Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s been driving Aziraphale mad.

He has never in his life, not once, ever come close to even thinking of licking one of his shoes, and yet that is exactly what he’s been doing the last four torturous nights with a desperate tongue, furiously fucking his fist until he’s growling from both overstimulation and the lack of that intoxicating omega’s cunt clenching around his cock like it should be.

The crystalline memory of a pliantly wet mouth taking his knot with astonishing ease has been catapulting the alpha into complete and utter insanity. For days, the sounds of a deliriously aroused omega coming on his boot have echoed in his head on a ceaselessly sordid loop, and that scent— that gorgeous, sugared floral scent he’d been blessed enough to taste the notes of in the slick the mysterious omega had slathered onto Aziraphale at his command— it has changed him molecularly.

He’d been tempted to try and break down the barrier between them on several occasions that evening, and he prides himself on having a shred of self control on that score at least, but when it comes to sucking the toe of his boot? Not so much, it seems.

The fragrance of the omega, the fucking taste of him, his seemingly insatiable nature that shone with such genuinely, purely uninhibited need and love of the depraved— each of these elements has radically infiltrated the entirety of Aziraphale since he left the club Saturday night in a blissful daze. It’s gotten to the point that he’s barely been able to read at all, and he’s just gotten in a new-to-him first edition of Wilde’s A House of Pomegranates, something in which he would normally be so immersed nothing could pull his attention from it— not even a threat of death, he thinks at this point in his life— but now, he’s hardly half a sentence in before his thoughts drift to delicate spring blooms dripping with spiced dew. He hardly manages to process a word before he starts replaying the beautiful symphony of mewling whines and desperate begging from a throat so skilled and eager he just wants to break it and claim the remnants as his own.

And now, for the sixth or seventh time since Saturday night (he’s lost count), Aziraphale is greedily licking the jet black leather of one of his custom made balmorals, he’s tracing the scratches left behind by the omega’s piercing (that’s been barraging Aziraphale’s thoughts, too— what kind of piercing was it, what did it look like? Was it gold or titanium, what was the design, did it have any gems? Did the omega have more?) with the tip of his tongue as he shakily strokes his cock, pressing his nose into the boot and inhaling with such fervor he’s lightheaded, the last remaining notes of the omega’s lovely cunt regretfully beginning to fade away from the leather. Aziraphale is thrust into such mourning for the loss of it that he nearly ruins his orgasm—

—nearly.

Once he’s come so hard he’d been dangerously close to pulling a muscle in his right thigh and cleaned up to a point of acceptable satisfaction, Aziraphale collapses flat on his back on his bed, heaving a sigh that rattles into the marrow of his bones.

What the Hell is he doing?

There is no telling what this omega’s situation is. He could’ve told Aziraphale where he danced for other reasons than wanting to…reconnect again, he supposes, but Aziraphale is incredibly adept at reading people, even ones he cannot see and are obscured by a damned barrier, and he knows that omega wanted him.

The urgently passionate manner in which he’d begged for Aziraphale to fuck his mouth and then to knot him isn’t something someone can feign, not that he’s found, anyway. Aziraphale has been around for quite awhile, he’s dealt with deception and falsehoods far more than he ever wanted to in his life, and this had not been disingenuous. It had been real, the desire to please and obey Aziraphale had been real, and the shakily blurted out information of his workplace had been real.

Still, though— he’s on edge regarding the notion of stepping back into a world he more or less left behind on several possible levels.

Aziraphale has been what he’s elected to call ‘retired’ for eleven years, and he’s only been back in London for six or so months. He never sold the corner property that had been a dusty, artfully abandoned looking front for his dealings back in the day, and he’s renovated and restored it into its original intended purpose: a bookshop specializing in the antique and rare that doubled (or rather, primarily served) as a personal library for Aziraphale, a dream that’s been nesting patiently in his heart for safekeeping since he was really very small.

It’s surreal, being back here again, living and drawing breath in the city he’s not so much as visited since he left. The phantoms of the past inhabit the unswept corners of his shop, ghosts lurk between the pages of tomes he’s not opened in ages, but Aziraphale is used to these spectres, and he’s become something close to fond of them in spite of himself. They’ve been his constant companion for years now, and at times they’re louder than others, can burrow into his head and unearth unpleasant memories and force the all too reliable guilt in his stomach to bubble up, but overall, Aziraphale is able to show them out of his head with reasonable efficiency, and before he knows it, he’s breathing normally once again, no longer fighting to remind himself that he’s firmly settled in the present and hasn't been catapulted back to where he used to be.

Aziraphale had been very excellent indeed in his previous endeavors, so much so that he garnered himself a reputation that was an odd one for someone involved in criminal activity: powerful, but generally accepted to be fair and not an imminent threat.

He had no interest in the main trades of organized crime— drugs, firearms, etc— and outside of some arguably-on-the-side-of-rare-occasions he dealt with unpleasant characters just enough to earn his name some respect, Aziraphale did not blatantly go looking for trouble, and it was a good thing, too, because really, what he wanted was for ‘trouble’ to feel safe enough to come to him.

“He makes people disappear” had been the most, and really the only menacing phrase associated with Aziraphale in those days, one that he himself had brought to life and shared with a select few clients in several variations, whether it be jokingly or with the hint of a threat if he got the sense somebody was attempting to fuck with him. It had the benefit of being spread around then as well, too, and Aziraphale was soon known as a man of certain repute that afforded him a certain life.

Of course, Aziraphale’s definition of disappearing was not what most criminal syndicates would mean if they employed those terms. He didn’t disappear people in the sense that he engineered their deaths— he literally helped those who wanted to disappear, disappear. He helped people escape situations that were otherwise all but fixed and immovable, and those people were omegas.

Was it possible to be a proverbial jack of all criminal trades? Perhaps not, but Aziraphale pulled off the thing rather well at any rate to the point of being believable. He’s always been adaptable, a meticulous perfectionist, and there are few things he’s not able to do with at least a moderate proficiency if given adequate time.

So, yes— did he occasionally end up replicating artworks to replace the originals in the institutions that had stolen them? Every now and then. Did he smuggle certain artifacts or engineer said smuggling? Also yes— why not, when so many if not most museums housed artworks they had no proper claim to and were already stolen?

He was especially adept in dealing with religious artifacts, earning himself the moniker The Priest, which both amused him to no end and unsettled the silt of his past a little too well. Aziraphale both inflated and embellished just how much he associated himself with this particular facet of organized crime; the bookshop was not the only front he cultivated, and he made sure he was known for his involvement with art and antiquities, not for his emancipation of omegas.

Aziraphale’s work revolved around aiding omegas in getting out of the country to escape abusive mates or worse, and he did this with such discrimination and discretion that none of them were ever rediscovered.

He still keeps in touch with many of them now and then, checking in via throwaway handles on certain social accounts they’d set years ago as a matter of emergency communication. Most of this occurred far before the sweeping omega protections became law, when an omega was still technically considered less than an alpha and barely above the property of their mate, but even after the reforms had passed, there were far too many omegas trapped within partnerships they dare not pursue via divorce, so Aziraphale had kept working.

He was able to meet with them with the persona that his other proclivities had afforded him, but more often than not, they called him an angel, another reason he had been startled when the omega referred to him as such. No one else was aware of that endearment, no one that he knew of, anyway. He could never be a hundred perfect positive of course, but still, when the omega called him angel in that melodious voice, it had sent a silvery shiver up Aziraphale’s spine, a veritable ghost of the past kissing his vertebrae.

Had he utilized force if called for, back then? Aziraphale will always fidget and worry his lower lip between his teeth when he considers the difference between something being called for and otherwise having no choice, wondering if there is any distinction between them at all.

The truth is, he had been violent to protect those who needed it, and he had not always disliked dispensing that aggression. He could never be certain if this was due to his alpha nature or something darker within him, and he does his best not to dwell on it too singularly these days. When it comes straight down to it, Aziraphale does believe that he acted as best as he could and with as much grace as he was capable at the time.

Sometimes it helps him sleep a bit better at night.

He had his fair share of scrapes despite the veil of secrecy he’d managed to maintain, including the one that could not be reduced to the definition of a scrape and still, all these years later, keeps him awake at all hours periodically. Aziraphale had made a mistake, one he would never forgive himself for and one that resulted in the death of whom he’d been trying to help and the near death of his best friend and at that time, lover. In the aftermath, he had immediately set about figuratively closing up shop and got out of the city that had been home to his operation, saying goodbye to all of his endeavors and resolving to never put anyone else in that kind of danger again. He’d joined said friend in Scotland for a while, and then indulged in traveling to all the places he’d been reading about and studying for decades— Italy, Spain, France, the Netherlands, Greece, Egypt, Turkey— and he’s mostly just a man, now. Not The Priest. Not ‘angel’. Not anything, really. Just a normal, respectable alpha (debatable, Aziraphale can concede, but compared to how he used to be? He’s practically a saint).

He has very little to hide these days, and Aziraphale has delighted in and taken to living within the light again, as it were. His name is proudly emblazoned in gold outside his shop, and no one that’s come in has given any sign of knowing who he’d been before. Precious few people knew his full name back then, thankfully, and The Priest had been a fine alias, one with more truth in it than many had any idea of, but that’s a story for another time.

Despite the new joy of not needing to worry about discovery for his and others’ sakes, Aziraphale’s life has been less than… fulfilling, as of late, and he’s not been able to pinpoint why, or he’s not been willing to. He’s got everything he needs, he reasons— more money than God, so to speak, relatively reliable safety considering his past, a growing collection of books he loves with every cell of his being, and good health— and he should be happy, he should be content.

He hasn’t missed his life of mostly tame yet undeniable crime.

He still doesn’t miss it, not at all.

He doesn’t ever crave the velvety threat of danger or the sparkling heat that is risk.

He should be happy, he should be content.

But Aziraphale is not happy, he is not content, no matter how much he tells himself the opposite, and the second he’d finally crossed the threshold of Tempt, the exclusive sex club he’d been accepted into as a member and had applied to join on a whim despite its ownership, he might’ve been assaulted with the realization that this was partly what he’d been missing—

—sex, connection, and scorchingly addictive, all encompassing sensory euphoria— an omega.

Aziraphale, before that night, hadn’t had any sort of sex with an omega in years. He’d fucked betas and even had dalliances with alphas, but Aziraphale has always been reluctant to engage with omegas after all he’d experienced as a younger alpha and the stories he’d learned from those he helped escape from their horrifying situations.

He’d forgotten what it was like to have one, or at least his memory had, but his body most certainly had not lost all recollection. Indeed, as soon as he stood outside the door leading to a glory hole, the warm, blood red lighting in the otherwise dark hall casting sensually on brocade walls, the most stirring of scents slammed into him like a hammer to his head, like cannon fire to his body. He instantly wanted to be thrusting into luxe curves, his cock hardened and filled to a throbbing, painful pressure within seconds and for the first time in years, Aziraphale had been seized with the desire to knot someone.

Of course he goes through ruts, but they’ve become perfunctory and an annoyance, and Aziraphale is able to get through them alone with a practiced hand, toys and far too much wine and sherry to be healthy, but he needs something to dull the otherwise stabbing need, and those knots aren’t ever ones he looks forward to— there’s no real pleasure in them, and when he’s not in rut, Aziraphale doesn’t indulge in knotting. Alphas can control their knot for the most part unless their hormones are truly raging, so Aziraphale avoids it altogether as best he can. There’s nothing blissful to him about locking into a fleshlight or any sort of cocksleeve, and he would never attempt to knot a beta. All of his years of assisting omegas in unspeakable circumstances has made Aziraphale extremely cautious to even fantasize about knotting, and his reluctance to even envision it had built itself into a nearly all out aversion over the years—

—and all of that aversion was gone as soon as he smelled the most delicious omega that was just on the other side of the door he had been standing in front of and which he then pushed into greedily, just as he needed to push into an omega greedily. Aziraphale had stepped not only into a physical room, but also into a dream of opulent obscenity in the form of a gloriously slutty being, he had been doused in the evidence of their ecstasy and caught in the deluge of their beautiful whimpering whines and the inebriating tonic of being wanted by someone he wanted more desperately than he’d even known he was capable of any longer.

And now, in those days that followed knotting the omega’s throat (something Aziraphale had only done very sparingly long ago, but had, in those hazy moments of having the life sucked out of him, remembered how much he adored the act), to say his body and mind had been seized with smoldering ember, pinprick longing, was the understatement of the century.

He’s woken up with a knot each morning since, something that hasn’t happened to him since he was in his early 20’s, perhaps; mature, civilized, 43 year old alphas simply do not lose control over themselves and their bodies, Aziraphale scolded himself as he willed the swelling to go down, except apparently they did.

A mature and civilized alpha would also arguably not be counting down the hours until the nightclub Inferno opened its doors to the public (had he checked the sleek, minimalist website twice to be sure of the hours? None of anyone’s business but his), but that’s exactly what Aziraphale did, and it is exactly where Aziraphale stands now on Thursday night, dressed in what used to be his customary black and his old mask he used to wear in his past life, just in case. The last thing Aziraphale wants is to attract unwanted attention tonight— he’s really only interested in the attention of one specific omega who has not left his thoughts and who confided in him that he danced here— and he hopes the dark turtleneck and trousers, along with his practiced expression of calm, will help him fade into the background until he’s ready to be noticed. The understated cross wrought in silver around his neck is his only accessory, an old cheeky habit he’d added on a whim before setting out from his flat above the bookshop.

There’s a bit of a queue to enter, but it’s also quite early in the evening, Aziraphale thinks with a prickle of embarrassment. He really ought to have waited, he should have come tomorrow or the next night and not within an hour of the club’s opening the first night the omega told him he’d be there, but alas, here he is, and one of the security guards at the door nods cordially as they greet him. They’re rather pleasant but there is, as Aziraphale expected, a pat down on his person conducted by the one guard after they ask him for consent to do so (they’re really very polite about it all, and Aziraphale has always appreciated politeness; it never used to be common in this sort of scene), and it’s not aggressive or invasive by any means, but it’s certainly thorough. Aziraphale has nothing on him that could cause alarm, even though he had hesitated over that decision earlier this evening. The last time he had been in any sort of business belonging to this sort of…world, he had been armed, so it’s a bit nerve wracking to be so vulnerable in this situation. He has never heard of anything occurring here that would give him reason to expect trouble, but the identity of who runs this club is enough to set Aziraphale’s teeth on edge.

He’s certain there are metal detectors within the doorframe as well. The owner of a place such as this would be remiss to not have them, and based on what Aziraphale has gathered in regards to Lucius Morningstar, the owner, remiss is not an adequate descriptor for him. He passes through without incident, as expected. The only incriminating thing on Aziraphale are the invisible marks of the past he still carries with him, and thankfully, no sort of gauge or sensor has yet been invented that can sniff them out on him.

As soon as he steps into the main room of the club that’s mostly cloaked in darkness but lit by richly glowing green uplighting and subtle hints of neon, Aziraphale is aware of two main things straight away:

1: On the first inhale past the threshold and through the cacophony of fragrances that assault his nose, his lungs instantly and gratefully recognize some of the scent notes of the omega that he’s painstakingly categorized and kept safe in his olfactory library: honeysuckle nectar, delicate apple blossom and a burst of a warm spice— perhaps clove, no, definitely clove, scorched clove, even— all dripping with golden sugar about to turn into luscious caramel, and

2: The unmistakable sensation of an alpha’s full attention zeroing in on his person— signaled by a cool prickle on the back of his neck that raises the hair there, the involuntary baring of teeth he has to forcibly relax, and his proverbial hackles raising in anticipation— alerts him to his left, where, leaning against the opulent, mirrored and intricately tiled Art Deco bar, is a tall figure also dressed in black, focusing on Aziraphale with the concentrated precision of a laser and immovable scrutiny of a bloodhound that’s found the scent.

The alpha is tall, like most are, but especially so; Aziraphale reckons he would tower over him were they to stand face to face. His hair is actually quite close, if not identical to the shade of Aziraphale’s, a pearly ivory that almost glows in the verdant atmosphere, and it’s rather long, framing his unquestionably alluring face and spilling far past his shoulders. He’s spinning a tumbler of something on the bar with one long fingered hand and staring at Aziraphale, his eyes too far to make out the color of but glittering, fixated, rapt. His expression isn’t hostile, but it’s so piercing that Aziraphale would be a fool not to have his guard up— he can’t help but feel a bit like prey that’s been singled out by a particularly discerning predator. He’s in the sights of a nearly biologically perfect weapon, and while Aziraphale is a force of his own, he would not describe himself as deadly in recent years. He’s rather sure the same cannot be said of the specimen across the way.

This must be him, based on descriptions Aziraphale has gleaned from the chattering, looming drone of a presence in the darker corners of London: Lucius Morningstar, head of crime syndicate known as The Fallen, owner of the clubs Tempt and Inferno, and the creator and sole manufacturer (so far) of the absurdly in demand, only drug of its kind: morph.

By the time Aziraphale left London and this life behind, Morningstar was a name that had just started being whispered into existence amidst the shadows, and eventually the hush around that whisper grew, but Aziraphale was gone before the name went from having mystery around it to being cloaked in notoriety and a constant hum of rumors.

Something, as he meets the eye of the alpha at the bar, clicks into place in the recesses of his memory regarding what the omega told Aziraphale the other evening:

“I trust the owner with my life.”

He’d not thought much of it then (thank you hormones and mindless, frankly rabid desire) and he feels the alpha’s attention on him break, the point of connection between their gazes snapping so sharply Aziraphale reels from it, inexplicably wanting it back; he watches a cascade of platinum locks shiver like a waterfall and a rather arresting profile turn to the raised stage where several dancers curve their bodies around shining silver poles. The previously neutral mouth curls into a smirk, and in an unexpected move that admittedly steals a beat or two from Aziraphale’s heart, the alpha makes a subtle sign of the cross with his hand, directing the gesture toward whomever he’s looking at up on the platform.

Aziraphale’s eye is drawn to the captivating redheaded omega in Morningstar’s line of sight, and they slow their lissome, undulating marble body to a statue still pause, glance his way, and smile. Their black lined, gleaming amber eyes catch some of the scarce light of the room as they gradually begin to move again, their burning gaze not leaving Aziraphale in the slightest as they gracefully slink around the pole, the sprawling, intricate tattoo in the form of a twisting snake taking up most of the outer expanse of their pale left thigh writhing along with them.

And Aziraphale, in that moment, is violently bombarded with such a forceful sense of needling sharp, branding nostalgia all over his body as that golden regard fuses onto his own that it almost causes him to stumble despite standing still, his previously skipping heart freezing as he stares at someone eerily familiar, but not familiar in the way that they’ve met face to face once or twice and he’d somehow failed to commit them to memory.

He recognizes more than their rosy cheeked face and the glints of silver strewn throughout scarlet hair, but if asked to articulate just what that means or how it’s even possible, Aziraphale would be at a loss to do so. He is at a loss, he’s tumbling deeper into a labyrinth of confusion as he stands there in the loud, overstimulating club but inexplicably only hears the heartbeat of the dancing omega, and it’s a rhythm Aziraphale knows, it’s one he’s fallen asleep to countless nights even though he has no idea who this is.

It’s as if he intimately knows their soul, it’s like he’s a part of it and the omega is a part of his own, like the two of them are bonded, Aziraphale realizes with a startled shiver, but of course they are not. Still, Aziraphale’s heart restarts itself to the Song of Songs, to the cadence of ‘I have found the one whom my soul loves’.

But there is something else that Aziraphale knows, as another billowing cloud of floral sugar hits his nose through the tempest of conflicting scents from others in the club, beautifully familiar and so very missed— that this stunning, flame haired beauty is the omega he fucked the throat of the other night, and that he is also, undoubtedly and most certainly, closely connected somehow with Morningstar.

That could be a…problem, to put it exceedingly mildly.

He wishes he had a railing or something to grab onto— or a slight, delicate waist currently highlighted by tiny dark straps his mind unhelpfully provided as his cock hardens— and Aziraphale knows he can’t just stand here all evening, so he regretfully stops staring at the dancing omega and forces his feet to move towards the bar where Morningstar is now leaning in to chat with the bartender, a woman (another alpha, Aziraphale senses) wearing an alarmingly crimson bodysuit of some kind with hair to match. When he stops at its edge a respectable distance away from the two of them, he scans the myriad of bottles lined up on the mirrored shelves, but it’s hard to focus on what to even order as he feels both Morningstar and the dancing omega look at him once again. He settles on a respectable single malt scotch and, after the bartender nods and pours him a glass, he reaches into his pocket for his card when the air around him shifts.

“That’s on me, Carmine,” the voice is far gentler than Aziraphale expected, and so much more lush, too. It’s a sweep of velvet over the back of his neck that makes him shiver and then tense, and there’s no escaping it now, Aziraphale knows.

He turns to his left where Lucius Morningstar is now standing much closer to him, his back to the bar he slightly lean against and peering down at Aziraphale from his rather great height, but his smirk from moments earlier remains instead of his previous stoic expression from when they’d first made eye contact. He courteously inclines his head towards Aziraphale, murmuring as he turns and slides his own empty glass towards Carmine, “relax, Mr Fell; your thoughts are so loud I can smell them.”

By all rights, the murmuring command of another alpha should not be affecting Aziraphale as much as it is, but his wires have always been a bit crossed when it comes to his preferences. He knows that current social attitudes have evolved enough where most wouldn’t even blink an eye at two alphas together, but it’s something that he’s still wary of giving away, especially to someone like this, but it’s difficult to come across as…unmoved.

Morningstar is undeniably striking even though he is the opposite of an omega in almost every way: big, imposing, strength inherent in his every breath. Aziraphale is also able to get a better look at his tattoos scrawled over his pale skin from this proximity, and they’re all skillfully done.

The front of his neck is covered in a detailed horned goat or ram’s skull with curled horns— Baphomet, perhaps— and fittingly, there is a spiked morningstar flail on the back of his left hand, the chain it’s connected to disappearing under the cuff of his jacket to presumably continue up his forearm.

On his left hand over each knuckle is a single, delicately rendered letter spelling out D E V I L along with a few dark, sharp looking metal rings on his middle and index fingers; a bit on the nose, perhaps, but inarguably fitting as well. Aziraphale wonders what, if anything, is spelled out on the right hand.

He had been right that the other alpha would tower over him. Morningstar is taller than nearly anyone in the club, if not everyone, and his power is evident not only in his physical form, but in his overall demeanor. He is not at all outwardly threatening, but there’s a resolute sense of calm about him that Aziraphale recognizes from the old days, the sort of self assurance one has when you’re untouchable. He's wearing a silky looking black shirt beneath a black blazer, and his trousers are the same raven shade as well.

He’s dripping in darkness that only serves to make his hair and skin glow, and he is so unfairly gorgeous that Aziraphale cannot help but connect him to the most beautiful of God’s fallen angels with whom he shares a nearly identical name. Aziraphale wonders if it was the one he was given, or far more likely, one he took for himself, but nonetheless— Lucius Morningstar does his doomed namesake honor, and perhaps even surpasses him in beauty. Aziraphale wonders if the same can be said for his persuasion.

And speaking of smells, Aziraphale can smell him as well as a few wisps of the redheaded omega this close: delicate florals dripping in caramel and washed with a very particular sort of whisky, a heavy dash of peat and cedar smoke on the end of it all, and Aziraphale is grateful he’d ordered the Macallan, his mouth watering for it just as it’s getting wet and wanton for the omega out of the corner of his eye that’s now climbing the pole with such ease it doesn’t look to be physically possible. It also doesn’t help that the mingling scents currently swirling around him only serve to make Aziraphale harder; he’s terribly thankful for the low lighting.

Perhaps not coincidentally, the bartender reaches out to pour more amber liquid into Morningstar’s tumbler. Balvenie 25 year single malt, the bottle says, the bouquet of which only enhances the scent of sex Aziraphale is picking up on now as well, the sweetly spiced perfume of the omega slick he’s been obsessed with especially strong now as Morningstar’s tongue darts out to lick his top lip before he exhales, like he’s just recently— oh.

Aziraphale tries to swallow, but it gets caught in his throat as he easily connects the dots of where that tongue has been and experiences the tingling sensation of jealousy, which is of course as nonsensical as it is involuntary and brutishly Alphaen. There is absolutely no logical reason he should be so achingly envious of the mouth that was recently very clearly indulging in what Aziraphale wants with a heinous intensity, what he needs gushing all over his tongue—

His shoulders tense again when another tendril of a heady, smoky murmur floats his way once more and through the haze of his envy, and Aziraphale is caught between erecting every rampart he’s got and keeping them down so he can experience more of the captivating alpha and the scent he’s drenched in, “as long as you intend my omega no harm, then I am more than happy to extend you the same courtesy.”

Morningstar glances up from his refilled glass and takes another sip before continuing, and his knowing eyes are green, Aziraphale can see up close, an almost startling shade that reminds him of jasper and aventurine gleaming like gems set in marble and framed by black lashes, and there’s a cluster of three, tiny little four pointed stars scrawled in dark ink hovering just below his left lash line, their lines so delicate they appear to hover over his skin.

“If I’d not wanted you here, you never would have been allowed past the door— you can trust me on that if nothing else, if you’re able.”

And there it is— ‘my omega’— confirmation that the omega Aziraphale had choking on his cock the other night is the mate of a crime lord who is both aware on some level of this fact and plainly not bothered by it. They must have some sort of an arrangement, must be non monogamous of some kind, and this does relax Aziraphale slightly, because something tells him what he’s been told is the truth.

Certainly it must be so that if Morningstar had not wanted him to step foot into the club where his omega works, Aziraphale would not have been able to do so. That must be a good sign overall, he reasons inwardly, trying to ignore the slightly paranoid concern that this could be a setup of some sort, but it doesn’t feel like he’s in danger. He wonders if his instincts have dulled, but as Morningstar watches him, Aziraphale doesn’t think that’s the case.

It’s as if Morningstar has been waiting for him— addressing him by name, that sign of the cross that clearly proves that he knows more than just Aziraphale’s name— and the omega had been as well, and not only that, but that they’re— they’re glad for his presence. It’s disconcerting in the sense that Aziraphale prefers to be in control of his surroundings if he can help it, and even though he’d known he would be entering unfamiliar territory this evening, he hadn’t anticipated being expected.

He says nothing at first as he silently ponders this and considers his response, instead electing to sip his drink, which is really very good; he’d forgotten just how much he enjoyed a good single malt. He needs to respond eventually, Aziraphale knows, and jade flashes as Morningstar presumably notices the cross round his neck, his eyes flicking down to Aziraphale’s chest and resting where the delicate silver lay, and he is deeply intrigued to see the alpha’s pupils dilate as he inhales through his absurdly straight nose. He’s smelling Aziraphale now and apparently, his scent is not offensive to the other alpha; it’s pleasing to him.

Interesting.

Suddenly injected with a burst of bravery and the sensation of being more grounded, more in command, Aziraphale dips his chin politely as he murmurs, steadily holding eye contact with the other alpha, “your courtesy is noted and deeply appreciated, Mr Morningstar,” he lets a smile play with the corners of his mouth, enjoying how Morningstar’s eyes follow the movement before snapping back up to Aziraphale’s, “and it’s true; there is simply nothing I wish for more for your omega than their health and happiness.”

Morningstar hums in affirmation after a moment, his pupils still widened but not fully blown, and then they’re both quiet for a few minutes or a few hours as they nurse their respective scotch and watch the redhead; Aziraphale can’t adequately distinguish which, the tension between them, the draw is so, so— present, and fucking with him more than he’d like to admit. The adoration scrawled over Morningstar’s face as he watches his omega dance makes Aziraphale’s chest ache, too. The love he has for his mate is obviously genuine— the expression softening his eyes is another one of those things you just cannot fake— and of course, Aziraphale can also see a feral desire lurking behind darkened irises, a desire that tips him into picturing this alpha and omega together.

He can’t stop himself from envisioning every detail, the stark differences of their builds while they writhe and clash and fuck— that omega is absurdly delicate, he looks like he’s spun from glass almost, curvy but willowy, strong but not made of the iron of his mate. Morningstar is forged from steel and stone, with the elegance of marble but with the strength of titanium, and it’s obvious even with or especially when cloaked by his well tailored clothes. He wonders how rough those two are in bed, how well the omega takes what’s sure to be a massive cock and a nearly impossible knot. He ponders how Morningstar prefers to come inside his mate, considers which hole he prefers and somehow knows the answer is all of them. It must be a sight to behold, two beings so exquisite entangled and entwined, and Aziraphale can almost hear the deceptively gentle voice of the alpha sweetly degrading and praising his desperately whining omega, God he can hear and see it so clearly—

Something overtakes Aziraphale in that moment after he’s watched the omega dance so alluringly he could probably fucking come just by looking at him, something that perhaps had been building since he first set eyes on the alpha whose eyes turn their attention back to his own, and it nudges him closer, it inspires Aziraphale to turn from the stage in order to lean in and up ever so slightly towards the blonde. He’s still holding his glass as he subtly licks his lips and stares at the inked splendor of Mornginstar’s neck, realizing that he’s wondering what it tastes like. Aziraphale is at a loss to name exactly what’s gotten into him, and the chant of omega omega omega hasn’t quieted in the back of his mind, but something else has joined it, it’s no longer a singular note and if Aziraphale is being honest, it hasn’t been ever since the forested gaze of an alpha locked onto his, just like Aziraphale wants to lock in to the redhead—

The sliver of fragrant air between the two of them cracks sharply with the humidity of a building summer storm, and Aziraphale pauses, wondering if what he’s about to do will get him thrown out of the club or worse, but there’s a reassurance in the way Morningstar remains perfectly motionless as Aziraphale looms closer. His chest doesn’t expand beyond the capacity of breath, his lips don’t curl in a snarl that bares his teeth, he doesn’t exhibit any of the quintessential alpha behaviors that usually present alongside aggression, and that encourages Aziraphale as does the faintest kiss of pink that’s flooding over those lovely high cheekbones, that’s painting a rose tinted sky as a backdrop for the little stars beneath his lashes.

Aziraphale has not made an alpha blush in ages, and now he’s put color into the cheeks of who supposedly is one of the most dangerous and powerful men there is. The only other indication of his effect on the Morningstar is how impossibly still he’s gone, and Aziraphale, emboldened and perhaps a bit mad, reaches up to delicately arrange one of the ivory locks of Morningstar’s hair back over his shoulder, effectively baring more of his adorned neck to Aziraphale in a gesture that douses him in even more of his intoxicating fragrance. His hair is softer than Aziraphale would have guessed any part of this alpha would be, an alpha who is made of such obviously fortified sinew and carries the sharpness of both his physical physique and his reputation, but his hair had slipped like liquid silk over Aziraphale’s knuckle in a direct challenge of his assumptions, and the same can be said for the tiny shiver that accompanied Aziraphale’s gesture.

“I must thank you for your hospitality, Mr Morningstar,” Aziraphale whispers as his nose almost grazes along the contour of a thrumming carotid artery, the blood within its walls, ruby red and frenzied, rushing so fast he can nearly hear it almost as clearly as the close to imperceptible catch of breath from the other alpha. He closes his eyes as he smells Morningstar, and he does it quickly, just enough to pull a beautiful little strangled sound from the throat he wants to kiss and bite and to better catalog the notes of the fragrance intensely concentrated here by his scent glands, that’s warmed by infernal blood— scotch/omega/caramel/leather/omega/applewood smoke/cedar smoke/steel/omega/fire, literal flames— and then he leans back, both for the sake of respect and so he can watch Morningstar’s reaction more clearly, “I cannot tell you the last time I have felt so…welcomed.”

When Aziraphale opens his eyes, the simmering slither of arousal that’s manifested throughout his veins escalates into fire as he drinks in just how drastically Morningstar’s pupils have spread in the last few seconds, black swallowing green like it’s made to be consumed. Even his lashes have lowered enough to be noticeable, and when he swallows, the ink of the ram splayed over his throat bobs in a tantalizing sort of bait, one that Aziraphale wants to still with his tongue and mark with his teeth. There’s something crushingly intimate about the exchange, the whisper of a familiarity Aziraphale has no right to but wants more of even though in essence he’s just flouting his dominance to see what would stick, to see if anything would stick to the head of The Fallen, and the answer to that, evidently, is yes— Morningstar is not immune to Aziraphale’s charms, and that primal part of him that’s been reawakened, that animal, wild heart of him, is bared-teeth elated.

He smiles before lifting his glass again, taking a luxurious sip of his dwindling scotch as he observes the other alpha, who, for the first time since Aziraphale walked into Inferno, is very visibly flustered. Up till now, he has been the near perfect paragon of composure, but Aziraphale recognizes the pretty signals beneath the polished surface that most others would likely miss: how Morningstar’s grip on his cut crystal tumbler has grown tighter, inner wrist flexing as a vein on the back of his hand stands proudly and his nostrils flare ever so slightly.

He’s then given the answer to his earlier curiosity as Morningstar tucks the lock of hair Aziraphale had just touched further behind his ear, his fingers tracing where Aziraphale’s had just been, and his smile slides into a smirk.

On Morningstar’s right hand, tattooed on the knuckles, is the word A N G E L.

Of course.

And Aziraphale decides, then, to pull what is perhaps a bit of a rude move, a power play that he normally would not resort to but can’t resist when he’s presented with such a glorious opportunity. He finishes the last of his drink, gently sets the glass back down on the bar and murmurs, his words edged in the softest hum of a growl, “thank you so very much for the drink. It's been an unexpected delight to make your acquaintance, Mr Morningstar— Lucius.”

He nods at Morningstar, enjoying his audible inhale just as much as he enjoys the sibilant syllables lingering on his tongue before turning on his heel and walking away, his steps steady and slow, and the omega on stage he hasn’t been able to stop thinking of for four consecutive days and nights is once again looking at him, the smile on his face one Aziraphale will remember for years to come.

There’s still a song playing, one Aziraphale isn’t familiar with (not that he would know any of the music here, it’s far too modern for his old fashioned tastes) but he couldn’t care less as he watches the omega lithely weave and curl and spin around the pole as if he’s a part of it, as if his body were made of the very same chrome but in its liquid state, malleable and pliant. He can feel the brand of Morningstar’s eyes on the back of his neck, and Aziraphale shivers as he’s bracketed by both of their gazes, one green and one gold, and he’s really very warm; perhaps the black turtleneck had been an oversight.

He cannot rip his attention from the beauty above him as their gazes lock together, magnets following each other even as the dancer coils, climbs and spins; even as he drops to his stomach on the floor and oscillates in an overtly filthy, arched back sort of maneuver that has Aziraphale salivating, his attention doesn’t stray. All omegas have eyes in varying shades of orange and yellow, and this omega is no different, except his irises are gold. They’re the exact shade of the burnished water gilding of Aziraphale’s favorite 15th century Florentine panels, to be exact, and Fra Angelico himself would fall to his knees to see his gold ground so alive in the eyes of a living, breathing work of art. The inky liner framing said translucent, dripping honey eyes only serves to make them pop all the brighter, candlelight highlighted by the dark it illuminates, and Aziraphale is helpless to do much of anything but stare, yearn, and hunger until the song comes to its close, trailing off into an ambiently buzzing background that joins the rushing blood between his ears.

The omega steps away from the pole and fluidly walks to the edge of the stage, his obscenely tall, shining platform heels clicking on the floor to the beat of Aziraphale’s heart, the swell of his hips an enticing sway the alpha wants to map with his mouth. When he stops, the toes of his shoes scarcely a breath away from Aziraphale, he bends down towards him, folding at the waist (little waist, tiny waist, slutty waist) as he smiles, runs a hand through long hair dangling around his face and whispers, all syrupy and sweet but incinerating, “the Angel of the Eastern Gate, I presume?”

Oh, how he’d missed that voice. Aziraphale’s smile grows in spite of himself, forgetting to at least try to appear somewhat aloof as he lets his eyes feast on the pale, subtly curved figure of omega, taking his scent deeply into his starved lungs as discreetly as he can. It’s been years since he has existed in this world, both in regards to connecting with an omega and doing so on ground that is, no matter how you look at it, dangerous, and the latter is almost as thrilling as the former; it’s no wonder his control over himself is shoddy indeed.

“You did your homework, I see,” he purrs, needing to make quite the effort to keep his hands from lifting up to wrap around those lovely slim ankles, convincing himself not to lean forward in order to run his tongue along the elegant slope of a beautifully shaped instep, “very good, darling.”

The delicate quiver that runs though that lithe body at the praise does not escape Aziraphale’s notice, nor does the prickle of his fragrance heating further; there’s a fine sheen of sweat gathered on his brow and his chest as well, and his tongue is envious again, it’s well on its way to being petulantly put out from all its been missing.

“You’ll find I’m always dutiful when it comes to the pursuit of knowledge, Mr Fell,” the whisper floating down to kiss Aziraphale’s ears is as lascivious as it is soft, “among other things.”

The innuendo is blatant and doubtlessly suggestive— it’s hellaciously slutty is what it is— and Aziraphale had expected no less based on how the omega had acted several evenings ago. He’s delighted that this creature’s incandescent sensuality is so openly on display in a more public setting, and in the back of his feral mind he wonders just how far he’d go in front of an audience.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt,” Aziraphale murmurs, now memorizing the shape of the omega’s pink mouth poised above him with his eyes as he hypothesizes what it feels like against his own; surely silky and plush, responsive and devastating, fuck Aziraphale wants to be devastated by him, “and I’m certain you’re simply aching for a chance to prove your knowledge, I trust?”

The breathy huff of a laugh he receives in reply before a warm hum tickles Aziraphale’s forehead, and the rest of his body longs to be gifted the very same sensation, wants to feel the omega pant and gasp against his naked skin—

“What do you say to a more private setting, angel, so you can give me that chance?” are the last words Aziraphale intelligibly processes as the omega nimbly jumps down from the stage and stands next to him, not so much as a wobble in his legs as he straightens to his full height and shoots him a dazzling smile. As they walk to wherever the omega leads them, Aziraphale staunchly tells himself not to lay a hand on the small of the lovely, mostly bare back next to him as they walk, and he also holds himself from looking over his shoulder to make eye contact with Lucius Morningstar one last time as the two of them disappear into a nearly black hallway lit by tiny gold and green uplights.

After about half a minute of silent walking, the omega ushers Aziraphale into a small, darkly glowing room before closing the door behind them, and he’s transported to four nights ago, the scent is so unadulterated and pure; he knows not how he manages not to just grab the omega in order to bury his nose in the long, elegant line of his neck. Here, in this cosy little space, there are no other smells to distract from the omega’s, no other competing notes Aziraphale has to focus in order to tune out, and he exhales through his nose, trying to control the burgeoning wave, the volcanic eruption of need sparking all over his body, through his cock, through his fingers and his core.

His heart thrums and pumps at a pace Aziraphale is certain cannot be healthy, but he also finds he can’t muster up even a bit of care now that he is, finally, after what feels like endless eternities and not less than a week, close to the omega who has been flooding through his system as much as his blood has been, whose memory has been coaxing agonizing knots from Aziraphale as easily as the omega would with his mouth or his cunt and who has haunted his every move since he turned and walked from the room where he’d serviced Aziraphale on his knees through the cruelest of barriers.

“Good evening, my dear,” Aziraphale whispers, hushed, taken aback by just how radiant this omega truly is now that he can get a proper look at him without the inhibition of maintaining some decorum in public, “I cannot tell you how lovely is to see you here—?”

He trails off, hoping for a name which he’s immediately given; such an obliging pet, this one, Aziraphale thinks, hopelessly charmed.

“Crowley,” the omega murmurs, stepping in to fill the space Aziraphale prepared for him to answer, and Lord, his eyes, his eyes are mesmerizing, “Anthony Crowley— usually go by my surname, though.”

As soon as the name is offered, Aziraphale experiences that particular sensation he would have in a situation where he already knew someone’s name, but had forgotten it. He has to abstain from apologizing, “oh yes, of course, forgive me” because he has never known this omega’s name, yet its consonants are familiar, its vowels are old friends his mouth knows well.

“Aziraphale Fell,” he replies warmly, his voice already deeper than it had been moments ago as he takes in the resplendent sight, “though you already know that, it seems,” the omega— Crowley— grins, a beguiling thing, a staggering thing, and Aziraphale dearly hopes he’s not committing some major error as he goes on, but he needs the confirmation as soon as possible for his own sanity, “and you, are Lucius Morningstar’s mate, from what I gather.”

Crowley winces slightly, which Aziraphale is deeply sorry for— he’d not meant to put the omega on edge in any way— but this is something he’d rather address now than later. He doesn’t know either of these people, and he’s in an altogether unfamiliar location; he needs some reassurance that whatever could occur within this room won’t place him in harm's way. Getting between a mated alpha and omega in any circumstance could be reckless at best and lethal at worst, and add in the obvious associations of the alpha in question, well— Aziraphale isn’t so stupid as to not ask questions before diving into uncharted waters.

“Er, yeah, I am— you’ve officially met, then?” a flicker of worry flits around lustrous amber, “and before I say anything else, I’m— I’m sorry, that I didn’t find a way to tell you before now.”

Crowley runs a hand through his fiery hair— his nails are long, pointed and painted a glossy black, the same onyx shade of his toes— and Aziraphale is treated to a wave of his scent that would have, if he hadn’t braced himself for it, caused him to react Unwisely. He can’t help but recall the slippery slide of those long fingers around him from the other night, how perfectly they’d squeezed and pulled and twisted—

“I’ve never seen anyone from the glory hole at Tempt, after; ’s always been one time encounters and I didn’t even think before I told you I worked here. All I was thinking was that I wanted to see you again…I blame you for having a perfect cock and for talking me into a fucking frenzy,” Crowley’s smirk returns, which Aziraphale mirrors; he is not entirely immune to flattery, “but yes, Lucius is my alpha and I’m his omega, but we are not your… traditional bonded pair, as I’m sure you’re fast learning.”

Aziraphale dips his head in understanding, and his eyes greedily slide into the tapering curve of that obscenely slender waist that’s accentuated by a myriad of skinny dark straps. It’s difficult to focus on what the omega’s saying, but he wrenches his eyes back up, determined to at least try to listen. It’s not that he doesn’t want to know this— he does, very badly— but Crowley is beyond distracting, he’s riveting down to the way his ribcage rises and falls as he breathes, the way his skin catches the ambient light of the room like the sea does sunlight. He is temptation personified, a blushing flesh, sanguine skinned apple cultivated for Aziraphale in his very own Eden, and his teeth ache with the urge to sin.

When he finally meets Crowley’s gaze again, his smirk has turned knowing, and Aziraphale feels like an avaricious cat that’s been caught just before diving headfirst into the cream. Heat slides down the back of his neck and trickles down his spine as Crowley continues, but, as he speaks, starts dragging the polished tip of the nail on his index finger along the contour of his ribs and waist exactly where Aziraphale had just been looking, tempting his eye back down to follow the blooming rose trail the sharpened point leaves in its winding wake.

“We’re free to see who we want, fuck who we want. We watch each other, but mostly he watches me; he likes it, you know. Loves to watch his talented little slut service other alphas as skillfully as I do him, and if you want more detail,” yes, Aziraphale almost croaks, his cock wildly interested in such detail, “I can give you that, but I just— just wanted you to know and to apologize. I understand if you’d prefer to leave, and I’m sorry if I misled or offended you. It wasn’t my intent.”

Goodness, but he really is sorry, Aziraphale can tell as Crowley’s tone grows uncertain, and he wants to pull the regretful omega into his arms to kiss away his worries. He’s not upset or angry at all; he’s just relieved for more reasons than one.

“Don’t apologize to me,” he says softly as Crowley meets his eyes again, and God but they’re breathtaking, all of him is breathtaking, “I thank you very much for telling me, my dear. I’d gathered something similar from my… encounter with Mr Morningstar, but the clarification is most appreciated—” he cocks his head as he takes a moment to really take in Crowley’s features, to study the steeping heights of his shimmery cheekbones that are much pinker than they were when they entered the room. “I said it the other evening, and I stand by it; you are kind, sweet thing. You should see the worry darkening your cheeks now for my comfort,” Aziraphale is filled with the same effervescent delight from Thursday when Crowley scowls, an undoubtedly adorable expression that has Aziraphale’s already unbridled heart rate tripping over itself.

“Well, just— just don’t make a habit of calling it out, I s’pose,” Crowley grumbles, but his blush continues to darken as he cocks his hip and asks, simmering, his eyes arresting in their laser focus on Aziraphale’s, “and now that all that’s out of the way— would y’like a dance, angel?”

God, Crowley calling him ‘angel’ is really doing something spectacular to Aziraphale, who nearly confesses I’d like you in any and every way, shape or form, but he keeps himself in check. It wouldn’t do to be so open with whom is, Aziraphale silently reminds himself, a virtual stranger, and one deeply and inherently connected to a darker world that Aziraphale most assuredly does not miss; best not to overshare if at all possible.

“Do you want to dance for me, lovely,” Aziraphale elects to ask, and he can’t help it; he’s already purring, a sound that bubbles up from its origin in his chest into his throat as Crowley whimpers, and oh, how he’s missed that sound, how he’s missed all of this remarkable creature he’d never expected. Somehow, he looks just as Aziraphale imagined and yet not at all, and that itchy sort of reminiscence erupts behind his sternum again, mysterious but deep, tender, and he’s not at all sure what it could mean. His hands flex behind his back and spin his ring, he vaguely realizes, tingling with the desire to seize the omega and touch him everywhere.

“Yes, sir,” Crowley’s whisper is airy and wanton, and his glittery, mascaraed lashes lower even though he’s wearing those sky high, open toed pumps that give him as much height on Aziraphale as his mate, and this perhaps-subtle-to-others-but-blatantly-obvious-to-him gesture of submission is dizzying spread over that pretty, freckle dusted face, the intricate, sharply extending eyeliner framing those hypnotic honeycomb eyes only serving to highlight that they’ve dropped— and that fucking honorific, Jesus. It spills from the sculpted pink pout of his mouth and drenches Aziraphale in both its sweet pliancy and another plume of Crowley’s scent, and he’s unsure if he can maintain restraint much longer. He's already so hard he knows he must look ridiculous, but when Crowley’s eyes travel further, stopping between Aziraphale’s legs, he doesn’t smirk again or make some sort of comment about how obviously desperate the alpha is for him—

—he just whines.

“Then,” Aziraphale’s hands are still behind his back as he steps closer to Crowley, lured in by the decadence of that whine and the rich, heady quality of his voluminous scent until the tip of his boot nudges the platform toe of a gleaming midnight heel; the height of said heels means Aziraphale’s head is just about level with Crowley’s chest, which is bare save for that outrageously miniscule bit of crisscrossing, complicated looking lingerie that only serves to make him seem more naked. He’s got more freckles scattered over the gracefully sweeping contours of his shoulders and delicately protruding collarbones, Aziraphale realizes, mouth watering and tongue aching to trace constellations between dusted bursts of cinnamon, “be a good pet and dance for me, darling.”

The exaggerated difference in their height does nothing to thwart his power over Crowley, who whines again and nods, daintily adjusting the straps of his bodysuit before stepping back from Aziraphale and waiting for him to sit.

There’s a tufted booth behind him Aziraphale steps back to settle himself on, doing his best to keep from grabbing Crowley and pulling him onto his lap along with him. As much as he wants to watch him dance, he would watch him for days on end if he could, he wants to touch him more. His body remembers this omega from the other night and somehow even longer, and Aziraphale is aching to feel him, he’s longing to run his hands over every inch of his skin and every stretch of muscle, and that torment does nothing but build and build as Crowley does something with his phone that results in more music playing in the intimate space.

It’s a torture that last for maybe only five minutes or so, the song playing in the background sultry and soft, a pretty voice singing lyrics that are frighteningly relevant to both their current situation and Aziraphale’s last few days, and, if the song is any indication and not random (there is no chance it’s random, Aziraphale knows), Crowley’s as well; his sensitive ears prick as the first verse floats through the room and Crowley begins dancing, stretching his arms aloft as his hands twirl together prettily in the air and his hips start to roll and curl and undulate, his movements unhurried but searing all the same—

I've been thinking of it all week

Taste of salt and wine

Hands all over my mind and body, and body

Since I left you I've been in a haze

Got me counting hours

Counting days—

As he watches, transfixed, Aziraphale is wracked with a special sort of agony as he battles to keep his hands to himself, especially as Crowley draws closer. The omega’s body is liquid amber twisting above him, bending impossibly and with a grace he’s never seen before, rippling like the serpent emblazoned on his thigh as he brackets Aziraphale’s knees with his legs and lowers himself down so much so Aziraphale is convinced he’s about to melt into his lap, but he doesn’t; as smoothly as he came, Crowley snaps his hips back up and he’s teasingly hovering again, the space between the two of them so wrong that Aziraphale’s clenched jaw aches with it. He threads his lovely fingers through the ruby banked bronze river of his hair and lets it cascade as he bends backward, the ivory line of his neck arcing and begging to be kissed, to be bitten.

I've been praying for it all week

Playing on rewind

The things you do to my mind and body, and body—

Crowley’s largest, most noticeable tattoo is obviously his marvelously designed snake, but it’s not the only one; delicate clusters of the very same diamond point star Aziraphale had seen on Morningstar’s cheekbone are scattered over Crowley’s body, tiny groupings on his ribcage, his outer and inner thigh, his wrists, the back of a bicep. They’re little nebulous reminders of the alpha in the other room, and Aziraphale finds he doesn’t mind in the slightest.

You, you got me

You got me mind and body

You got me—

He turns around, and Aziraphale is treated to the sinfully ophidian curve of Crowley’s weaving spine and rippling musculature of his back. Aziraphale’s fingers are numb from clenching them together in caged fists of withholding, from being denied the privilege to mold to that hourglass comprised of a slip of a waist and faintly rounded hips. When he twirls back around to face him, Crowley dips so low that his chest is poised inches from Aziraphale’s mouth, bringing a balmy breeze of his fragrance with him that makes Aziraphale’s constant purr dip lower into the territory of untamed. One of the straps crossing his chest shifts just enough to expose a peaked, rosy, pierced nipple, and Aziraphale bites the inside of his cheek to refrain from lunging forward to take it in his mouth, cock flexing and leaking and yearning.

Throw it on the floor

Beggin' you for more

It's all in the decor

Hang my panties on the door

What you waiting for?

What you waiting for—

“May I touch you, darling,” Aziraphale is growling now through his gritted teeth, the purr in his chest descending even further into something darker, and he really cannot trust himself anymore as Crowley smirks and leans in further, his nose gliding along Aziraphale’s cheek as his nails trail up each of his arms.

“Usually no,” Crowley whispers into his ear, the lush waves of his hair tickling Aziraphale’s neck above his high collar, his voice embracing his brain with its silky timbre and fuck his fucking scent, it’s so potent, so overwhelming and so stirring that Aziraphale’s hips involuntarily buck up, his aching cock seeking any sort of friction, “but I’ll make an exception for you, alpha—” finally, fucking finally he straddles him then, the scant plush of his ass gliding along Aziraphale’s cock in a burning line of gorgeous contact, the curves of his slim thighs melding with Aziraphale’s thicker ones as he hooks his wrists around his neck, and the alpha shivers when pointed nails twist around the curls at the nape of his neck, threading through them and teasingly tugging, “touch me.”

You got me

You got me mind and body

Mind and body—

It all happens so fast, after that.

When Aziraphale’s hands first meld with him, as they touch Crowley for the first time without a wall between them, there’s a shock that burns through the lines of his palms with familiarity and hunger, and it’s a whirlwind between the two of them as Aziraphale excavates his fingers into Crowley’s waist and pulls him entirely flush to his torso. All breath leaves his body in a relieved, possessive growl as the sylphlike frame relaxes into his, and then they’re kissing, their mouths slotting together without so much as a flicker of hesitation and their tongues immediately tangling like they’ve done this dance a thousand times before, licking along the other and tracing bottom lips before they’re sucked between heated teeth and sweetly bitten to bruises. Aziraphale’s hands, once they’re satisfied they’ve planted their signature around the curve of the waist they’ve been greedily corseting, set out onto the path he’s been trailblazing in his fantasies since Thursday evening, gliding anywhere and everywhere they can touch as his tongue does the very same within the yielding, heated satiny slide of Crowley’s mouth. He’s so warm, he’s so warm and soft and divine against Aziraphale, his beautiful body a joy to hold and learn and possess, and he’s so gorgeously responsive as well, reacting to Aziraphale’s every caress with trembling whimpers, searching hands and a wonderfully expressive, enthusiastic mouth.

He groans as Crowley rocks back and forth, as his serpentine hips continue their gyrating waltz but now on top of him, his barely covered cunt slipping over the ridge of Aziraphale’s cock until he’s delirious with need and the omega is clearly not far behind. Aziraphale doesn’t have to touch him to know he’s wet; not only can he smell it, his sensitive olfactory nerves and neurons rejoicing at being able to once again devour all facets of the omega scent he’s been obsessing over since the sex club, but he can feel it; Crowley is so wet that not only has he soaked through the bit of lingerie he’s wearing, but within minutes he’s begun to do so through Aziraphale’s trousers, saturating the fabric of them so thoroughly the alpha’s own sex is now starting to be blessed with his slick, and Aziraphale needs more.

When he starts kissing and licking Crowley’s beautiful neck, Aziraphale fears he may evaporate. He tastes sweet everywhere so far, the omega, but right here, right above his scent glands his skin is nirvana, it’s a revelation. Through the boiling, golden sugar river Aziraphale tastes the drop of honeysuckle nectar forced from the center of its bloom in midsummer, he can feel the new, virgin petals of an apple blossom split open and unfurl for the first time in spring, bearing its center to the sun and welcoming in its heat; each lick tingles with the sharp, fiery pepper sweetness of cloves, and it’s all enhanced by the sweat gathering there in a delicate, saline sheen. When his tongue passes over the single four pointed star over his left gland, Aziraphale can feel the scar beneath it, his taste buds picking up the ridged, circular texture of a faded bite that’s now adorned with black ink in what seems to be a sigil of Morningstar, and instead of what would be perhaps the typical alpha response of an uncontrollably envious snarl, Aziraphale’s cock pulses and drips as he licks the bite mark with zeal, the envy only inflaming his passion.

It feels like lifetimes since Aziraphale has had an omega like this, has had an omega in any sense of the word, and the sleeping instincts that had been brought to feral life Thursday night once again roar into a glorious consciousness, the slip of his brain into that primal, animalistic whirr fully clicks into place, slamming neatly into the dusty corners of its design, and he is no longer anything but an alpha in need of an omega, this omega. There’s nothing else but the slight weight of the body in his lap and the hot sweep of the mouth on his, no sounds but the concerto of their mingling growls, purrs and mewls, nothing but the scent of dewy, petaline blooms dripping with clove infused honey, nothing but the sliding feel of velour skin and slight curves and silken hair beneath his palms and within his fingers, and nothing but the tease or perhaps promise of his knot immersed within perfect, fluttering heat for the first time in he cannot even remember, nothing but Crowley, Crowley, Crowley—

Aziraphale does his best not to leave too many marks of his ardor all over him, holds back from scattering arbors of roses around the porcelain park of his neck and shoulders in the event that’s something he’d not want considering his job or for other, more personal reasons, but it’s a near thing, God it’s a near fucking thing, especially when Crowley’s divine whimpers bloom into those little, wonderfully breathless, almost painfully needy mewls whenever Aziraphale exerts more force with his mouth and hands. They’re rutting against each other with such perfectly aligned frenzy that Aziraphale isn’t far off from coming, and it seems Crowley is in a similar predicament as his agile rhythm begins to stutter and falter, as his knees begin to quake where they slide against Aziraphale’s rigid thighs.

“Need to taste you,” Aziraphale groans against Crowley’s collarbone as he kisses and sucks along its lovely curve, needy mouth trailing lower to at last lick at the exposed nipple that’s been taunting him, carefully taking it between his teeth and twisting the pink gem bracketed gold bar with his tongue, suckling hard enough that Crowley wails, swearing colorfully between keens as his hips buck wildly in Aziraphale’s lap, cunt grinding into his cock and already further coaxing the swell of a knot from him (it would’ve happened the second he walked in the club and smelled the omega had Aziraphale not already come twice today) before he gives the exact same treatment to his other nipple.

“Please,” Crowley’s wavering plea is a pretty echo of Thursday evening, sweeter than Aziraphale’s memories as he grabs trembling hips and lifts, encouraging Crowley to stand as Aziraphale leans in and starts to lick the soft skin of his hip bones, his nose ghosting over the delicately plush swell of his covered vulva in a tease he can scarcely handle himself, all the while huffing the omega’s scent like he’s in rut, and he damn near is, really. The spicy sylvan fragrances of the months between winter and autumn have completely filled the air, and they all culminate right here where Aziraphale is kissing, nuzzling against sensitive, tattooed scent glands nestled between Crowley’s thighs, and he licks the slick there with the greed of a man offered what he’s always wanted but never thought he’d have.

The sugary, fireglow clove florals aren’t alone, though, Aziraphale notes as he tastes every inch of skin he can find between Crowley’s legs while pointedly ignoring where he clearly wants Aziraphale’s mouth the most if his gasping, desperately whimpering cries are any indicator; there’s that scotch washed caramel here, too, twisting notes of cedar and smoldering embers of applewood, the finest leather and the atmospheric, struck match scent of fire. Aziraphale growls low in his core, cock throbbing, as he envisions Morningstar both eating out his mate as well as scenting him here, picturing that strong neck rubbing over pale skin and imagining the other alpha transferring himself onto Crowley’s inner thighs and his cunt as he marks his territory with his scent and his mouth. There are small, brightly crimson novas scattered of skin here no doubt planted by the voracious mouth of an alpha devouring and worshipping his omega, and Aziraphale can’t help but trace them with his own, the strange intimacy of his tongue sharing the bruises Morningstar left behind tingling at the base of Aziraphale’s spine. He’s tempted to scent Crowley here, too, that stinging, base jealousy of his alpha self protesting at the proximity of another battling with his carnal pleasure from the very same fact, and he compromises, quickly but boldly gliding his neck as best as he can over the stretch of left inner thigh adorned with stars tattooed and bruises before moving on to make Crowley his, if only for tonight, in another sense.

He slides his tongue up along the crease of Crowley’s thigh as he pulls filmy fabric to the side, snarling as he takes in the v shaped, neatly trimmed copper curls that glint in the viridescent light surrounded by otherwise smooth, pink skin, his ravenous eyes unsure where to look first— the beautifully tumescent, deeply flushed clit shining with slick that traveled from their furious grinding, the vertical piercing above in gold and pink, perfectly matching the omega’s nipples, the miniscule, barely there stars so far up on the inner thigh that their points tease the edge of a dripping, glossy—

“I love your cunt,” Aziraphale barely manages through the gravel of his growl before finally latching his mouth to Crowley’s swollen clit, groaning as his cock gushes with enough force he feels it against his thigh, flattening his tongue as the omega yelps, licking and sucking, kissing, adoring, “gorgeous, so beautiful, darling—”

Crowley’s piercing is a new and lovely texture in conjunction with the flushed skin it adorns, warm but smooth, a hint of metallic amongst silk, another contrast that makes Aziraphale think of the alpha in this building who had indulged in this exact act recently enough he had been blessed with that knowledge twofold.

He licks luxuriously as Crowley keens, his slim hips shaking so violently Aziraphale has to steady them with his hands as they start driving forward, fucking against his starving tongue with a frantic desire the alpha is deliriously thankful for. Crowley is simply pouring into his mouth, drenching Aziraphale in the delicacy of his scent and slick and taste, and when he slides a thumb over the slippery skin of an inner thigh to press into a sensitive gland, there’s a screech from below as Crowley’s heels skid on the floor. He throws his head back, the flame of his hair catching the green glow around them as it follows the bend of his neck.

Aziraphale can hardly reconcile that his wish of being flooded in the omega who has turned his entire life on its end is being so generously fulfilled, and he’s so hard the tendons of his inner thighs are straining, he’s gotten so wet his own thighs are sticky with it. He’s entrenched in a bliss he’s denied himself for so long he’d forgotten how breathtaking it was, how unspeakably wonderful it is to partake in an omega’s pleasure and sexuality, and a part of him knows that something has shifted, deep within him. He’s out of his fucking mind, he’s consuming Crowley and the deluge of his need just as his every cell has been screaming at Aziraphale to do so since Thursday night and the drought, the self imposed famine of abstinence from what his body is made to have is, all at once, over.

“Oh fuck, f-fuck, alpha— alpha, gonna come, fuck, I—” Aziraphale nods, his growling muffled against the omega’s puffy, slippery sex, loathe to even consider breaking away to tell Crowley to come and hoping his continued, steady pace of his sweeping tongue, suction and pressure on his inner thighs tells him that yes, he can come, come on his tongue, give Aziraphale more of that slick that’s got his blood boiling and his skin blazing and his knot painfully swelling, and Crowley must get the idea. His gasping, trembling cries break out into a wail that reverberates off the walls of the room and echoes through Aziraphale’s body to join with his own purr, and Aziraphale tightens his grip on his hips, keeping Crowley in place as he continues to lavish the pulsing, dripping center of him with his mouth, as he licks and kisses him through an orgasm that seems to knock the wind from his limbs, that dismantles the refined strength in the omega’s body to the point where he’s swaying on his heels. The nails that had been digging into Aziraphale’s shoulders for support suddenly falter, their grip melting away in the wake of what Aziraphale dearly hopes is relief, and he only ceases his ministrations when quivering fingers weakly thread through his hair to tug at his curls in an obvious plea for mercy. Aziraphale is quite fond of mercy in most instances, though in this moment he’s tempted to withhold it and see if he can get the omega thrashing and screaming in tearful overstimulation, but he relents; perhaps next time.

If there will be a next time, that is. Aziraphale’s thudding heart stutters within the sensual, overwhelming hormone and pheromone storm thundering within his chest as he considers the dreadful possibility that this will be the last time he will be able to have any of Crowley, but the anxiety tinged with biologically driven fury at such a notion is instantly soothed by the omega slipping into Aziraphale’s lap again, melting into his embrace as easily as before as his hands cup Aziraphale’s face and angle it upward, and good God, his face, his beautiful, florid poppy of a flushed face set with dual black centers of his nearly overcome eyes, shining streaks of tears cutting through scarlet cheeks coming closer as Crowley starts kissing him again, shivering and starving.

His mouth doesn’t leave Aziraphale’s as his clever fingers reach down for his trousers to undo the buttons there, his hands working so deftly Aziraphale gasps with shock as air hits the fevered, almost painful skin of his cock. “Please,” Crowley whimpers, mimicking his earlier movement of hovering over Aziraphale’s lap but now sliding the soaking slit of his cunt along his cockhead, hot and swollen and so fucking wet, so soft, “fuck, please, alpha, angel,” he pulls Aziraphale’s lower lip between his teeth and sucks, begging with his mouth and his words, “can I have it, please let me have it—”

“You needy little cockslut,” Aziraphale growls as he presses his hands into the gentle roundness of Crowley’s hips and thighs, fingertips making clay out of muscle, sculpting their intentions there with bruising fervor, “yes, my desperate little vixen, you can have that cock you so badly need— go on, darling, take me inside—”

“Oh fuck—” their simultaneous mewling moan and groaning growl immediately mingle in the air, and it’s a monumental struggle not to immediately come as Crowley sinks down on his cock, as he takes Aziraphale beautifully and with the practise of tens of hundreds of thrusts angled to the exact specifications of Aziraphale’s cock, “oh God, oh f-fuck you’re big—”

Crowley’s hands tangle in Aziraphale’s shirt and hair respectively as he fully seats himself in his lap, scarcely heaving a trembling breath before he starts rolling his hips, fucking Aziraphale steadily as his head rests against his shoulder, his own locks tumbling and tangling. Aziraphale is momentarily speechless, a rarity for him as Crowley takes himself, as he tilts his pelvis and curls his spine just so, back and forth, back and forth, letting Aziraphale nearly slip out of him completely before burying him all the way back inside, snapping his pelvis in devastating intervals that have Aziraphale nearly raving with lust and biting need.

It’s everything.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking big, oh fuck it’s s-so good, alpha, knew your cock would fill my cunt just right, f-fuck I f-fucking knew it—” there’s no trace of flattery in Crowley’s gloriously slurred, whorish rambling, Aziraphale can tell. He really means it, and he’s not wrong; most alphas are well endowed, it’s true, but Aziraphale is especially gifted, and he’s delighted that he seems to satisfy the apparent size queen writhing in his grasp.

“And you’re so tight, lovely,” Aziraphale groans as his hips buck up to meet that hugging, slippery velveteen glove, Crowley’s cunt clinging to him like it’s meant to be there, like it’s molded to swallow Aziraphale’s cock specifically, “such a perfectly wet, tight little cunt for me— God, Crowley, you really are a such a cockwhore, aren’t you, taking every inch of me so well—”

There is a moment in the midst of their fucking as they collide over and over and over again, as their bodies become acquainted in the ways that leave nothing to the imagination and reveal so much more than naked skin and secret places, there’s a single breath caught in the jumble of growls, whines and filthy words where Aziraphale is, under the feverish wilderness of their coupling, afraid.

He’s afraid because an aching, violent tenderness, as wholly unexpected to Aziraphale as Crowley himself, has begun to weave itself into the ferocity in which the alpha clings to omega, and an inexplicable, brutal sentimentality blooms between them. Perhaps it’s cultivated by the repetitive flexing of hips, driven into germination by biology and the need join, to meld, to belong, but there’s that needling nostalgia again, pin pricking the reaches of Aziraphale’s lust addled alpha brain just as his back stings from Crowley’s nails digging between his shoulder blades. Something about it is pivotal— ordained, even, if Aziraphale had to describe it. Each slick drag and thrust of his cock within the blistering velvet is a homecoming he hadn’t know his body longed for, every slip of tongue and brush of trembling mouths, all of the fractured moans and whines and bursts of “angel, angel, angel” fill Aziraphale with the unshakable sense that he is both holding and buried within his world right now, and he’s not confident he can let him go when their night comes to a close.

He slides a shaking hand up to grab a fist full of that shockingly red hair and pulls, regretfully breaking the burning seal of where Crowley’s lips had been locked to his neck but needing to sate his hunger for a look at the fucked out, hammered gold rings encircling swollen pupils before surging up to kiss him between thrusts.

“Look at me, omega,” to his ear, Aziraphale sounds as desperate as he does commanding, and the immediacy in which Crowley obeys with a shattered whine is as dizzying as his answering squeeze around the alpha’s cock, “there you are, good, you’re so good— I want to see my lovely slut’s eyes,” it’s an impossible trade off for a hedonist like himself, choosing between maintaining the scorching connection between their mouths or being able to indulge in the display of a cockdrunk omega as he pushes them further into carnal oblivion, but sacrifices must be made, “need to watch your beautiful face as you come on my cock since I was so cruelly robbed of such a sight several nights ago—”

Crowley yelps as Aziraphale punches his hips upward, brutally ramming into him as little jerks and twitches begin to punctuate his otherwise fluid motions with telltale signs of the omega’s second orgasm. Aziraphale pulls Crowley’s arms down from where they’re wrapped around him and straightens them backward to hover behind Crowley’s back, holding his slight wrists together, curling his hands around each one and pulling on them for leverage as he increases the speed and power of his thrusts, the keening, drawn out moans spilling from Crowley only inspiring him to go harder, faster, deeper, deeper—

“I knew you were a perfect fuckdoll from the second I felt the touch of your tongue, you know,” Aziraphale grits through his teeth as Crowley bounces on him with the urgency of someone running out of time, his technique as expert as everything else he’s treated Aziraphale to even without the use of his arms, at just the right angle and immaculately matching the rhythm of Aziraphale’s hips so well he has alpha gasping between guttural, purring grunts, “it’s all I’ve been thinking about, sweetheart, you are all I have been thinking about for days—”

“Me too, f-fuck, me too, alpha,” Crowley breathes, his eyes beginning to roll back in his head before they focus on Aziraphale again, the blackened tear trails of his mascara and eyeliner sliding down his cheeks dark boulevards the alpha wants to travel along for days with his tongue, “fuck, I— I’ve b-been getting f-fucked and knotted t-to the thought of you using me, t-taking me, knotting me,” oh God, that knowledge is enough to break the weakening hold Aziraphale has round his orgasm, and it barrels through his control, it starts to escape his last defenses, “fuck, please, alpha, please fill me—”

“Been playing that pretty begging in my head, too,” Aziraphale’s groan is hardly audible above the noises of skin slapping against skin mingling with the pitchy, mewling cries that pour from Crowley’s mouth amid his almost panicked confession of “fuck, gonna come again, f-fuck ‘m gonna come, please, sir, c-can I—”

“Come,” Aziraphale snarls as he himself is right on the edge of doing so, suddenly worried and wondering if he should pull out, but as if he reads Aziraphale’s mind, Crowley pants, “‘s safe, can’t get pregnant— had surgery— please, come in my cunt as much as you want, fuck, p-please, angel—”

The only thing Aziraphale wants more than to come in the cunt of his dreams is to knot it, to lock into Crowley and spill inside him so much that the omega is full to spilling with his spend and his cunt melds around Aziraphale in a custom fleshlight, like they’re two pieces of one being, but he hesitates, unsure if he’s allowed, if he even has to time to do so in this nightclub; there is no chance this knotting would be a quick one, he’s far beyond that point and has been since he walked in this room. He could come without knotting Crowley, he could still find release that would still be a relief even if it wouldn’t be the height of satiation and the swelling would gradually dissipate, but then Crowley sobs into Aziraphale’s neck, his teeth pulling at the fabric of his turtleneck while he tries to force himself down onto the swollen protrusion as if his life depends on it.

“Please,” God, his pleading, his tortured pleading and close to hysterical sobbing shears through the muscle of Aziraphale’s heart as the slick silk of Crowley’s cunt rhythmically squeezes around him while he comes, and it literally feels like the omega is striving to suck in Aziraphale’s knot, he’s pulling his cock in deeper till the swell nudges at Crowley, trying to bully its way inside him despite Aziraphale’s dwindling efforts to control himself, “f-fuck, alpha, p-please knot me, I need it, fuck, I need you, ‘m t-too empty, need more, n-need you—”

“Shhh,” Aziraphale whispers, the purr in his chest instantly louder in an instinctual attempt to comfort as he releases Crowley’s wrists and tucks his head below his chin, the sweat gathered over his brow now sliding against what’s beaded over the alpha’s neck, and holy fuck Crowley’s licking at his scent glands under his collar, roughly pulling at his turtleneck for access to Aziraphale’s neck and mewling into them as he shakes and shakes and shakes, his entire body vibrating astride Aziraphale’s, “shh, darling; when I knot this pretty, lovely little cunt, I need to be locked inside you for hours,” he groans as licking turns to nibbling, the slow drag of Crowley’s teeth over the wildly sensitive gland pulverizing his rational thought; his back arches and his hips surge, seeking more and drawing a strangled, sharp yelp from Crowley as the edge of Aziraphale’s knot fucks against the last, crumbling resistance of his cunt, as it starts stretching him, “unless this establishment is open for the foreseeable future, I— fuck, I cannot see that being a possibility—”

“He’ll keep it open all fucking night if I want him to,” Crowley nearly growls into Aziraphale’s ear with a sharp bite to its lobe, and God damn, something in that, something in the feral insistence, the implication that Crowley’s got his crime lord alpha wrapped around his little finger, that this exorbitantly powerful man will do anything Crowley asks of him without so much as a drop of hesitance even if that means taking another alpha’s knot for hours and hours until his perfect cunt is wrecked and ruined and overflowing with come—

For more than a split second, Aziraphale wonders if he’s watching, somehow; he doubts it only because Crowley seems to take consent and the ethical elements of sex seriously, he doesn’t think that the omega is the sort to have them be seen without Aziraphale’s enthusiastic permission, but he’s surprised by a longing swoop that flips his stomach, even more shocked by what it implies—

He wishes Lucius Morningstar was watching just now.

He wants him to see the state Aziraphale has worked his omega into, he wants the verdant lush of those eyes to blanket the two of them as they fuck, he wants to know if he’d like what he saw, where his eyes would linger and if he’d simply observe or request to participate—

It’s a desire that’s dark in its design, at least partly. The possessiveness inherent to alphas that’s been close to dormant inside Aziraphale— that, instead of jealousy exactly, has exploded since being inside Crowley, since he’s figuratively shot himself up with his essence and welcomed him into his bloodstream, now that he knows the satin petal drag of his skin and Heaven that is his cunt; and there’s something a little mean about it, something savagely primal wanting the mated alpha of the omega skewered on his cock to watch Aziraphale make him scream and cry and beg for his cock, his knot, his, his, his, to watch how Morningstar’s eyes would inevitably darken and perhaps how his upper lip would curl back to reveal those sharp canines—

But there are some other elements at play as well, elements he’ll no doubt examine later relating to the invigorating if not slightly unnerving attraction Aziraphale experienced towards the other alpha informing his desire to have Morningstar’s eyes on him, on them.

“Very well,” he murmurs, stroking Crowley’s hair as he kisses his tearstained cheeks, licking the salt of them ardently, “I’ll knot this slutty cunt of yours, love— fuck, you’re a dream, Crowley,” the omega’s desperate ‘thank yous’ combined with the persuading tide of his cunt make it hard to concentrate on anything but knot, knot, knot, knot, “relax, dear thing— don’t want to tear you, it’s—” he pauses, biting his lip. “It’s been quite some time,” he confesses, but he doesn’t tack on the addendum ringing in his head— and I’m afraid of hurting you, and it’s almost as if Crowley can read his fears. He cups Aziraphale’s face between his trembling hands and kisses him gently, soothingly, his purr a balm to the alpha’s anxiety, and all at once the vaguely persistent worry of being too big, of not being able to fit and of harming the deceptively fragile omega in his arms disappears as Crowley slams his pelvis towards Aziraphale’s, impaling himself perhaps halfway with his knot and wailing as he does, his keening ricocheting off the walls and encouraging Aziraphale’s instincts to at last take over. He presses his fingers into the hips now mottled with the reddened testimony of his greedy hands and pulls Crowley onto his knot the rest of the way, his own eyes tipping back into darkness as a ravening growl escapes his throat and Crowley, now crying between huge, heaving swallows of air, tucks his head into Aziraphale’s shoulder and rocks back and forth as much as he can, locked in place on Aziraphale’s cock but fucking his knot marginally as he flexes and constricts around him.

He hasn’t knotted an omega for over a decade or maybe almost two, he’s not— oh holy fuck, God, feeling Crowley’s cunt open for him, being hugged and squeezed by that fluttering, plushly contracting velvet; it’s chiseling away at his humanity, exposing the animal within and the intrinsic, flailing fanged thing inside his chest that wants to mount and breed and knot and claim.

The euphoria of a proper knotting has long been lost to Aziraphale, the body high and the blissed out, blank mindedness of it— all he can register is that he’s buried in Crowley as deep as physically possible, he’s completely sunk in him, his knot is entirely engulfed by a blistering tightness that’s on the verge of painful and he’s coming, coming, coming. The sucking, demanding mouth that’s been lavishing his scent glands on either side of his neck is clumsy now, licking mindlessly amidst the sweetest little chant of “alpha, alpha, alpha— thank you, alpha, f-fill me, p-please fill me up, breed me—”

Like any other knot, it occurs in waves, both the pleasure and Aziraphale’s come releasing deeply into Crowley as his rhythmically clenching body begs it to go impossibly deeper. Aziraphale is as drunk as he’s ever been, stoned as he climbs the stairs of Heaven with every mewled whine against his neck and mouth and every hug around his knot. His trousers are ruined and he thinks the cushion below him might be, too; even though the omega is valiantly holding most of his come inside him, its endless torrents inevitably begin to overflow, his own scent mixing beautifully with Crowley’s now which is also a seemingly unending spring, his slick pouring from him as his cunt twitches and sucks Aziraphale’s cock.

“There we go,” Aziraphale’s voice is an odd combination of soothing and feral as he cradles the back of Crowley’s head with one hand and lays his other on his hip, guiding him slowly back and forth as much as his knot will allow, “that’s better, isn’t it, pet? Breeding your lovely cunt as it's meant to be, filling you up until there’s no emptiness inside you.” Crowley’s broken whine and weak nod against him are unbelievably endearing, and Aziraphale kisses his brow, murmuring comfort and praise as best he can through the monumental bliss blessing his body.

He’s unsure how long they’re locked together like that; time takes on a skewed sense of meaning between alpha and omega as they’re knotted together, and if Aziraphale had to guess, he thinks it’s been at least two hours, maybe. Two hours of a nearly celestial pleasure so elevated he fails at attempting to categorize it, two hours of Crowley slumped on top of him yet hardly weighing a thing, his body a comfort to hold, two hours of kisses ranging from lazy to brutal until their mouths and jaws are sore with them. Two hours of an indefinable ecstasy and a warm, thudding heartbeat enveloping his cock, milking him with every thump, thump, thump as Crowley’s mewling purrs send shivers up Aziraphale’s spine.

Eventually, though, Aziraphale feels himself start to slip from Crowley’s ruined cunt, the slick slide of his spent cock oversensitive and just a note below uncomfortable followed by a little gush of come. Crowley’s anguished whimper as his greedy body reluctantly releases Aziraphale pulverizes the alpha’s heart, and he gathers him even closer, trying to make up for his absence inside the omega with kisses to his brow, cheeks and hair while he rubs his back with clumsy hands. The air shimmers around them, Aziraphale vaguely notes as he blinks through the rhapsodic haze, trailing afterimages linger like they would if he was drugged or had just woken from a sleep so deep reality can’t quite distinguish itself from a dream just yet.

“Angel,” Crowley starts first, his words slipping through the slowly fading, ecstatic vapor, and though his tone is exhausted, it’s still so sweet, and Aziraphale has always had a sweet tooth, he’s always had a weakness for delicacies like the one he just indulged in and already wants more of, “w-would y’like to do this again? Or anything else— just, y’know, w-wondering if you want—”

Aziraphale can’t bear being rude, but he simply cannot handle the glimmer of insecurity overtaking the otherwise blissed out omega on his lap, and he gently interrupts him with a kiss, his hands sliding back into now wildly tangled, haphazard waves and taking care to avoid the knots that have formed as he whispers against kiss bruised lips, “I should be delighted to see you again in any capacity, my wonderfully slutty beauty,” he deftly sidesteps his desire to beg to do so, “if you would be amenable to that, of course.”

He doesn’t go on to say that he already feels Crowley’s heartbeat matching up with his own while they lazily break apart, as Crowley drops to his knees, takes Aziraphale in his mouth and gently sucks him clean, his eyes still blazing even if they’re misty with the glassy glow of satiation, his smudged makeup having left even more dark tracks down his apple red cheeks that glitter in the light. His lingerie is in disarray as well, the straps warped and pulled so much their former elasticity is the thing of the past, exposing his pierced, bite swollen nipples and the blooming trails and half moons of cerise all over him Aziraphale has left behind with his teeth. He’s wrecked, now, he looks a total mess, he looks every bit the debauched, needy fucktoy and ravaged slut.

He’s the most beautiful thing Aziraphale has ever seen.

“Hmmm,” Crowley hums against Aziraphale’s thigh once he’s licked his cock thoroughly and to the point of Aziraphale’s thighs twitching, pulling the alpha from his reverie of soul deep admiration cloaked in afterglow as the omega crawls back up onto his lap. He fingers the silver cross round his neck before going on in an adopted posh accent no doubt mocking Aziraphale’s, “yes, I think perhaps I might be amenable to that, Mr Fell.”

“You’re a cheeky little thing, aren’t you,” Aziraphale murmurs, smiling like a bloody idiot, completely and totally enamored, giddy even as Crowley smiles back at him, his lips still shining with come and slick.

Aziraphale is in so much trouble.

“You’ve no idea,” it’s whispered against Aziraphale’s mouth before his lower lip is nipped lightly, and he can feel Crowley’s smile now, playful and wicked, perhaps even slightly bratty, “but I expect you’ll find out if you’re amenable.” Before Aziraphale can kiss him back properly, Crowley leans back and away from him, teasing and tantalizing and a terror and everything Aziraphale wants, everything he’s come to adore in a few short hours.

As they both stand and adjust their clothing (Crowley teeters off to the side of the room, legs still shaky Aziraphale notes with delight, and wraps himself in a hooded black jumper that hangs off him like a dress, hitting just above his knee and smelling of smoked caramel), Aziraphale is grateful for both the dark fabric of his trousers somewhat camouflaging the stains of their combined pleasure and the dim light he’ll need to meander through on his way out; he should have worn a coat.

“Here,” Crowley whispers, turning back towards him and holding out his mobile with the screen for adding a new contact pulled up, “put your number in for me?”

His pretty voice still shakes, so much so that Aziraphale reaches out past the offered phone to pet up along Crowley’s upper arm before cupping his face, smiling as the omega’s eyes close and a delicate trilling purr sets up in the base of his (admittedly slightly marked up) throat.

“Take your time, pet,” he murmurs softly as he takes the mobile, cursing his thumb for not being able to adequately type on its own, and he reaches down to quickly input his number beneath where he sees, heart leaping and spinning, Crowley has input his contact name as ‘angel’, “are you able to relax for the rest of the evening?”

As soon as he finishes, he presses ‘call’, letting his own mobile ring with Crowley’s number so that he can save it later, and then returns both hands to Crowley’s face, his thumbs tracing his swollen mouth and smudged makeup, unable to withhold his tenderness. Although reassured he’ll see Crowley again, he can’t help the dread setting itself up in the pit of his stomach at the prospect of shakily walking away from him (his own legs have not yet recovered).

Crowley nods, turning to press a kiss to Aziraphale’s wrist; God but he’s a darling thing, “mhmm, finished for the night; going to go home in a few,” his eyes then slide over Aziraphale, taking in his disheveled appearance and focusing between his legs with a coy smirk, “I made quite a mess of you, didn’t I?”

“And you’re not the least bit sorry, are you,” Aziraphale murmurs, “but neither am I; truthfully I’m delighted to be covered in you, doll. It's rather lucky for me that you gush like a waterfall.”

He earns himself a shaky little whine with that, one that’s as thready as it is erotic, and Aziraphale is tempted to drag Crowley back into that room to bend him over and breed him again if he was at all physically capable of doing so again.

“Want to follow me? I can take you out the back, if you like— more secluded,” Crowley winks, and Aziraphale chuckles, nodding as he follows the omega through the door and the opposite way from where they came, grateful that he doesn’t have to deal with anyone potentially spotting his soaked clothes. This time, Aziraphale gives in and splays his hand over Crowley’s back, letting his fingers caress the cooling skin there as his thumb slots into a home of one of the dimples at the base of Crowley’s spine.

When they come to what’s obviously the back door to the outside of the club, Aziraphale tries not to obviously inhale the sweetly spicy apple blossom fragrance he hopes will cling to his clothes for the foreseeable future as he reaches up to tenderly stroke Crowley’s cheek, tracing his freckles with his thumb.

“Goodnight, my dear,” he whispers, moving to tuck some of Crowley’s hair behind his ear, feeling broken-open tender toward him indeed and barely stopping himself from crushing him into a hug, “this was— you are magnificent.”

“‘Night, angel,” the omega’s eyes close for a moment as he leans into Aziraphale’s touch, “you’re bloody amazing, and I—” for the first time tonight, Crowley looks shy when his eyes open, and it is hopelessly dear, “’m glad you came by, Aziraphale.”

Oh, his name on that clever, talented tongue, it sparkles, it tickles the butterflies zooming around in Aziraphale’s stomach as he replies, “as am I, Crowley. We’ll speak soon, lovely.”

He wonders how long he’ll be able to keep from reaching out to the omega as he reluctantly steps outside after Crowley leans down to kiss him, his mouth featherlight and warm, knowing that it will not be long at all.

“I trust you had a pleasant evening, Mr Fell?” a swath of gauzy silk from Aziraphale’s left slips around him after he walks out into the night.

Lucius Morningstar is standing just off to the left side of the exit, smoking a cigarette and looking entirely too smug for an alpha whose omega just got fucked into oblivion by another alpha, or maybe just the right amount of smug considering, Aziraphale supposes. His dark, perceptive eyes rove over Aziraphale from head to toe quickly, and his smirk grows as he unabashedly, distinctively inhales. His exhale rumbles gently as he nakedly savors and enjoys the smells of his mate both innate and carnal that cling to Aziraphale quite obviously at the moment, and it’s all done with such a lack of concealment or disguise that Aziraphale feels his still heated cheeks burn even more. Morningstar no longer wears his jacket, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing off more ink scrawled over pale skin and what look to be several scars nestled beneath the tattoos. Even as he leans against the wall, one leg bent at the knee and foot flat against the brick, he cuts a formidable figure.

“It was…incandescent,” Aziraphale answers truthfully as he walks over to stand in front of the alpha; no reason to start lying now, he supposes, because he’s in fucking deep, and it’s only the beginning.

“Mhmm,” Morningstar hums as he takes a drag of his cigarette, politely turning his head as to not blow smoke in Aziraphale’s face, who really hadn’t expected the devil to be so courteous, “yes, they are.”

It makes Aziraphale’s heart stutter, both hearing and seeing how Morningstar speaks about his mate, so obviously doting and very much adoring. It heals something broken inside him, something damaged and vulnerable to witness such a powerful alpha so clearly love and respect their omega. It’s a far, far cry from so many that Aziraphale knew years ago in similar positions, either personally or by proxy; he’d held the pieces of shattered omegas ripped apart by alphas like Morningstar, men above the law with multifaceted strength and unchecked power.

He half expects some poorly veiled threat of a platitude in the area of “if you hurt him, I’ll rip you limb from limb” or something or other, but it doesn’t come, it doesn’t need to. Aziraphale already knows that if he would harm Crowley in any way (which he of course never would) that Morningstar would react swiftly, and he doesn’t think he’d survive that encounter. Besides, it was already implied, earlier this evening, that he holds some sort of trust in Aziraphale, that if he didn’t he would not have been welcomed through that doorway.

Aziraphale murmurs softly, then, phrasing his words pointedly, “you’re both very lucky,” because he means it. It is impossible not to be at least a little or extremely envious of Lucius Morningstar when it comes to the omega that is so clearly his, alpha inclinations aside, but Aziraphale has seen enough suffering and abuse in his life to deeply revere and appreciate relationships built on equality, trust, and love, and it costs him nothing to share his approval.

The other alpha almost hides the surprise on his face, and Aziraphale wonders if Morningstar is simply not in possession of an adequate poker face (extremely doubtful, considering his…profession, if one can call it that), if his guard is down because it’s late and perhaps he’s tired (also unlikely for the reasons previously noted) or if Aziraphale himself is the reason (interesting, if true. Intriguing, even).

“I must once again thank you for your generosity, Mr Morningstar,” Aziraphale holds out his hand, curious to see if it’ll be taken and pleased when his curiosity is satisfied, the grip folding around his own strong but not at all obnoxious, “it’s been a genuine pleasure, meeting you.” He slides his thumb along the back of Morningstar’s hand, just barely suppressing a grin of delight when the alpha’s jaw sets just enough that Aziraphale can see its sharp line tense. Lovely.

“Likewise, Mr Fell,” Morningstar replies lowly, and Aziraphale wonders, then, just how old the other alpha is as it hits him that he actually appears to be quite young out here in the misty lamplight with some of his armor peeled back, “perhaps we’ll be seeing you in the future.”

It’s an enthralling dichotomy: the subtle yet unmistakable growl cloaking Morningstar’s words, a faint menace no doubt inspired by their shared, infallible biology that’s accompanied by the lack of remotely anything in those panoramic eyes that suggests Morningstar wishes Aziraphale ill. Instead, there’s a clearing within his gaze, welcoming and open.

“Yes,” Aziraphale has apparently latched back onto his hedonistic ways as he lets his eyes drop down to the parted mouth that looks as soft as the lock of hair he’d toyed with earlier, “I think perhaps you will.”

Their handshake breaks, and Aziraphale holds his breath as Morningstar reaches out towards his chest, takes the cross hanging from the chain round Aziraphale’s neck and just holds it between a crooked index finger and thumb, delicately stroking along its contours and tracing its shape with his nail. His thumb is so large the charm completely and comically disappears under its touch, and Morningstar then whispers, deftly flipping Aziraphale’s advantage he’d secured by calling him by his first name earlier and pulling ahead in their little dance, flirtation, or whatever it is that has Aziraphale’s perpetually racing heart somersaulting as he releases the cross:

“Get home safe, angel.”