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Crowley thinks of Maggie all those years ago, her quiet and gentle tone of voice. ‘You and Mr. Fell don’t ever talk to each other.’
And that really is the crux of it. Defense mechanisms are a hell of a thing. Don’t speak about what’s dangerous. Don’t acknowledge what’s difficult. Don’t feel what’s desperate.
Even now, with the status quo of their millennia's long relationship disrupted, it’s easier for him to cross certain bridges and broach certain topics with some liquid courage. Crowley doesn’t know exactly what that says about him. Doesn’t know what it says about him that one of those topics is sex—even now, after they’ve been intimate for over a year.
Physically intimate, that is. Crowley isn’t deluded enough to think they weren’t intimate before sex became involved.
It’s different, though. Different being able to taste and touch. Being allowed what he’s been desperate for since before he understood it, before he even had a name for it.
So when Aziraphale smiles at him, lounging in the bed afterward and indulgently exploring his still sweat-slicked body, Crowley both preens and shudders. The angel seems happy, sated from their lovemaking, pleased with this earthly body holding Crowley’s blackened soul, but for how long? How long until he decides it’s not enough?
How long until Heaven returns for him, and the angel turns his back on their quiet life and little cottage and Crowley’s helpless needy love?
“You’re so very lovely, dearest,” Aziraphale murmurs, voice soft in the darkness of their bedroom. Crowley hums at him in vague acknowledgement, or perhaps dismissal, and Aziraphale lets his caressing hand wander lower. Across Crowley’s flat stomach, circling his bellybutton, then to the prickle of red fuzz leading even farther down.
Crowley sucks in a quick breath when Aziraphale cups his soft cock. It’s a gentle touch, not necessarily suggestive or provocative aside from the inherent fact that, well, it’s his angel touching his prick. He cranes his neck to get a better look at Aziraphale’s face, trying to gauge what the angel wants. They’d had a quickie before dinner, then spent a couple of hours making love after. Crowley is, quite frankly, done for the night.
But if Aziraphale wants more...
“And you have such a lovely cock,” Aziraphale continues,
“Need to let me know what you want,” Crowley tells him, leans over to drop a kiss to his temple. “I’ll use a miracle if you want another round.”
Aziraphale brows raise before he giggles a bit, shaking his head. And he really has no right to look so adorable with a hand still on Crowley’s cock, but alas...
“Oh, no, that’s not—I suppose I was being a bit leading, wasn’t I?” Aziraphale says. Meanwhile, his hand wanders to cup Crowley’s bullocks. Crowley resists rolling his eyes, though it’s a near thing. Aziraphale continues, “I just mean to say that... your corporation is very beautiful.”
Crowley still doesn’t know what he wants, and he’s beginning to squirm. Thinks maybe he’ll get up and have a bath, wash away the sweat and semen the human way just for an excuse to step away. But then Aziraphale runs his hand down Crowley’s thigh and says...
“However you choose to wear it—you are always most beautiful.”
“Aw, shut it,” Crowley mumbles, just for something to say, because that —he suspects he knows where Aziraphale is going with that.
“I remember, in the early days, I saw you as a woman often...”
“Easier to tempt as a woman back in those days,” Crowley attempts to explain, divert. It’s not wholly a lie. Crowley had leaned on womanhood at times—let the humans have their expectations, assume he was a gentle nurturing mother or an innocent demure maiden to make the job easier—but he’d grown his hair and put on women’s clothes because...
Well, it’d been nice.
Aziraphale prattles on, ignoring Crowley’s attempt at deflection. “And I have noticed that, at times, when we begin our intimate interludes together...”
“Intimate interludes?” Crowley interrupts, because really...
Aziraphale ignores him again to finish, “Your nether regions feel quite flat indeed.”
“Nether regions?! ” Crowley squawks. It occurs to him after the words are out of his mouth that he sounds like a scandalized grandmother.
Aziraphale sighs, purses his lips, makes that stuffy exasperated face that Crowley both loves and hates. “Really, Crowley,” the angel huffs. “I’m trying to have a rather serious conversation with you.”
“About my... nether regions.”
“Well, yes,” Aziraphale allows. “I just hate to think you are changing your corporation to come to bed with me. That you might feel you need to do so in order to... to please me or some such.”
The panic clutches him sudden and tight. He begins thinking back over the past several months, the time they’ve spent together in this cottage, and then before, between the bookshop and his flat. He’s been careful, so careful. No unnecessary, unescapable reminders that he’s not the fellow angel Aziraphale asked for. Crowley can’t change his eyes, can’t change what Aziraphale sees when the angel looks at him, into him and to the real him, but he can change everything else...
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, tone earnest and sincere, apparently picking up on something in Crowley’s expression. “I love you, and I want you. And I am quite sure I would enjoy your quim just as much as your cock.”
“Quim?” Crowley mocks. He manages to mask the way his stomach bounces up into his throat then down to his toes. “Really, angel? That’s the word you’re going with?”
Another exasperated sigh before the angel says, “Well, what do you call it?”
“Cunt?” Crowley counters
Aziraphale frowns, shaking his head. “That just seems so vulgar.”
“And quim doesn’t?”
The prissy unimpressed look makes a reappearance on Aziraphale’s face. Meanwhile, Crowley battles with his stupid human corporation, tries to slow the beating of his heart and stop the adrenaline from pumping overtime through his veins. He does not think about cocks or cunts or anything else he may or may not keep below the belt.
“Okay,” Crowley says, then gently extracts himself from Aziraphale’s arms and pushes himself out of bed. “I’m going to shower, and I just might come back with a quim.”
“Oh, wonderful!” Aziraphale exclaims. It’s the same excited tone of voice Crowley is used to hearing when he returns home with tasty treats in hand. And the ridiculousness of that goes a long way toward easing the nerves still clutching at Crowley’s belly.
He returns from the shower fully kitted out—labia and clit and tight, wet little vagina—and Aziraphale is so delighted that Crowley forgets to be upset. Forgets that he’d been tired and hadn’t wanted to have sex again. Lets Aziraphale touch him and finger him to one more climax before batting him away, the both of them laughing as they hold and kiss each other.
But he’s still the same demon, with the same serpentine tendencies. Come the next morning, after he’s miracled his clothes back on, his cunt disappears. His cock does not reappear. Instead, scales settle into place between his legs, small and smooth and glossy black.
It feels natural. That same instinctive rightness in allowing his tongue to fork and flicker out to taste, and his canines to elongate and sharpen, and his eyes to bleed golden out to the edges. A tiny part of his demonic aspect breaking out into the mortal coil, permitted to exist as he truly is...
The truth of him is terrifying. Ugly and dark and burnt.
He does his best to keep that hidden from the angel.
~*~
It comes up again, like most of these things do, when they’re plastered.
A month passes, a month during which Crowley continuously tells himself he has not lied. Lying and withholding information are two different things. He has only withheld information—and unimportant information, at that. What he walks around with in his trousers day-to-day has no bearing on anything. The genitalia he masturbates with doesn’t affect Aziraphale in any way, most especially since he hasn’t done much masturbating recently.
He’s pretty sure he hasn’t masturbated at all since he and Aziraphale started sleeping together. If he has, he doesn’t remember it—the memory jumbled together in the madness of Aziraphale’s return and their rekindled relationship and every sad wank he’s had over six millennia.
So anyway, he has done nothing wrong. Even though they promised each other that in this new beginning of theirs, they were going to be honest with each other. Open and transparent. No reasons to make either of them doubt, nothing that could drive a wedge between them both. No more making the same mistakes over and over and expecting different results...
It had been a disgustingly emotional conversation, tears and snot galore. Crowley does not want to relive it.
He also does not want to relive that nightmare of a morning in the bookshop.
Demons lie, which is all well and good. Crowley still lies. He lies all the time.
Crowley doesn’t want to lie to Aziraphale.
“I may have lied to you,” Crowley blurts out in the midst of Aziraphale’s drunken ramblings on Christmas ornaments. It is mid-August. Crowley has not been listening.
Aziraphale’s mouth snaps shut, his brows pinching together. He leans forward in his armchair, squinting at Crowley, and what bit of sloppiness and slouch the alcohol has induced leaves him wobbly. The ever-present impulse to protect the angel, save him from harm, has Crowley throwing an uncoordinated hand in his direction.
The angel’s eyes flit to Crowley’s outstretched hand, then drag along Crowley’s reclined sprawl across the couch. Finally, he says, “Pardon me?”
“Well, not exactly lied,” Crowley amends, though he’s not entirely sure he believes himself. “Just, withheld the entire truth.”
Aziraphale frowns, the expression of hurt punching Crowley in the stomach. He scrambles to sit up from the couch, to do... something. He’s not sure what. Make Aziraphale happy again, make him stop frowning like that.
Make sure he doesn’t leave again.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale murmurs, confused and pained and still very drunk. Crowley aches.
“Just... let you think what you wanted,” Crowley tries again, then watches in horror as several of the wine bottles around them refill themselves. The hazy look in Aziraphale’s eyes disappears, and the angel sits up in his chair, rearranges himself, back straight and posture proper.
Crowley shakes his head, desperate and terrified. He’s not having this conversation sober.
“No,” he begs, drunkenly gesturing in Aziraphale general direction. “Don’t do that. Please.”
“Crowley, what are you talking about?” Aziraphale presses, more urgent and direct now that he’s sober. Crowley groans and shakes his head, throws himself back down into the couch.
He can’t do this. He needs to do this. He has no idea where his sunglasses have run off to, so he closes his eyes and flings his forearm across his face to hide.
“I don’t walk about with a cunt,” he admits, the words ridiculous but as difficult as ripping out his own feathers. He adds, “Or a cock.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale replies. He sounds incredibly underwhelmed. “So just standard issue then? Until you wish to lay with me?”
“Ngk,” Crowley grunts. He’s not lying. He’s just... not clarifying.
“Mmm,” Aziraphale hums, thoughtful. Then, quiet, “You know that I would never expect...”
“I’m still lying,” Crowley blurts, stomach twisted up in knots. He keeps his eyes closed, arm firmly shielding his face from view. “I mean, it’s standard issue for me. Feels natural. Normal. Didn’t even realize it wasn’t ‘til, oh, I don’t remember... Mesopotamia, I suppose?”
“Crowley, dear, I still don’t understand,” Aziraphale says. He’s starting to sound exasperated. “Do you think you should, perhaps, sober up?”
“Realized around then that humans either had a cock or cunt,” Crowley continues, ignoring Aziraphale’s pointed suggestion. “At least mostly. But none of ‘em had... Scales or no, not a one.”
The silence after that lingers.
And Crowley knows he just gave himself away. He may not have said the c-word—and he doesn’t mean cock, doesn’t mean cunt—but Aziraphale is intelligent. Aziraphale is one of the most intelligent beings Crowley has ever met.
There is no universe in which he doesn’t understand Crowley’s meaning.
Sure enough, after so many seconds have dragged by in utter stillness, Aziraphale quietly asks, “Scales or no? And you say it feels natural to you?”
“Yeah,” Crowley admits, slurred.
Then, Aziraphale asks, “Are you wearing this particular form of your corporation at the moment?”
The angel doesn’t sound shocked, doesn’t sound repulsed. Instead, he sounds rather intrigued. Crowley doesn’t know what to do with that, nor does he know what to do with the sound of fabric rustling as Aziraphale stands, then the drag of wood-on-wood as the coffee table is pulled closer.
“Er, ngk,” Crowley eventually answers, which means, ‘yes, angel, I’ve got scales and a cloaca at the moment.’ He hopes Aziraphale can translate.
“Would you like to sober up?” Aziraphale asks. Gentle, his voice is so gentle. So is his touch, a hand laid tenderly on Crowley’s jean-clad thigh. It still makes Crowley startle, practically levitate and jump up to the ceiling. Maybe he's not drunk enough for this after all...
“No, no,” he tells Aziraphale, cackling a bit hysterically. He drops his arm, opens his eyes, finds Aziraphale perched on the edge of the coffee table leaning over him. The angel meets his gaze and smiles that sweet smile, warm and fond, the one Crowley can barely handle being subjected to on a good day. He shuts his eyes again, groans, and says, “I absolutely do not want to bloody sober up.”
Aziraphale laughs, a quiet little slip of noise. His hand begins to wander up along the inseam of Crowley’s jeans, slow and teasing, giving Crowley time to stop him. And Crowley should stop him, because if this progresses then Crowley’s trousers are going to come off and then...
“Is this alright, dearest?” Aziraphale trails his fingers up Crowley’s flies. “I’ll stop, you just need to ask me.”
“Yeah, I’ll change, just...” Crowley says, trying to gather himself together enough to do so. Adjusting things while hammered isn’t the simplest of things, but it is feasible.
“You’ll do no such thing,” Aziraphale interrupts, scolding. The tone stops Crowley in his tracks, makes him lie still as Aziraphale slowly undoes his flies. His jeans and briefs get eased down just enough, the fabric catching around the tops of his thighs, and Crowley closes his eyes once again as a draft of air touches scales.
Aziraphale sucks in an audible breath, then murmurs, “Oh, Crowley...”
And when the angel says his name like that—reverent and worshipful, whispered between them like a prayer—Crowley swears it sounds sacred. Far holier than his given name ever sounded, even when it’d been spoken by Her.
The anxiety squeezing tight around Crowley’s chest begins to unravel. He sighs and opens his eyes to stare up at the ceiling, then once again nearly finds himself on said ceiling when soft fingers wander the apex of his thighs. His hand shoots out without his permission, wraps tight around Aziraphale’s wrist.
Aziraphale immediately stills, asks, “Are you asking me to stop, dearest?”
“I’ll get arousssed if you keep doing that,” Crowley tells him. He winces at the hiss that bleeds into the words, then swallows around the lump in his throat. His hands are shaking, and he squeezes Aziraphale’s wrist in an attempt to steady himself.
“I assumed as much,” Aziraphale says simply, as if that was the point all along. Crowley chokes on a laugh.
The angel begins exploring him, touching the scales between his legs and up along his pubic bone with the softest of touches. Crowley keeps hold of his wrist, not to pull him away but just to have something grounding. Something to hold onto so he doesn’t fly away.
No one has ever touched him there, not like this, not as he is. He’s sensitive, he knows from the touch of his own hand. The sensations are more immediate, sharper, near electric. It never takes much for his cloacal scale to lift.
Everything is even more with Aziraphale, with the soft drag of his warm fingers. Crowley thinks he should probably be embarrassed how quickly everything just loosens and parts for him, but he’s already so overwhelmed. The angel caresses the edges of his open vent, and Crowley’s unnecessary heart beats like mad.
“You beautiful thing,” Aziraphale murmurs, then dips his thumb inside.
It’s not an attempt to penetrate, just a gentle touch where Crowley is vulnerable and wet. Still, it makes Crowley’s eyes roll back in his head, makes his hips jump looking for pressure, makes him attempt to spread his legs further. His thighs are trapped by his trousers, keeping him from stretching out, and he makes a noise he’d be mortified about in any other situation. A noise he’d be mortified about if he weren't piss drunk. As it is, his jeans get tugged down along with his briefs, and they hit the floor alongside his boots—whether by his own will or the angel’s, Crowley doesn’t know and doesn’t care.
He spreads his legs gratefully, throwing one over the back of the couch. Aziraphale continues touching him, a gentle caressing pressure that Crowley lazily grinds against. He tries not to think about how wanton he must look, definitely doesn’t think about the fact that his hemipenes will evert into the angel’s hand if he keeps this up...
“Does that feel nice? Like that?” Aziraphale asks, sounding as though he’s genuinely asking. Like Crowley isn’t currently humping his finger.
Crowley drops his gaze from the ceiling, finally finds the courage to look at the angel. Aziraphale stare is fixed between Crowley legs, where he’s pink and open and—God, Satan, and Everyone— he hadn’t realized how much he’d been leaking. The black scales around his vent are slick and shiny with fluid, Aziraphale’s thumb coated...
Aziraphale looks up, over, meets Crowley’s gaze. His cheeks are pink and his pupils are blown, and he smiles all sweet and fond. And bloody hell, he’s definitely pitching a tent in those tan trousers. Crowley laughs, because his angel is fucking ridiculous.
“Feels amazing, angel,” Crowley tells him, closing his eyes and leaning his head back on the sofa cushion.
“I’m glad,” Aziraphale says, smile evident in his voice.
Silence settles for a bit, just the wet sounds of Aziraphale touching him and Crowley’s heavy breathing. Aziraphale’s fingers wander, from his vent to the surrounding scales then back again. Up just above his pubic bone, where the scales merge to warm skin, then down again, down, to his perineum where the scales once again dissolve away. Then even farther back, looking for...?
'Not how cloacas work,’ Crowley is about to say, when Aziraphale suddenly says...
“I apologize.”
“Wha-?” Crowley asks, opening his eyes and meeting Aziraphale’s gaze. “Don’t have to apologize for rubbing my arse.”
Aziraphale makes a face, waves him off with his free hand. “I should have considered that you might have... other preferences. Your demonic aspect is serpentine, after all.”
Crowley sighs, answers, “Didn’t want to disssappoint you.”
He winces at the hiss that creeps in once again, even though it’s unavoidable sometimes during sex. And well, Crowley figures they’re heading that way. If Aziraphale fingering his vent doesn’t already qualify as sex.
Why does sex have to be so complicated?
“Why would I be disappointed?” Aziraphale asks. He seems honestly confused.
“’M a demon,” Crowley says, in case Aziraphale has forgotten. “Walking around with demon pricks.”
Aziraphale gives him one of those smiles—indulgent and impossibly fond. He slides his hand from Crowley’s pelvis up to his stomach, rucking up his black button-down, and cups his cheek in his clean hand. It forces Crowley to take in the full power of that smile, and bloody hell, it’s a lot. It’s a whole lot.
“You are my lovely, compassionate, kind demon,” Aziraphale tells him.
“Not kind,” Crowley says, though it’s a rote protest at this point. Something he says because he’s always said it, and Aziraphale rolls his eyes at him like he always does.
“You are also a very silly demon,” Aziraphale says, amused. Then, tone sobering, “And I love you so very much, just as you are.”
For all the apologies Crowley has received since Aziraphale’s return, for all the promises shared between them, Crowley has never heard those words from Aziraphale. Just as you are.
“I’m sorry I ever made you think differently,” the angel adds. Crowley can’t look at him—he knows his eyes are welling up. He wishes he had his sunglasses. But Aziraphale holds his face in that one soft hand, keeping their gazes connected, and continues, “I never meant—I just wanted you to be happy, and I thought... You never deserved to Fall. You're far better than all of us.”
“That’s not true,” Crowley protests, because he knows that much. Aziraphale shakes his head in disagreement, his own eyes filling with tears. Quite a pair, they are, Crowley thinks.
“I apologize. This is a poor time for such admissions,” Aziraphale says, producing a kerchief from somewhere—perhaps his waistcoat, perhaps miracled from the bedroom. He lightly dabs at his eyes, then asks, “Have I completely ruined the mood?”
“No, no,” Crowley says. He doesn’t analyze that too closely, doesn’t look too deeply into the fact that he’s possibly more aroused now than before. He’s always fed off the angel’s love and affection, after all. Nothing new. He reaches out for Aziraphale, cups his face. Asks, “Kiss me. Please.”
Aziraphale beams, even if his eyes are still a bit glassy, and meets Crowley halfway. The angel’s lips are soft and dry, the inside of his mouth warm and wet. They kiss and kiss, Crowley rolling into him, fingers threading through soft platinum blonde hair. When the angel’s fingers find their way back between his legs, Crowley can’t help the noise he makes smeared against Aziraphale’s chin.
He’s still open and leaking even after their little emotional interlude. A certifiable mess. He’ll be embarrassed about all this later, he knows, but he's drunk, and the angel’s touch feels too good. For now, he can’t muster up the gumption to care.
“Pardon me for perhaps being crude but...” Aziraphale murmurs against Crowley’s cheek. “You said pricks. Does that mean this a male cloaca?”
“Jesus fucking Christ on a bloody bike,” Crowley says, not quite believing the words that just came out of the angel’s mouth. He laughs a bit hysterically before admitting, “Yes, male.”
He wonders if he should give the angel a quick warning. ‘Oi, and you’re about to be intimately acquainted with aforementioned pricks.’ They are hard inside him, hard enough the pressure is becoming uncomfortable. They’ll evert on their own before long—and with the way Aziraphale is touching him, massaging, practically coaxing...
His cocks slip out before Crowley manages to say anything. It’s a moment that always feels good, sensitive flesh everting in a wet glide, and he sighs in pleasure despite himself.
Aziraphale jerks his hand back with a soft gasp, then murmurs, “Oh! Oh, my dear...”
The angel sounds amazed. Enthralled. Like Crowley has done something particularly impressive. Crowley laughs at the absurdity and tells Aziraphale, “Just cocks, angel.”
“But they’re lovely,” Aziraphale enthuses, before wrapping his hand around the one closest to himself and softly pulling.
It’s almost too much, even as gentle as Aziraphale’s grip is. Crowley’s hemipenes aren’t like human cocks. They're made to be always inside something soft and wet, whether that’s his own body or, well... another serpent’s body.
The touch of a hand, even a hand as manicured and smooth as Aziraphale’s, feels rough.
Crowley hisses, eyes falling closed. His tongue flutters out without his conscious input, and he realizes belatedly that it’s gone forked, serpentine. Taste and scent mingle together in the back of his mouth—his own musky arousal and the sharpness of Aziraphale’s power, both backlit by the familiarity of their home. This cottage filled with an amalgamation of angelic and occult and two well-worn corporations.
“How do you like it, my love?” Aziraphale breaks into the quiet. Then, saving Crowley from having to very undemonically admit to gentle, please just love me gently , Aziraphale asks, “Like usual?”
“Ngk... yeah,” Crowley says. Then admits, “Wetter. Wetter than usual.”
“Mmm,” Aziraphale murmurs in happy agreement. He draws his hand away for a beat, and a quick miracle settles between them. When his touch returns, it’s dripping with lubricant, messy and slippery and warm... so warm.
Crowley groans, too drunk to care about how loud he's being, and lets his head loll back on the arm of the sofa.
“Is that better?” Aziraphale asks. His tone suggests he already knows the answer to that question.
“Yeah. Sss’great,” Crowley slurs at him. “Fucking amazing.”
Amazing enough that he’s going to come before much more of anything happens. It’s not as though he tries to prolong anything when he touches himself like this. It’s always quick and dirty and messy, a sense of shame after the fact that he studiously ignores. He’s not sure what Aziraphale is expecting out of this, but that white hot pleasure is already coiling around his spine and pelvis. It’s a different sensation when he’s like this, the telltale pressure centered not between his legs but deeper in his belly, gutting and visceral.
It hits him hard this time around, sudden and bright, and he manages in a half-warning, a grunt of the angel’s name, before gushing against Aziraphale’s palm.
“Oh!” Aziraphale breathes, obviously surprised, but keeps his hand steady while Crowley pushes and rocks up against him.
It isn’t until Crowley is left with a sticky gelatinous mess all over himself—and Aziraphale inspecting his soiled hand in astonishment—that he realizes maybe he should have warned the angel...
Serpent semen isn’t exactly the same as human semen.
But then Aziraphale brings his fingers up to his mouth and delicately licks his thumb in a manner startingly reminiscent of a basement in Uz. Crowley makes a few incomprehensible noises, unsure exactly what he’s trying to say—if he’s even trying to say anything at all—before just flailing a hand out in Aziraphale’s direction.
The come doesn’t receive the same excitement as the ox had back then. Aziraphale wrinkles his nose, looking less than pleased, yet still licks at his middle finger as if he needs to give it another try.
Crowley groans, grabbing at Aziraphale’s shirtsleeve, and grates out, “Angel ...”
“What?” Aziraphale asks innocently. Or as innocently as he can with his hand covered in semen. “I was curious.”
“Curious,” Crowley parrots. He can feel himself blushing—except demons don’t blush.
“You taste much like usual, just a bit of an odd texture,” Aziraphale informs him, wiping his hand off on his tan trousers. He leaves a lewd stain behind, drawing Crowley’s eyes to the stretch of fabric over his thick thighs, the tent still there in his trousers...
Crowley reaches to the side, uncoordinated, and hooks two long fingers in the front of the angel’s waistcoat. Aziraphale smiles at him, indulgent, and allows Crowley’s hand to wander south. Undoing the angel’s flies turns into too great a feat for Crowley’s clumsy drunken fingers, but Aziraphale takes over, pulling himself free. Crowley wraps his hand around that fat cock, well known and well loved, and teases the foreskin with his thumb.
Aziraphale sighs in pleasure, then asks, “Again?”
"Huh, wha?” Crowley asks, gaze drifting up to meet Aziraphale’s, those lovely blue eyes and flushed cheeks.
In answer, Aziraphale wiggles his fingers then twists his wrist around a miracle. The next moment, his hand is full of lubricant, so wet it begins slipping down from his palm and staining his shirtsleeve. Crowley just stares, and Aziraphale raises his brows, prompting.
“Ng, er, yeah,” Crowley manages. “If you want to.”
“Yes, I very much want to,” Aziraphale replies, smiling down at him like the cat that got the cream.
“Never last long, the second time around,” Crowley tells him, trying to preserve some of his dignity. Excuses, really.
Aziraphale calls him out. “You didn’t last long the first time, love.”
Crowley hisses, an idle complaint, before rolling to the side enough to take the angel into his mouth. Aziraphale moans, that sinful noise reserved only for Crowley and chocolate puddings, then lays his soft wet hand down against Crowley’s one remaining erection.
And the rest in lost to Crowley in a haze of pleasure.
~*~
Things blur for a while after. Crowley blames it on the alcohol lingering in his blood.
He gets to his feet once he’s relatively sure his legs will carry him. He meets Aziraphale when the angel reaches for him, hugs him when the angel wraps arms around him, kisses him when the angel tips his mouth up to be kissed...
He then excuses himself to clean up.
It’s an excuse to escape, and he’s sure Aziraphale knows this. They don’t have to ‘clean up.’ They can wave their hand and be clean and freshly dressed and pulled together in the blink of an eye. Still, Crowley takes himself into their bathroom, starts up the shower, and stands under the spray.
He sobers up after he’s finished washing himself, and things get a little too much after that.
He considers finding a pair of sunglasses—there's a pair in the bathroom somewhere, tucked away in a drawer or cabinet—but Crowley rarely wears them in their home. Not anymore. Not when it’s just he and Aziraphale. Putting them on now will raise red flags, make Aziraphale ask questions.
So instead, he throws on his black silk pyjamas, holds his head high, and strides out into the bedroom...
Only to find Aziraphale curled up on top of the covers, all fluffy white hair and cozy pyjamas and reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. The angel looks up from the book in his hands and turns that megawatt smile full force at Crowley.
“Coming to bed, dearest?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley’s falling all over again.
“Ngh, yeah,” Crowley answers, and crawls into the space Aziraphale has made for him. The covers are already pulled back and the pillows are fluffed up. Crowley curls up on his side, watching as the angel goes back to his book, that sweet little pinch and furrow of concentration settling in his brow.
Then, Aziraphale’s hand finds its way to Crowley’s head, fingers threading through his damp hair, and a broken noise slips out of the back of Crowley’s throat. His chest aches and his eyes burn. If he starts crying, he’s going to miracle himself to the other side of the world just to save face.
“Love you,” he chokes out, because if he doesn’t say it, then the sentiment is going to strangle him.
“Darling, I adore you,” Aziraphale says without a moment’s hesitation. Then, "Thank you for sharing tonight with me. I truly enjoyed myself.”
A tear slides down Crowley’s cheek, and he miracles it and his watery eyes away with an angry blink. If Aziraphale notices—and he must, there is no way an angel can miss an occult miracle performed right next to them—he doesn’t comment on it.
“I hope you enjoyed yourself as well,” Aziraphale says, hedging.
Crowley nods, cheek rubbing against his pillow. Manages to say, “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”
“Wonderful,” Aziraphale replies. Then, softly, “I do hope you’ll share that part of yourself with me again.”
Crowley is going to discorporate.
“Whenever you feel comfortable doing so, of course,” Aziraphale adds. “I shant ever press.”
Crowley shakes his head, says, “I’m yours, angel. Anything. Everything.”
There’s a long gratifying drag of fingers through Crowley’s hair, an emotion shared without words being said. The angel’s manicured fingernails feel so good against his scalp, sending shivers up the back of his neck. He cranes his head back to look up, finds Aziraphale’s attention focused on him, a soft look in the angel’s eye—a fond look, a sweet look.
An adoring look.
“Go to sleep, you wiley serpent,” Aziraphale murmurs with another stroke along Crowley’s scalp.
So Crowley curls impossibly closer with a sigh.
He closes his eyes, and he sleeps.