is enough to dispel the tension that had been building in Crowley’s gut. 

“Here,” he says, to distract himself from Aziraphale’s doe-eyed adoring face. A jar appears in his hand as he clicks his fingers.

“Oh!” Aziraphale squirms as Crowley spreads the cool, sticky aloe over warm skin. “That’s quite thoughtful of you,” he murmurs, his face mashed onto Crowley’s collarbone. Crowley digs his fingers in, just a little, and Aziraphale groans. 

“That’s me. Thoughtful.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale rubs his cheek onto his chest. “I was hoping I’d… well. Feel it tomorrow, as it were.”

Crowley’s mouth is dry. 

“Trust me, angel. You’ll be feeling it. I’m just making sure you won’t wake me up at three in the morning because your ass is on fire and you’re uncomfortable.”

Aziraphale grumbles, but he doesn’t deny it. He’s hard again, Crowley realizes with a jolt. Crowley reaches to touch him.

“You don’t need to,” Aziraphale murmurs, looking very much sated.

“Insatiable as always.” 

But he takes Aziraphale’s cock in his hand, wet and raw—from rubbing on Crowley’s clothes, he realizes. He licks his lips.

“Well, you’re touching me,” Aziraphale says irritably, like it’s a foregone conclusion. Crowley kisses him with a smiling mouth. 

Aziraphale’s cock, on the times he can be bothered enough to make an Effort, is small by human standards—which, in all fairness, Crowley doesn’t give a single flying fuck about. It nestles comfortably in between his legs, unobtrusive, and privately Crowley enjoys how it looks against his long-fingered grip. It fits perfectly in his hand.

Crowley palms him easily, kissing the damp skin of Aziraphale’s neck. It would fill his mouth perfectly, Crowley knows, and he wants for a moment—but Aziraphale is making small, breathy noises in his ear, arms thrown over his shoulders, so instead Crowley keeps stroking him in between their bodies with his right hand and sneaks the left one to grab at his ass. 

It must burn. He thinks about it for a moment—Aziraphale’s soft, firm hands on him, nonchalantly putting him in place. Crowley’s breath hitches and Aziraphale gasps with him and spills into his hand and all over Crowley’s stomach.

“I think I must be about to fall asleep,” Aziraphale murmurs a few minutes later. He’s still plastered to Crowley. 

“Will wonders ever cease.” Aziraphale clicks his tongue at him. "I, er. You were really good," he says clumsily. "You took it really well." 

"Thank you," Aziraphale says, pleased in a quiet, surprised sort of way. His neck is flushed.

They go to an art exposition the next day.

It’s not really their scene, this—maybe Aziraphale’s, in a way, but it’s less of a museum and more of a hole-in-the-wall kind of place, with a leaky roof and staircases that creak. The space inside is open and light and filled with experimental art projects.

“Why’d we even come here, anyway?” 

Crowley squints at a sculpture made out of tinfoil and cans. The light that streams in bounces off the colored metal and projects into a kaleidoscope of shapes in the wall behind them. It’s pretty, he admits begrudgingly.

“It was your idea, Crowley!” Aziraphale, his arm linked with Crowley’s, gives him a look. “You said, and I quote, well, since we’re trying new things now, why not?” 

“That doesn’t sound like me,” Crowley says, just to watch Aziraphale purse his mouth. 

“Well, I think it’s nice.” Aziraphale approaches a statue made out of cut shards of glass, all tinted. “Very… experimental.”

Crowley snorts. Next to the glass there’s a wide canvas painted in an explosion of swirling, bright colors, shimmering purples and oranges. It almost looks like a nebula, expanding. The two of them stand side-by-side, taking it in.

“I, er.” Aziraphale clears his throat. “Last night was—good, then.”

Crowley turns his whole torso to look at him and arches an eyebrow.

“Wasn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Aziraphale seems to relax then, an underlying tension Crowley hadn’t spotted until now. “Only I woke up this morning and wasn’t sure… it doesn’t matter.” He pats Crowley’s arm.

“Well. I liked… doing that to you. For the record.” He can see Aziraphale’s smile in his periphery, like residual sunlight. 

“Good.”

“Good.”

There’s a young man edging close to them, trying to get a good view at the almost-sprawling-nebula. Crowley glares at him until he retreats. 

“We should go stargazing,” Aziraphale says. He’s smiling absently at the canvas. “Out, that is. Not much to gaze at in the middle of London.”

“All that light pollution,” Crowley croaks out, mouth dry. 

“We’ll make a day out of it!” Aziraphale makes a startled noise against his mouth when Crowley bends down to kiss him. “What was that for?” he asks, half-smiling. Crowley shrugs, face warm. 

“Just felt like it.” He turns from Aziraphale’s knowing eyes and they start walking towards the main exhibition. “I’m free tonight, by the way.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale is quiet for a moment. “Well, aren’t you most nights? All of them, in fact.”

“I could have something going on! I’m a—a busy demon!”

“Whatever you say, dear,” Aziraphale says, patting his arm. “Tonight, then?”

“Repeat performance, if you’re willing.”

Aziraphale blushes, gratifyingly, and bounces a bit on his toes. Crowley had watched him closely at breakfast—kept a keen eye on him while he drank his tea, standing up, and then spent the rest of the morning puttering around, moving things from shelves and very pointedly not sitting down.

“Oh, I am very much willing.” Aziraphale gives him a side-eyed look, from beneath his eyelashes, like he’s playing at being coy. Crowley bites his lip to stop himself from smiling. “I might be a bit sore, is all. Not that it’s, er. A deterrent.”

Aziraphale is flushing in earnest, now. Crowley marvels at how fast this makes him tick. Then he raises a hand and brushes his fingers over Aziraphale’s cheek, relishing the warmth. 

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” he says, low. Aziraphale inhales sharply. 

“I’m afraid we’ll have to cut our outing short,” he says, and Crowley laughs and links their elbows back together.

“This was too modern for you anyway, angel.”

It’s leagues easier, now that Crowley has found his footing.

“Were you feeling it all day today?” he asks against Aziraphale’s eager mouth. They’re back on the bed, Aziraphale perched on top of him and undoing the buttons of his shirt with light-breaking speed. Crowley grabs his ass and Aziraphale gasps. 

“It was—oh!—a moderate annoyance.” He arches his back when Crowley sneaks his hands over his waistband to touch him properly—his skin feels warm to the touch, sensitive. 

“I doubt you found it very annoying,” Crowley says, nuzzling his neck. Aziraphale always smells heady here—like the air before the storm breaks, and also a little bit like sweat and lavender soap. “I’m surprised you weren’t walking around with a hard-on all day.”

Aziraphale scowls and bites at his ear a little harder—Crowley is already twitching in his pants—but he also squirms and doesn’t deny it. Crowley grins. 

“I don’t spend my entire day thinking about sex!” 

Crowley laughs. “No, but you do love your daydreams.” He takes his right hand out and shoves it down the front of his pants. 

“At least take them off,” Aziraphale complains, but there’s no real heat in it. “They’ll get creased. Ah, Crowley—”

“Ooh, sneaky,” he murmurs. “You’re so wet already.”

“Crowley.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got you.” He shifts them around, Aziraphale pinned to the bed and Crowley blanketing him. Aziraphale's clothes are off with a thought.

“I don’t think I’ll ever tire of you touching me,” Aziraphale gasps, head thrown back in languid pleasure. Crowley’s mouth goes dry. 

“You sap.” He leans down and kisses him, slow, catches his bottom lip between his teeth and pulls a little. Aziraphale sighs. “You’d need a crowbar to pry me off, anyway.”

Aziraphale snorts. “A sledgehammer, perhaps.”

Aziraphale is not really ticklish—a constant plight on Crowley, whose body had been designed with that particular flaw from factory—but he does smile when Crowley pets his sides. Before they started doing this, Crowley had never payed any particular thought to what his skin might feel like. Well, no, that’s blatantly untrue, but he hadn’t thought of the texture. The bumpiness of stretch marks, the soft hair. Crowley pushes his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder. So much to touch, enough that sometimes he wants to turn into a fine mist and pour himself all over Aziraphale, touch him everywhere all at once. Not very romantic, but it’s true.

Aziraphale sighs when Crowley gets a finger inside him and then wiggles in place impatiently.

“Get on with it, then,” he says as Crowley fucks him with two fingers. Crowley raises his eyebrows.

“Get on with it, is it? Sorry, I didn’t realize you had to get somewhere. Am I keeping you?”

“Oh, you know what I meant, you devil.”

“Way to make a guy feel special,” he murmurs. Aziraphale rolls his eyes and kisses him, all wet and open, like he wants to lick Crowley’s teeth out of his skull. “You’re not pink anymore,” he says when he lifts Aziraphale’s leg to maneuver him. Aziraphale gets a glint in his eye.

“You sound disappointed.”

“Am not!”

“You were very lovely last night,” Aziraphale tells him, “but I’m afraid it wasn’t hard enough to bruise.” A hot flash goes through Crowley’s body, like he’s been dumped in a bath with boiling water. His fingers clench around Aziraphale’s thigh. He sighs. “Yes, like that.”

He’s being goaded, Crowley is aware. It’s not like Aziraphale is slick, or subtle—he’s smiling with that little smirk, pupils blown, looking so perfect that Crowley wants to give him everything he wants and more.

“You asked for it, angel,” he says, and pulls his hand back. 

With Aziraphale bent like this, his leg over Crowley’s shoulder, it lands half on his ass and half on his thigh. Crowley’s palm stings. Aziraphale gasps and moans, eyelids sliding half-shut. He’s leaking a little into the sheets.

“Fuck me,” he says, still demanding. Crowley clicks his tongue. 

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be making demands.” 

Aziraphale pouts at him. Crowley is a weak demon, so he slides two fingers back inside him. 

“Not what I meant, and you know it, Crowley—” He cuts himself off with a gasp. Crowley's palm itches, but Aziraphale's skin is barely flushed. “Please,” Aziraphale says. His head has lolled back onto the pillow.

Crowley runs a hand back through his hair and Aziraphale turns his head to mouth at his wrist languidly. Crowley’s idiotic heart skips a beat. Aziraphale kisses his palm, presses it to his face and then turns pleading eyes on Crowley.

Crowley obliges, of course.

“Jaw tight,” he murmurs to Aziraphale, who nods breathlessly. It’s more of a tap than anything—his fingers make contact with Aziraphale’s cheek with a sort of thwap, and Aziraphale sighs. “Alright?”

“Come here,” Aziraphale says, reaching for him and disappearing Crowley’s clothes with a clumsy wag of the hand. His cock rubs against Aziraphale’s stomach, wetting the fair hair there, and he hisses. 

“I won’t last.”

Aziraphale smiles like he’s just been given wonderful news. That cloudy airiness is back in his expression.

"Make it count, then. Come on, darling."

He rubs the head of his cock against Aziraphale’s folds. The next smack is a little firmer, louder. Aziraphale is so vocal—Crowley isn’t sure he could do this otherwise, but it’s hard not to enjoy it when Aziraphale is gasping and arching his back, trying to pull him closer.

“Please,” he says again. “Crowley, I swear, if you don’t—”

“Yeah,” Crowley breathes, and starts fucking into him.

Aziraphale is so wet and ready it’s an easy slide—Crowley sinks in and groans, mouthing at Aziraphale’s neck, teeth and all. 

“That’s it,” Aziraphale gasps. “Perfect, you’re—ah!”

Harder, this time. He cradles Aziraphale’s jaw in place with his free hand. Aziraphale clenches around him when Crowley hits him, and it knocks a moan out of him. 

“Christ, Aziraphale.” He rests their foreheads together. Aziraphale is breathing hard through his mouth, eyes glassy and wide. “Good?”

“More,” he says, demanding. Crowley groans and starts fucking him in earnest. 

Every time he slaps Aziraphale he clenches on him almost painfully. His whole chest is red, and Crowley tugs on his nipples almost absentmindedly as he fucks him into the mattress. Sweat is dripping down his back.

“I’m almost,” Aziraphale starts, and then trails off. His hands are flexing by his sides, useless, so Crowley clumsily sneaks his left hand to rub his clit. “Oh, oh—Crowley—”

He’s flushed all over, so his face is already pink. Crowley pulls his right hand back and slaps him clean on the fleshy meat of his cheek, harder than before, and Aziraphale comes tight around him.

The lights in the bedroom all spark and then go out. Aziraphale moans and trembles, gets more wet and slick where Crowley is fucking into him. His hips keep pushing into his hand as Crowley rubs his clit, even when the shaking has bled into pure aftershocks.

Crowley follows him right after. He feels like a man possessed—he grinds hard against Aziraphale, fingers digging into his hips, until he’s spilled completely inside him.

“Guh,” he says against Aziraphale’s collarbone. It feels like his brain has been scooped clean. Aziraphale makes a small noise, amused, and Crowley blearily lifts his head. “Let me look at you.”

He turns Aziraphale’s face carefully. No blood, but there is a red mark across the meat of his cheek. Crowley exhales. 

“Water,” he says to himself, and goes to click his fingers. Aziraphale wraps his arms around him and shushes him.

“Hold me for a bit,” he murmurs, sounding very far away. Crowley tucks his hands over his back and plasters himself perfectly into Aziraphale. He’s still inside him, but Aziraphale makes a complaining noise when he tries to pull out. 

“Still alive in there?” he asks five minutes later, when Aziraphale is still quietly trying to fuse their skins together. 

“Mm," is all he gets. Crowley huffs against his forehead and pets back his mess of curls. 

Aziraphale tugs him closer. It shifts Crowley’s still-hard cock deeper into him—refractory periods are for chumps and humans—and they both gasp. 

“Slow,” Aziraphale murmurs. Crowley groans deep in his throat.

Slow it is. Crowley rocks into him, like they have all the time in the world—and they do, don’t they? Aziraphale is so tight and hot around him, a solid heavy weight wrapped into his side. Crowley feels almost feverish with low-burning desire.

When he comes this time it’s a more subdued affair. Aziraphale’s breath catches and he goes still against Crowley’s hips, and it doesn’t take Crowley much more. Aziraphale keeps making these small whining noises in the back of his throat, and they’re both sweaty and flushed and pressed together so tightly that all he can feel is Aziraphale. He spills inside of him once again and then flops limp, limbs sprawling everywhere.

“I think I have to sleep for a week,” Crowley says into Aziraphale’s arm. Aziraphale, who already looks half-asleep, cracks his eyes open. His brain feels very quiet. 

“I appreciate you putting your back into it." Aziraphale’s smirking a little, and he laughs when Crowley swats at his chest. 

“Yeah, I’ve done all the work here.” 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. His eyes are clearer now, just sleepy. “Yes, yes, my dear. You’re very hard-working.”

“That’s right,” Crowley says, and they both look at each other in silence before bursting into laughter. Crowley reaches out with a finger to brush his face. “Does it hurt?”

“It just aches a bit.” Aziraphale lets Crowley press three fingers to his cheek, softly. His mouth is half-opened. “It’s pleasant.”

“I hope you keep surprising me, angel.” Aziraphale’s whole face softens, to the point it hurts to look at him.

“I love you,” he says, very quietly but no less firm. “Thank you for indulging me on this, Crowley. I know it wasn’t—well, easy.”

“Nothing about us has ever been easy, has it? But it has been fun.” Aziraphale smiles at him and Crowley smiles back, disarmed. “Maybe it’ll be my turn next time. Let you put in the elbow grease.”

Aziraphale’s face lights up. 

“Oh,” he breathes. His fingers cradle Crowley’s jaw. “Would you really?”

“I think,” Crowley starts, and blushes. “You made it look. Uh. Very enjoyable.”

“It was.” Aziraphale is grinning. “I would be honored, my dear.”

“Yeah, well. We’ll see.” 

Aziraphale gives him a knowing glance—there’s something new crawling in Crowley’s chest, curious and wanting. Daring, almost. But they can deal with that another day. 

“I love you too,” Crowley whispers later, once they’re clean and properly tucked under the covers in the dark. Aziraphale squeezes his hip in response, and Crowley is lulled to sleep like that, with the sound of Aziraphale’s soft breathing next to his ear.