Chapter Text
Crowley isn’t sure what he expects to find three days after the end of the world, but it isn’t Aziraphale watching gay ‘70s pornography in his dusty, book-filled flat. It certainly isn’t Aziraphale taking notes while he watches said pornography, a thoughtful little frown on his face.
“Oh, Crowley, there you are,” Aziraphale says fondly, still focused on the screen of his geriatric telly. Crowley can’t believe he knows how to work the almost-as-ancient VHS player, and he has even less of an idea where Aziraphale could have gotten the pile of old porno tapes littering the coffee table between the sofa and the screen. The strains of the ubiquitous chicka-bow-wow soundtrack fill the room on high volume, reminding Crowley of his own adventures in that misspent decade.
“What in the—ah—shall I come back later, then?” Crowley nearly drops the bottle of wine he’s holding as he slinks backwards towards the door.
“No, no, please come in. I’m just finishing up this one. Looks as though they are almost done, at least.”
“Oh,” Crowley croaks.
“Take a seat, my dear boy.”
Crowley perches himself awkwardly on the arm of the sofa, feeling faint. He doesn’t know where to look, whether at the screen, where two very hairy, muscular men are fucking, or at Aziraphale, who is concentrating with a single-minded focus, but who doesn’t appear to be otherwise moved. Unfortunately for Crowley, that isn’t the case. In spite of the cheesy music, the men are moaning and groaning and making a mess of each other, and Aziraphale is studying said men like they’re an undiscovered Renaissance painting, and it’s altogether too incongruous and arousing to take. Crowley crosses his legs, hoping Aziraphale won’t notice his straining erection.
“Are you sure I shouldn’t . . . you don’t want to be . . .” He can barely make himself heard over the indecent cacophony emitting from the telly.
Onscreen, the top pulls out and shoots his load all over the bottom’s thick, meaty arse. The bottom comes a few seconds later, stroking himself through his orgasm, and then the two men collapse into each other’s arms, kissing with far more tenderness than might seem necessary.
“Ah. All right. That’s done, then.” Aziraphale gets up and shuts off the VHS tape, setting it to rewind. The placket of his trousers is noticeably flat, and not for the first time (or the millionth, if he’s being honest) Crowley tries to imagine what’s on the other side. A vulva? Nothing? If Aziraphale does have a cock, Crowley’s never seen any evidence of one.
Once the tape is rewound, Aziraphale ejects it and places it carefully on the left-hand side of the table. “These are the ones I’ve already watched.”
There are at least twenty titles ranging from the subtly named “Hard Cocks Volume 4” to classics like “Debbie Does Dallas.” Crowley is aware that his mouth is hanging open, but he is quite literally speechless.
When Aziraphale looks up, his serene expression grows a bit sheepish. “I imagine you’re probably wondering what I’m doing with these. This all must look rather strange.”
“Ngk. Yeah. You could say that.” Crowley is almost painfully hard, aware it would be visible if only Aziraphale looked, but he is focused only on Crowley’s face.
Aziraphale gives him a tentative smile, “Well, I suppose you could say I’m doing research.”
“Research?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Aziraphale goes back to his sofa and sits primly on the edge, folding his hands over his crossed knees. “I’ve decided I want to make an effort. Sexually speaking.”
Crowley coughs. “Ah. Okay.”
“You must think me awfully prudish. I’m not, you know. I just have never . . . felt free enough to do anything about it before. Gabriel used to drop in at the most inconvenient times, and one never knew whether the Almighty was watching.” As if unable to help himself, Aziraphale casts his eyes towards Heaven.
“Yeah. I guess that would be a bit . . . a bit of a downer.” Crowley swallows deeply. “And so you’re researching for . . .?”
“I’m coming to that. Of course I know what the parts are, theoretically speaking, but I’ve never manifested any sexual organs myself. I want to know my options, as it were. All of the minor details I wouldn’t be able to imagine. And then to see all of the ways they might be put to best use. It’s science.”
“You’re watching porn for science.”
“Yes, well, these came in as a donation. I think they were meant for that shop round the corner.”
“Ah. Adam and Eve?” Crowley snorts. The day the place opened he was sure Aziraphale was going to have an apoplectic fit.
“Please, don’t remind me of the name.” Aziraphale shudders and rolls his eyes. “In any case, they have been interesting. I’ve made a lot of notes, and I think I’ve got a general idea of what I might like.”
“Oh, have you?” Though he’s never expressed a sexual interest in Crowley (or anyone else), Crowley doesn’t think he’s one for women. In fact, he’s sure that Aziraphale has carefully cultivated his persona to seem nonthreatening and to blend in with the homosexual enclave in SoHo, whom he loves and supports. Whether or not he will choose to manifest a penis or not, Crowley is less sure. Frankly, he doesn’t care either way. Though he prefers a penis for his own form, he’s also lived with a vulva. They both have their charms, and in his own experimental phases—in Rome, France, and then swinging London—humans of all different body types, genders, and sexualities have brought him pleasure. Of course none of his former partners could truly give Crowley what he wanted, because what he wants is a bright-haired angel with well-manicured hands, who is currently staring up at him excitedly because he's spent the last few who knows how many hours watching pornography. And taking notes.
The more important point is this: Crowley isn’t a fool (at least not entirely). He knows there is something between them, something that goes beyond friendship. For him, that something is a bittersweet, all-consuming love tinged with lust tinged with the fierce desire to protect Aziraphale from all harm for eternity. For Aziraphale, well, he’s not quite sure. It’s what he’s been wanting to find out, now that they’re free.
“Yes. But I need to do a bit more research to reach a more definite conclusion. Some of these films are really rather difficult to watch.” Aziraphale wrinkles his nose. “The acting is terrible. And the plot lines? Someone coming over to repair your refrigerator and you don’t have anything to pay them with except sex? It strains credulity. And this one woman took her top off because it was too hot outside, but she didn’t have anything on underneath!”
Crowley barks out a laugh. “Yeah, I don’t think pornos are known for their realistic exploration of the human condition.”
“Unfortunately not.”
“Might I make a suggestion?”
“Please.” Aziraphale’s eyes warm sweetly, and he’s a bit pinker in the face than Crowley remembers. Suddenly, Crowley has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from suggesting what he wants to suggest. Don’t faff about with these old dirty movies, angel, for Someone’s sake. Faff about with me. “Well?” Aziraphale asks.
“You could use the internet. Maybe try some, ahh, amateur films. They tend to be a bit more realistic than the ones you’ve been ahh . . . researching.” He knows his own face is redder than Satan’s arse. He can hardly believe this entire ridiculous situation.
Aziraphale pouts. “Oh, you mean use a computer. I don’t have one that works. And the last time I went to the library they asked me to leave and never come back. Apparently, you’re not supposed to borrow them like you do the books, but how was I to know?”
“You can’t watch this stuff at the library, angel.” Crowley can just imagine it now, having to spring Aziraphale out of jail for public indecency. “Look. I’ll bring you my laptop tomorrow.”
“Oh, will you!” Aziraphale claps his hands, his expression joyous. “That’s most kind of you, my dear, most kind. And will you help me turn on the internet? And find these amateurs you’re talking about? Where do they live, exactly?”
“They don’t—” Crowley lets out a defeated sigh. “Yes, I’ll help you.”
“My dear! I could just kiss you!” And Aziraphale does, a sweet, brief press of lips to his cheek. It’s not the kind of kiss Crowley wants from him, but even so the skin on his face tingles, and he resists the urge to touch the place with the tips of his fingers.
“Shall we open the wine you brought? Looks lovely. Come on over and sit by me, and I’ll get the glasses.”
By the time they’ve finished the bottle and another besides, Crowley feels as though he’s being slowly strangled by pure lust. He barely makes it back to his flat before he’s tearing off his trousers and flinging himself on his bed, taking his hard prick in hand. With only a few brutal, efficient strokes he climaxes, a cry on his lips that sounds an awful lot like Aziraphale’s name.
Tomorrow should be very interesting indeed.