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Crowley has been staring at the pale blue bow on the top of Aziraphale’s head for a good while now – maybe half an hour already. Aziraphale, either completely oblivious or deliberately ignoring his staring, has been watching and enjoying the band playing on the stage, a lively jazz quartet. They’re pretty good, Crowley has to admit.
In the five thousand, nine hundred and fifty years they’ve known each other, Aziraphale has very rarely made an effort in a different direction from his male presenting physical vessel. It’s always been Crowley. Fluid enough for both of them, the demon has switched from a body the humans would recognize as biologically male to what they’d call female, with a few stops on everything in between. He doesn’t feel exclusively male or female – not in the way most mortals clings to these labels. It’s easier to present as male, he’s figured that out quickly enough. But he doesn’t mind it the other way around either. Maybe, more importantly, he enjoys the act of changing in itself. Trying out new things, see what they feel like. Experiment a little.
At the moment, he’s a bit ahead of the times, the only long-haired man in this smoky New York club. The year is 1958. Crowley looks good, if he may say so himself – he takes pride in his appearance. Especially when he’s offered to take an angel out for a drink to ease his nerves. He’s wearing what he judges to be a pretty sweet suit, a charcoal grey shirt and a black tie. His pocket square is a bright orange-red, matching his hair, brushed back and tied in a low ponytail.
Aziraphale, despite his resistance to change, is a complete natural at this – in Crowley’s opinion, at least. The angel has rarely walked this earth in a female form, but he’s been nearly perfect every time. He doesn’t ever really know what’s in style, but that aside, his mannerism translates seamlessly. Aziraphale – graceful and dignified, in any shape or form. Crowley has been studying him all night. He’s wisely chosen – or, more likely, he’s been recommended – a low heel and a baby blue dress, with a big petticoat and standard stockings underneath. The petticoat has been a bit of a nightmare to get into a taxi, but nobody understands making a sacrifice in the name of fashion like Crowley does. Granted, Crowley tries to stand out while Aziraphale tries to blend in, but both strategies require some effort. Aziraphale’s blonde-white hair is long and curly, gathered in a pretty updo on the back of his head. He completed his look with a tan coat and a blue headband with a bow on top.
Like a present, Crowley thinks, idly wondering whether Aziraphale will let him unwrap him later that night.
They don’t speak of it – this very different kind of arrangement going on between them – but it’s been a while now. Almost as long as the original arrangement. Whenever the chance arises, they’ll be all over each other. It’s always brief, away from prying eyes, unbearably tender, with so much left unsaid. Crowley doesn’t strictly need to say anything out loud, or hear it – but he would enjoy the freedom to do just so. To put into words the feelings they have for each other.
They can’t. And he accepts it, biding his time. Until there exists a universe where the two of them can love openly and with no fear. He’s an optimist; he has faith that day will come. In the meantime, this is fine – he can spend a thousand lifetimes chasing after his angel, sating his hunger when Aziraphale lets him catch up to him. When a flutter of pale lashes gives him permission to feast on his soft body, to lose himself in the smell of Aziraphale’s skin, to spend a night sharing a bed, in one another’s arms. There is absolutely nothing, in Heaven, Hell or Earth, like having sex with Aziraphale, and then holding each other, without ever falling asleep, often without saying a word for hours on end, wandering hands and eyes, making sure to commit every single detail to memory, to sustain them until the next occasion arises.
It’s never enough, it can’t be – but the brief moments of utter bliss make everything worth it.
“How did you get your hair to do that, anyway?” Crowley inquires, when the music subsides and the band steps off the stage, leaving the audience to their drinks and chatters.
“Hm?” Aziraphale asks, turning back towards the demon. “What about my hair?” He brings a hand up to check the curls on his forehead.
“No, it’s perfect.” Crowley swirls the drink in his glass as he looks at him. “That’s my point.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale smiles at the compliment. “I went to a hairdresser, of course. I had the concierge of my hotel recommend me one, there are just so many in this city.”
“Hm.” Crowley absent-mindedly tucks a stray strand of ginger hair behind his ear. “I’ve never been to one.”
“Oh?” Aziraphale looks at him, wide-eyed, surely remembering all the hairstyles Crowley has miracled for himself through the years. “Really? How come?”
Crowley shrugs. “I don’t like to be touched by people.”
“I see,” Aziraphale gives him a coy smile that Crowley has learned to recognize for the little wicked thing it is. “I did not get that impression at all.”
“Don’t be daft on purpose now.” Crowley fires back with little conviction – they both know he’s weak for the naughty side of Aziraphale’s personality. “You’re not people.”
“I suppose I’m not.” Aziraphale takes a sip of his drink, and the way he stares at Crowley warns the demon an idea is forming in his mind. If Crowley worries a bit, it’s perfectly normal. He has figured out, at this point, that he seems to be physically incapable of saying no to Aziraphale. “Well, would you like to try?”
“Try what?” Crowley asks, an anxious edge to his voice.
“What it’s like. To have someone else help with your hair.”
Crowley scoffs. “I just told you I don’t like being touched by people.” He tilts his drink towards Aziraphale. “Not even if it’s your favourite hairdresser.”
“That’s not what I was about to suggest.” Aziraphale leans in closer over the small table. “I could do it for you, if you like.”
Crowley considers it for a moment. “What exactly would that entail?”
“Well,” Aziraphale purses his lips in thought. “Washing it, for a start. It’s really quite pleasant.”
Crowley turns the thought over in his mind. How would that work, anyway? Is Aziraphale going to follow him in the shower? Into a tub? Crowley would have to undress to some degree, wouldn’t he?
Well. Only one way to find out.
“Fine.” He tries to make it sound like he’s doing Aziraphale a favour.
He sees the glint in the angel’s eyes as he takes another sip of his drink and knows very well he has not succeeded.
His shoulders slump when he sees Aziraphale getting a stool and moving it in front of the sink.
The angel, on the other hand, beams at him happily, heels clicking on the floor as he fusses around the large pink bathroom of his hotel room. He arranges a series of hair products next to the sink, then carefully places two towels on the edge, making it softer for Crowley’s neck. A light rain has started pattering on the windows.
Some of the demon’s disappointment lifts off when Aziraphale steps close and begins unbuttoning his jacket. Since they’ve decided he’ll let Aziraphale take care of him for a change, he doesn’t really do much beside smiling at him, idly wondering when he’ll get to kiss those soft lips. It’s been too long – but then, it’s always been too long.
Aziraphale leaves his jacket on the back of a chair, along with his tie, soon followed by his shirt and undershirt. By the time Crowley’s naked from the waist up, he’s sure he’s staring at Aziraphale with visible hunger in his eyes. The angel acts as if he doesn’t notice.
“Please sit down.” He gestures towards the stool. “Back to the sink.” He adds, when Crowley sits sideways. “Now… lean your head back and try to relax. You can let me know if you’re uncomfortable.”
Crowley does as he’s told, eyes rolling back with his head when Aziraphale positions himself between his open knees, soft breasts almost pressing into the demon’s face. Yeah, right. Relax. Aziraphale’s cologne is overpowering this up close – he makes a mental note to tell Aziraphale, later, that human women wear perfume, not cologne.
After removing his hair tie, Aziraphale starts pouring water all over his head, getting his hair very wet. Then, he squirts a bit of shampoo – Crowley smells sandalwood – in the palm of his hands. He massages it slowly into Crowley’s hair, making it lather. He rubs the soft pads of his fingers into the demon’s scalp, and Crowley feels his body melt under the touch. He tries very hard not to make any noises. His traitorous lips let out a small whine anyway.
“Too hot?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley can’t believe he’s oblivious to what he’s doing. Actually, he really doesn’t believe him. He has to know. He brings a hand to stroke Aziraphale’s thigh, under the several layers of his clothing.
“Hmm. Yeah.” He replies in a low growl.
Aziraphale gives his hair a small but sharp tug, and this time around the sound that escapes Crowley’s mouth is unmistakable – and embarrassing. “Behave now. You’ll regret it later if I miss a spot.”
“Right…” Crowley mutters, keeping his hand right where it is.
Aziraphale keeps going, firm but never aggressive, brushing his fingers through Crowley’s long locks, caressing the hair away from his forehead, rubbing small circles behind his ears, behind his head, at the base of his skull.
“You have such lovely hair. You always did. Even when you did questionable things to it.”
Crowley would protest, but Aziraphale has got closer, and he’d probably get a mouthful of fabric if he spoke now. Not that he minds the fullness of the angel’s chest against his face – or the fullness of any part of his body against him, ever – but all the damn layers are annoying. Besides, he’s gone boneless against the stool and the sink, barely believing he’s never thought of asking Aziraphale to do this before. It feels so good.
Aziraphale reaches out and gets some other bottle, pouring out a thick, pearly liquid. It has a smell Crowley can’t quite place – mint, sage? Perfectly pleasant, but also something that wouldn’t be out of place in a kitchen. Leave it to Aziraphale to get hair products that remind him of food.
The angel applies it to his hair, roots to tips, with a look of concentration on his face that Crowley finds adorable. Then, Aziraphale gathers the demon’s hair into a low, loose bun, putting in a few pins to keep it in place.
“That will do.” He takes a step back, wiping his hands on a towel. “Now we should wait… about ten minutes.”
Crowley tugs at the edge of his dress, peering up at him. “Keep me company?” He bites his lower lip and smiles, giving Aziraphale an eyebrow raise he hopes the angel will find appealing. He won’t push, of course – but Aziraphale has often chided him for tempting him, in a way that makes it clear to Crowley that he really doesn’t mind at all.
One time in Portugal in 1462 comes to mind – Aziraphale crowding him against a wall until Crowley reached out to cup his face in his hands. Aziraphale kissed him with abandon, telling him – in between heated kisses – he couldn’t excuse such fiendishness. He later had Crowley fuck him against the big windows from which only the ocean could be seen for miles and miles. It would have worked out well enough if Aziraphale hadn’t gripped the curtains so hard he’d ended up pulling them off the wall and bonked Crowley’s head with the rod. Later, as he healed the bruise with a concerned expression on his face, he’d muttered something about Crowley making him forget himself, more or less blaming him for the whole incident. Crowley elected to take it as a compliment.
“Of course, but.” Aziraphale turns around, nodding towards his zipper. “You’ll ruin my dress if you can’t keep your hands to yourself.”
“Right, right.” Crowley zips down the dress all too eagerly, opening it up like he’s wanted to do from the very first moment they saw each other. “Got to be careful.”
Aziraphale gracefully steps out of the dress, not so gracefully abandons it on the edge of the tub behind him. Crowley realizes in that moment that, no matter the moment in human history, Aziraphale is always kept from him by a series of layers. He stares at the delicate pink petticoat, the white lacy bra, the stockings, the girdle barely visible underneath the petticoat, and surely he’s also wearing something else underneath the girdle. Oh, how Crowley misses the simplicity of togas. Too bad he and Aziraphale weren’t quite that intimate back then.
The angel notices his appraising stare. “Too difficult for you?”
“You know, angel…” He starts pulling down the petticoat, careful not to tear anything apart. “Something I’ve found out about myself in the last, oh, millennium or so.” He grins up at him. “I like a challenge.”
“Who would have thought.” Aziraphale smiles at him as the petticoat slides off his legs. Crowley is quite happy to see it get tossed to the side. Hellish things, really – he could claim he invented them. “I have to point out, though… not everything has to come off.”
Crowley’s brain short circuits for a minute as he runs his fingers over the clips on Aziraphale’s plump thighs that keep the stockings in place. He gives a weak nod, then hooks his finger under one of the thin white strips of fabric. He tugs, inviting him to come closer.
Aziraphale finally straddles him. He kisses the side of Crowley’s wet neck, coming up to his ear. “We only have a few minutes left before I have to wash your hair. You can go faster.”
Considering that most of the time Crowley passes with Aziraphale is spent restraining himself, getting the go-ahead from his angel sends his head spinning. He pops all the clips holding up the stockings, hikes up the girdle on Aziraphale’s hips. He presses a hand between Aziraphale’s legs, over his underwear – finding him wet and hot already, even through the fabric.
“It’s been a while…” Aziraphale blushes.
Crowley nods – sure, yes, it’s been a while. A while since they’ve done this, a long while since Aziraphale had something different from his usual body. His foggy brain doesn’t really understand why that’s relevant, but he’ll happily agree with anything the angel says right now.
He pushes Aziraphale’s underwear to the side, his fingers easily finding their way into the slick heat underneath. So warm, so soft. “Fuck, angel…”
Aziraphale’s breath is speeding up, his hips rolling against his hand. “Yes… let’s.”
Crowley swallows and pulls his hand back, opening his pants and pushing everything out of the way just enough. Aziraphale can be impatient, so he wastes no time pulling the angel closer and onto him, sinking into his body so simply. Like he’s meant to be there and nowhere else.
“Oh…” Aziraphale grips his shoulders, heels hitting the ground as he trashes his legs to get more friction. His stockings slide down and pool around his ankles. “Oh, Crowley…”
“Yes,” he grips the angel’s ass, pulsing inside him. “I know. I know.”
They forget about everything else for a precious few minutes – the world outside, their jobs, humanity at large. There’s only them, this, the heat between their bodies, the tension building up and up and up with each movement.
Crowley snakes a hand behind Aziraphale’s neck, pulling him down into a starved, sloppy kiss, losing himself in his taste, his smell, the feeling of his body all over and around him. Aziraphale’s moans echo in the bathroom, arousing Crowley even more – if that’s possible, making him move faster, harder, and eliciting more sounds from his angel in return. Their passion feeds itself until Crowley grabs Aziraphale at the waist, pulling him down with force, in the way he knows his angel likes, and at last Aziraphale clenches hard around him, throwing his head back and abandoning a long, high sound into the air.
Crowley would love to say that he lasts a lot longer. That he makes his angel come again and again – but he doesn’t. He’s overwhelmed, it’s too much, it’s too fast. It’ll feed his fantasies for decades to come. His orgasm makes him black out for a second, gripping Aziraphale hard as he lets out a growl between gritted teeth, spilling inside him.
It takes a while for them to catch their breaths. As always, Crowley miracles them clean, taking care of leaving his own hair untouched. He wouldn’t want to miss Aziraphale washing it for anything in the world.
And Aziraphale, as soon as he can stand, dedicates himself to the task, still in his underwear. Gently, carefully. Tenderly. Crowley peers up at him through his yellow eyes and can’t help but wonder if those soft, loving hands are threading blessings or promises into his hair as they go. The water seems to run for far longer than necessary. When he’s done, Aziraphale places a kiss on his left temple, then wraps a towel around his hair.
“I’m afraid my time is up.” He bumps their foreheads together, closing his eyes and breathing in. “My blessing has to happen in an hour and I have to get dressed and cross the city.”
Crowley hums, but gathers the angel’s damp hands in his, holds them tight for a moment before letting them go. “You could have got a hotel closer to your target.”
“No,” Aziraphale replies.
“Why not?”
The angel presses a soft kiss to his lips, whispering so quietly Crowley almost can’t hear. “This one was closer to where I had a good chance of running into you.”
That’s dangerous ground, and Crowley looks at him wide-eyed, something twisting in his chest. One day, he reminds himself. One day they’ll be free. One day they’ll love each other out in the open.
He starts clipping the suspenders back onto Aziraphale’s stockings, meticulous and cautious – he knows first-hand how pesky these things are, how easily they break.
“Come on,” he leaves a quiet kiss on Aziraphale’s cheek, tugging on a stray blonde curl on his forehead as he does. It springs back up as soon as he lets it go. “Get the dress. Let me zip you up.”