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Crowley had tempted a priest in the 1840s. It hadn't been an assignment; the man had such an aura of godliness around him that Crowley had just wanted to break him. Crowley had put on his best female form and widow's weeds; a vulnerable woman in need of comfort. The priest had writhed above her and called her beautiful. It was so close to what Crowley wanted that she couldn't stop herself from crying when he finally pulled her off her knees and up onto his prick. She could feel his goodness surrounding her and somehow knew that this transgression would not permanently mar this man, the Lust she tried to generate came back to her as a charity for a soul in need. As she came, she almost bit through her lip with the force of not calling out Aziraphale's name. She had fled as fast as she was able.
The image of his ecstasy followed Crowley for years. The gold of his hair and the fresh bitten pink of his lips. Crowley couldn't help seeing him when he looked at Aziraphale. He felt terrible about it, but he was a demon. It was in his nature to sully good things.
Sometimes, occasionally, but only sporadically, after a night of takeaways, Divine company, and more wine than was humanly possible, Crowley would lie on his bed and let himself imagine Aziraphale inviting him to stay the night. He'd take himself in hand and, drunk on lust, shame, and a little bit of the spicy cologne Aziraphale had taken to wearing, he’d pull, thrust, and grind himself to completion with the image of angelic lips pursing around the lip of a glass and golden curls bouncing in his mind.
He’d avoid Aziraphale for weeks after. Lurking around Soho, watching clueless humans perk up as they passed the bookshop. The light fog of goodwill Aziraphale generated reaching its tendrils through the street and touching those who encountered it. Like he’d never, like he wouldn’t, Oh Angel, what’s a demon have to do to get a little of your ‘holiness’?
The last eleven years watching over not-the-antichrist were the sweetest torture. Close enough to touch, but unable to cross the last few inches. Fear of a Fall stayed his hand. No matter what he said about it, Hell was no place for Aziraphale.
When the end of the world had come and gone and the greatest surprise was Aziraphale wanting to spend all of Time with him, Crowley had gone out of his way to recreate the episode with the priest.
The image of Aziraphale's white-blond curls dark and matted with sweat, his lips red and shiny with saliva seared the memories of the priest out of Crowley's mind. When Aziraphale called Crowley beautiful, without temptation, without trickery, she felt her heartbeat skip around, this wasn’t charity. When he rolled her beneath him and arranged himself between her thighs, he wouldn't let her look away. "Let me hear you, beloved. Cry for me," Aziraphale was ruthless in chasing their pleasure.
Crowley's moans trembled in the stuffy air of the bedroom. The heavy drapes around the bed held in the moist heat of their coupling, making the slap of flesh loud in their ears, gasps and grunts amplified until Crowley was overcome with the mortal pleasure of it all. Crowley screamed her climax into the stillness. She could feel him filling her up inside. Their sweat mingling and cooling, muscles gently loosening. She shivered and miracled the duvet on top of them, but could not stop staring at the angel. She wanted to remember everything.
"Crowley, darling, it's odd when you don't blink."
"Your eyes are closed; how can you tell?"
"I can feel you looking at me. I can always feel it, dear one, all these years," Aziraphale opened his eyes and yes, Crowley could feel the difference. She felt seen, and cherished. There were no more sins on their side, no more Falling, just worship and love.