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“There must be something I could do for you, in return…?”
Fucking hell, does he have to use that sweet, suggestive little tone? He never means it, not in the way that it sounds, and it always puts the most wicked thoughts into Crowley’s mind…and not the sort of wicked that gets you a commendation down Below. Unfortunately.
He steals the tiniest glance to his left, half a second, just to collect a glimpse of that face, lit from behind by the roaring blaze all around them…and is startled to see Aziraphale looking right at him. Bright eyes, hands folded on the handle of the bag, lips pursed. Bring those lips here, thinks Crowley, and shivers, and has to scrunch his nose and glare through the windscreen to mask that motion.
But Aziraphale is still looking. Crowley dares another glance, frowning, and in response the angel quirks one eyebrow, just the smallest bit. Are his ears pink? Are his cheeks flushed? Or is that just the light of the flames? Satan, those eyes are glowing, and this is so unfair. One measly rescue (well, not one, but at least the first one in a good long while) and the angel makes a damn power play. It’s downright nefarious, is what it is. Bastard.
Fine—fine. Know what? If he can tease, then so can Crowley. Call his bluff. Little game of chicken never hurt anyone. Someone always flinches, right? So— “…Really?” he asks, and well done me, he thinks, because it’s the perfect tone: mostly dubious, just the slightest hint of suggestion.
“Well…of course. If there’s anything you can think of.” And he’s still doing it, damn him, his voice soft and dripping honey around the edges. The bag bobbles a bit as Aziraphale shifts his knees, and just the sound of the fabric of his trousers against the Bentley’s bench… Shit. Crowley can neither turn away nor cross his legs nor flee the scene entirely, and he’d better be very careful or this stupid game could get very embarrassing, very quickly.
Don’t flinch. Hand on the gear lever, so close to Aziraphale’s knee, and Crowley skids the car around a corner to slide him even closer. He is turning to drive within the radius of destruction from the dropped bomb, keeping them surrounded by burning buildings and falling ash. The heat is pressing in all around, making his hairline prickle with sweat…and Aziraphale is still looking, Crowley can feel it. Don’t flinch.
“Well,” he says, low and slow, hint of honey himself. Staring out the windscreen but keeping his hand on the lever. Just extend his fingers and he could touch that leg… He doesn’t quite dare, but the thought is tantalizing. “I mean, I have a few ideas.” And boy, does he. More than a few, really, and all of them filthy. He should leave the blast zone, get on with tonight’s job, drop off the angel and go on home to spend some quality time thinking about this game and how far it could have gone…but he doesn’t want to do that. He doesn’t want just to think about it, he wants to push a little further.
Dangerous. Push too hard and Aziraphale will spook, and all of this careful progress will be lost. But he takes another left and the angel’s knee bumps against his fingers on the gear lever and Crowley finds himself holding them there, two fingers uncurling slightly to maintain that contact, sort of like underlining the ideas that he had mentioned.
And…oh shit, oh unholy bloody shivering fuck, Aziraphale’s knee is staying there. Pushing closer, up against the gear lever, pinning Crowley’s fingers until he pulls them loose and lays them fully onto that knee, feeling the warmth and firmness of the flesh beneath the fabric.
“Ideeeas,” says Aziraphale, drawing out the word, lifting his knee to nudge it more fully into Crowley’s hand. “Anything specific? Or should I just…use my imagination?”
Oh, this is ridiculous. This is mad, this has got to be an incredibly vivid dream. Hallucination, even. Had the angel’s miracle gone wrong—had they both been gruesomely discorporated, and this was how Hell was receiving Crowley, with this horrific, exquisite torture? The curtain would draw back any second to reveal the unwashed demonic hordes, all pointing and laughing. The fantasy would fall apart, Crowley’s secret desires on public display for the mockery of all.
And yet, in spite of the warning knell in the back of his mind, the temptation is simply too great. Crowley releases the gear lever fully to move his hand over the curve of Aziraphale’s leg, tightening his grip…and Aziraphale shifts his hips, closing the distance between them by a few inches.
Crowley is sweating in earnest now. Things are getting embarrassing, all right, no stopping it, and now he doesn’t want to stop it. He doesn’t pull away, even as the material at the front of his trousers tightens and swells. Dream or not, hallucination or not, torture or not, this is delicious…and Crowley won’t be the one to flinch. Never looking away from the burning road, he lifts his hand, reaching to find Aziraphale’s wrist. His fingertips tingle as they make contact with that soft skin.
“If you’re offering…” he murmurs, almost too low to be heard.
“As a matter of fact, I am.” Aziraphale’s hand releases the bag at once, following Crowley’s hesitant, incredulous guidance. “Show me.”
But Crowley stops, their joined hands hovering in the space between them. “…Have you lost your mind?” Can’t help asking, even if it breaks this spell. He has to be sure…and to know that Aziraphale is sure.
“Perhaps.” And now Aziraphale’s hand moves on its own, reaching across the seat, the fingers dancing over Crowley’s thigh. “Are you complaining?”
A touch. So gentle: just a tease, almost sweet, but not shy or reluctant at all. But that alone sends a tectonic quake through Crowley’s entire body; his hand clamps down involuntarily on Aziraphale’s wrist, and his breath hisses through his teeth. “No,” he says in a hoarse whisper. “No. Not…not at all.”
He glares at the road in fierce concentration, swerving around the debris and the smoldering cars, shuddering all over as Aziraphale’s hand slides down, and down, the palm pressing and dragging, the fingers curling to prickle with his fingernails through the fabric as he pulls upward again. The angel very obviously knows what he’s doing; he moves with practiced ease, and Crowley’s mind is flooded with the sudden dazzling image of the Principality Aziraphale in his threadbare old armchair, sleeves rolled up, his back arched and his face creased with fervent desperation as he does exactly this, pushing, squeezing, clawing at the straining protrusion at the crux of his gorgeous tweed-clad thighs…
“Fuck,” Crowley gasps. “Angel…”
“Just tell me to stop,” says Aziraphale sweetly, “and I will.”
Crowley clenches his teeth…and says nothing.
Aziraphale withdraws his hand, but only to set aside the bag of books, removing his hat and placing it neatly on top. “Don’t crash the car.”
“No promises.” It wouldn’t take much for Crowley to beg for that touch to return. One hint of on second thought from Aziraphale and he would happily stop the Bentley in the middle of this seething conflagration to fall on his face at the angel’s feet and shamelessly, helplessly plead.
“Is this really worth discorporating us both?”
“YES.”
Aziraphale laughs quietly, turning on the bench to pull at Crowley’s belt with both hands as Crowley grips the wheel. “We’d certainly have some explaining to do, wouldn’t we?”
“Don’t…don’t care.”
“You’re barely thinking at all at the moment, are you?”
“…What?”
Aziraphale giggles, and Crowley’s hips twitch in response. The zipper shirrs. Crowley’s shoulders hunch as the angel’s fingers find his bare skin and pull his cock free of the trousers and this is embarrassing, he’s blushing and sweating and shaking as Aziraphale moves in, ducking under Crowley’s arm, one hand snaking beneath his jacket to slide across his back and the other…the other pushing downward, holding him taut and steady, and Aziraphale’s breath is hot as his lips ghost over the head that is quivering as Crowley’s cock seems to stretch to meet that touch.
“I have longed to taste you,” whispers the angel.
Crowley’s knuckles are white on the wheel; his jaw is set so tightly that his face aches; his eyes bulge behind the dark lenses, darting rapidly over the boiling flames all around but not truly seeing them at all. “Then…do,” he says, in the least dignified croak he’s ever uttered in six thousand bloodydamn years of corporeal existence. But who cares about dignity, fuck dignity, if this is real and not some diabolical torture then something’s about to happen that Crowley has fantasized about endlessly, times beyond counting, hidden away in his flat, so angry and so bitter and so deeply, terribly lonely that it’s always far more upsetting than satisfying but he’s never been able to stop, never could stop, he would ransack Hell for this, he would shatter Heaven right out of the sky for this: for this soft hand rubbing tenderly over the small of his back, these strong fingers sweeping downward to grip the very root of him, the tongue that drips, the precious voice that makes sounds of happy encouragement as Aziraphale’s mouth envelops him and slides down, and down, and down.
And it is torture…but not diabolical at all.
Crowley’s head rolls; he is dimly aware of the brim of his hat hitting the top of the bench and the hat tumbling into the back footwell, but that couldn’t possibly matter less. His legs and back are as tense as steel cables but his mind is melting, he’s still driving somehow but is conscious of nothing beyond the flick and the rasp of Aziraphale’s tongue along the length of him, his angel has Crowley’s entire cock in his mouth and he’s making the sounds. The souuuunds. The moans that have made Crowley sweat at many a dinner table…the croons normally reserved for the leisurely oral cleaning of a dessert spoon…the throaty chuckles of overwhelming pleasure that have always made Crowley want to rip off his clothes and serve up himself on a platter…and all of this is for him now. Aziraphale is making these unbelievably obscene noises for Crowley. Because of him. Enjoying him.
And Crowley is making sounds, too. Nothing like the symphony of delectation rising from his lap, nothing he has any modicum of control over, just incoherent grunts and half-choked wheezes and a few keening squawks that will probably be extremely embarrassing in retrospect but right now he does—not—care because the hand on his back is creeping down to grip Crowley’s belt and mmmmmm Aziraphale hums as his lips pull and his tongue licks and he pushes down with the pinch of his fingers and the reach of his throat, taking in Crowley so deeply…
“Angel,” Crowley hisses, as that tongue flexes and rolls.
Aziraphale’s response is to reach up to find Crowley’s wrist, pulling the demon’s hand down to his hair. “Hold me,” he murmurs, nibbling kisses alllll the way down and then back up again.
Crowley’s fingers twist through that pale silk; his hips jerk, and his wet cock bumps along the angel’s cheek. Aziraphale giggles again, catching him, rubbing with his thumb, and mmmmm he hums again, sucking as he descends.
The tyres squeal as the Bentley rounds a sharp curve, missing a hollowed-out postbox by inches. They are flying through the burning streets—the further Crowley progresses, the harder his foot is pressing upon the accelerator; he is operating the Bentley by pure instinct now and the thrilling terror of this only increases the sharpness and intensity of his pleasure. Nothing has ever felt like this, no self-indulgence that he has ever been able to devise has even come close. This is wild and wonderful, the gorgeous heat and wetness of Aziraphale’s mouth pulls him in again and again and again and he is pushing along now, holding the angel’s hair, panting and groaning and heaving as the engine roars and the buildings pass in a blur of speed and he can’t see, he can’t even see, they’re going to crash and discorporate but there is no stopping this, not even if the hordes of Hell and the hosts of Heaven appeared in the roadway before them could Crowley so much as react. Aziraphale can clearly sense that Crowley’s close and he’s going harder and faster now, and his yummy sounds are less indulgent and more insistent. Every inch of Crowley’s body is full of needles that prickle and sting, and he has to wonder if this is what dying might feel like, not just discorporation but actual death: something massive is approaching but he doesn’t shrink away, he sprints toward it and everything in him goes tight and tense and hard and his entire being seems to DETONATE in the most full and fearsome and fabulous release of his life, every ounce of the tension pouring out of him and into Aziraphale, who sucks and strokes and mmmmms through the straining pulses…
Crowley slumps, weak and shaking. His hand falls away from Aziraphale’s hair and he can barely hold the wheel as the angel sits up, smiling, dabbing primly at his lips and cheeks with a handkerchief. The Bentley rumbles along at a much more sedate pace now; Crowley’s glasses have fallen askew, but he doesn’t even have the strength to right them.
Aziraphale giggles again. “Don’t you look a fright,” he mutters, sounding so amused and so bloody smug as he straightens Crowley’s glasses and reaches down to wipe gently with the handkerchief (Crowley shivers and groans), tucking his deflated cock carefully away and zipping the trousers again, also tucking Crowley’s shirt and then buckling the belt with crisp, expert movements. He even leans over the bench to fetch the fedora from the back footwell, and carefully places it on Crowley’s head; when his fingers slide across Crowley’s temple to smooth away an errant strand of hair, Crowley’s head bobs involuntarily in that direction…and Aziraphale makes another mmmm sound, but sweeter this time, his fingers trailing down Crowley’s cheek and jaw before withdrawing.
“So,” he says in tones of perfectly normal conversation, as he settles back into his own seat, “shall we consider the score evened?”
Crowley blinks. Sits up a little straighter. Clears his throat. Turns the Bentley’s nose toward dark skies and normal streets. “Mmf,” he grunts.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Aziraphale replaces his own hat and pulls the bag of books back onto his lap, and everything is suddenly so perfectly as it was Before that Crowley wonders for a single vertiginous moment whether he had just had a shockingly realistic fantasy. (The dampness in his trousers would suggest otherwise.)
“…Unless,” Aziraphale says slowly—that tone again, like hot pepper powder hiding within a casing of delicate chocolate— “you’d like to stay for a bit, when you take me home? Some wine, perhaps, and…”
He lets the sentence trail off. Crowley glances over, taking in the bright, bright eyes in that sweet familiar face. Don’t flinch, he reminds himself. He will not be the first one to back down.
“…Sure,” says Crowley. “That’d be…sure.”
“Excellent.” Aziraphale wiggles in comfortably.
They go immediately to the bookshop, without making Crowley’s other planned stop…and, neither of them being inclined to flinch, they stay there for six days straight before even emerging to go out to dinner.