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He was being an arse.
Crowley knew that. He knew that it wasn’t advisable to punch Aziraphale’s buttons with all the gusto of an ‘alpha male’ at a strongman machine, but here he was, growling as Aziraphale’s last barbed comment lodged itself uncomfortably in his middle. A twitching, boiling, seething something churned in his blood, frothed in his stomach, demanding an outlet. His unnecessary heart, pounding unnecessarily fast, thundered in his ears, in his hands, in his cock. Some dark thing in his very essence howled for him to bare his teeth, to wrestle Aziraphale to the ground and take him in one vicious, victorious thrust.
In an unfortunate turn of events, Aziraphale was refusing to rise to the bait. That broad, well-manicured hand, usually so soft, so tender in its touch, pressed against his sternum and propelled him back. The impact of spine against shelf was forceful enough to jostle loose bits of clutter, and Crowley snarled with snapping fangs against the background patter of thunks and thuds and fluttering of paper.
Aziraphale was unimpressed.
"Now. I don’t know what has gotten into you, but I have had enough." Aziraphale stepped into Crowley’s space, a solid, restraining hold quelling his struggle with a casualness that, at another time, Crowley might have appreciated. But here, now, he felt like a scruffed, toothless puppy and he despised it. "So. You are going to calm down, and you are going to tell me what on Earth has possibly made you decide that you can act this way."
Crowley passed a serpentine tongue over his lips, pulled his mouth into a cutting grin. "Make me."
"No. No, I don’t believe so. Either you’ll tell me of your own accord, or I will escort you out until you learn how to behave yourself." Aziraphale’s voice was decisive and it was even and it was everything Crowley wasn’t.
"You’d throw me out. Over a tiff." Fear—and Crowley’s constant for managing fear: anger—rose swiftly below his simmering disbelief.
"You have been a menace for weeks, Crowley, and my patience has its limits. If that is the only way you’ll listen, well. One does what one must."
"This is ludicrous. You invited me to stay here." And not that long ago, either. If Crowley listened carefully, he could almost hear the echo of that conversation. Strange and stilted though it had been, it was also the olive branch that led to the slow repair of them and us and our side.
The repair he was fracturing with every word.
"And you will be welcome back again as soon as you remember your manners." How was Aziraphale so rock-solid when Crowley felt about to shatter?
"I’m a demon. I don’t have manners," he snapped, shoving Aziraphale’s arm aside. "So go ahead. Do whatever ‘one must.’" The venom laced through the imitation of Aziraphale’s prim, proper accent manifested in a slow drip through the words, almost numbing in their scathingness.
Aziraphale sighed, put-upon and condescending, and that tightening, feral band of something finally snapped.
"Know what, never mind. See myself out." Crowley was glad he’d kept his glasses on for this particular row; it meant his eyes—straying to Aziraphale's face, full of shock and hurt—stayed hidden as Crowley shouldered past him and flung the door open into the harsh midday sun.
~*~
Three days.
Three long, excruciating, angel-less days.
His bitter, ongoing heartache wasn’t helped by the sourness in his gut, but Crowley gulped at his whisky until his stomach burned anyway. He’d pulled it through the firmament on his way out of the bar, the top-shelf bottle much emptier now than it had been a few minutes ago. It was probably also to blame for why he was wending his way back to Aziraphale on foot, with ripped clothing and bloodied knuckles. So maybe he’d been a little drunk when he whispered in the ears of those particular miscreants. And okay, a little more so than he’d thought, unable to conjure a properly demonic response in time to meet their own alcohol-laden fists. Flexing his fingers, Crowley winced at the stiffness; it was a paltry pain compared to the rattling in his chest, or where one eye was swollen shut, and God bless it, he might have a tooth loose. A tiny miracle, a hint of the power that had eluded him in his drunkenness, plastered a shimmering normality over his face.
Whatever equilibrium he’d managed to reach drained from him in an instant, bringing him stumbling to a stop as the Dirty Donkey came into view. The building beyond was nothing more than a smear of colour and shadow, making Crowley squint to read the lettering.
Could just keep walking, he mused, chasing his fury and guilt with another measure of sixty-proof. They’d had words about less for longer.
Not since you became us, said the part of his brain that was valiantly staying afloat on the river of Talisker and tequila. They bickered, of course they did, because that’s who they were. But they hadn’t argued. Not since that one frantic, desperate kiss—the one that had begun with a fight vigorous enough to knock out the power in Soho and had ended with another blackout as Aziraphale rode Crowley until his wings sprung from his back—that had soothed six thousand years of pining and need.
Mm. Now that’s a thought, the stupid half of him leered.
Crowley downed the last of his whisky, tossing the bottle in the direction of the Donkey. The idea burned in his gullet, worse than the mix of liquor in his belly; his cock, just as drunk as the rest of him, directed his unsteady feet towards the bookshop, towards Aziraphale. Alarms blared as he pushed the door open, Crowley’s last vestige of sanity sounding them loud and urgent over the clang of the bell.
He ignored the warning completely and stepped inside.
Warmth—both physical and the lovey-dovey stuff that he’d never admit to—flooded his chest, strongly enough that he had to close his eyes against it. Crowley breathed in deep, revelling in the notes of old books and fresh tea, the strangely comforting mustiness of dust and the sharp, sparkling, starstuff-taste of angel. This was the scent of home. Hell had sent him to live in everything from a tiny, dank cave, to a sprawling domus, to a flashy penthouse on the thirteenth floor, but he’d never belonged anywhere until the day that Aziraphale had taken a potted fern in one hand, laced their fingers together with the other, and said You could stay, if… if you like.
Yearning washed through him with a tenderness that was almost a blow.
"Crowley?"
Crowley’s eyes snapped up to Aziraphale, leaning over the upstairs bannister. To anyone else, Aziraphale would seem calm, but Crowley knew the mask of his angel’s anger and he swallowed thickly. Not that Crowley could blame him. But maybe he could apologise, and Aziraphale’s face would turn sunny with that beaming smile Crowley loved so much, and then Crowley would lean in and kiss it off his lips—
"Where the devil have you been? It’s been days!" Aziraphale was gripping the upper rail harder than it seemed from a distance; Crowley could hear the ring on his smallest finger grind on it, metal against metal.
"Oh, y’know. Out ‘n’ about." he slurred. The brain in his dick, flush with blood, decided he should cock a hip against the front counter and drape himself over it in a way that was supposed to be alluring.
Not a great start, Crowley thought, flinching behind his glasses. Go on, just tell him that you were an arse. Tell him you’re done with it. You should be grovelling right now.
And yet his fucking mouth opened on its own and Crowley found himself saying, "Spreadin’ evil ‘n’ the like."
Aziraphale came to an abrupt halt on the stairs, then slowly came down another step or two in order to scowl at him, one hand white-knuckled at his side. "Are you– drunk?"
Crowley grinned, ignoring all the ways his battered mouth screamed. "As a skunk."
What? No! No, no, no, no, no, no, no.
He absolutely deserved the glare accompanying Aziraphale’s deep, steadying breath. He deserved worse, the single brain cell not soaked in alcohol shouted, clanging about his skull with a shrill shriek of fix this, fix this!!
"If you’ve come back to continue our last conversation, then I’m afraid I must decline," Aziraphale said, cold and clipped.
"No, no, no, no, wait. Fuck." Crowley straightened, pushing his fist into his forehead like he could jam a coherent thought through the bone. "I’m– ‘M fucking this up. Lem– lemme explain."
"Should you perhaps be sober for this?" The chill hadn’t left Aziraphale's voice, but his face had softened, just the slightest bit. Just enough for Crowley to feel it as a shot to the chest.
"Can’t. ‘Therwise ‘ll never get through it." Crowley made a vague gesture that even he didn’t know the meaning of, but Aziraphale nodded along as if he were making any sense at all.
"Go on." Aziraphale folded his hands in front of himself and raised his eyebrows.
Being faced with that imperious stare did something dark and squirmy to Crowley’s insides. He made a garbled noise that was all consonants, then growled at his own inability to speak. Because that was the rub, wasn’t it? How could he begin to describe something that he couldn’t fathom himself? How could he tell Aziraphale about this vicious thing that made him want to sink his fangs in, that made him need to spread his huge, dark wings and fight?
"‘S too loud," he heard himself say, his voice a weak, delicate thing. "Too much. All the time, jus’ need it quiet. Jus’ for a minute." Now that the dam had broken, Crowley found he couldn’t stay still a moment longer. His words sped up as he marched from pillar to pillar—east, south, west, north—breaths turning harsh and ragged, hands creeping into his hair so he could pull. "You’re the bessst bloody thing in my life. Always so— so bleeding good for me and I love that. Love that I get to sssee you like that. Ssso why d’ I need more?" Crowley stopped at the base of the stairs, shoulders hunched and arms wrapped around his middle, more vulnerable than even the day he’d crawled, gasping and broken, from a pit of boiling sulphur. His chin quivered dangerously on a long, shuddering exhale. "Dunno what ‘m doing. But I never meant to hurt you, angel. Never."
"Darling," Aziraphale said gently.
Crowley blinked rapidly, trying to banish the dampness on his lashes before it could bead into tears. Aziraphale’s slow approach gave him the time to run if he needed to; his rabbiting heart nailed his feet to the ground. In the end, Aziraphale came to him, cradling Crowley’s face in his hands and tipping it down until he looked into eyes that Crowley could feel were honey-dipped, through and through.
Aziraphale’s gentle smile was agony. "It’s time to sober up now."
The rotten taste in his mouth was nothing compared to the misery. He definitely had a tooth loose, the tang of iron and copper heavy on his tongue as the high of liquor-laced adrenaline dropped away. Every bruise and welt seemed to throb individually, vying for attention, as numerous and colourful as the stars. Without the bolster of liquid courage—liquid stupidity—Crowley crumpled to the floor. He was still half-hard in his bloody trousers, his cock pressing plump and firm against the seam, sending delightful images of how he could take Aziraphale into his mouth in apology. He could make Aziraphale writhe and scream and spill, swallow him down, a split tongue tracing words on the underside of Aziraphale’s cock while his own remained trapped, aching for a release he wouldn’t have.
Well. That was… new.
And not something he had time to explore. Aziraphale’s hand hooked under his chin, raising him tall on his knees while simultaneously crouching down. Crowley looked away as he dropped his glamour, entirely too aware of the swelling on his face and the bloody slice on his lip.
"Oh, dear Lord!" Aziraphale went to one knee, his deft fingers plucking Crowley’s glasses right off his nose and tossing them aside with a clatter. Crowley was suddenly fascinated by the little pocket of dust hiding in the corner of a shelf over Aziraphale’s shoulder. "Crowley, what happened?!"
"Just a disagreement with some blokes," Crowley mumbled. "Nothing to worry yourself over." He could feel the amber shine of his irises, spread edge-to-edge, turning pearly where anxiety bit at their corners.
"Nothing to– No." Aziraphale cradled his purple-mottled jaw, those blue eyes wide and begging—and not the sort of begging that Crowley liked to see. "Is this what you’ve been doing all this time?"
"Ehh, not as such?" Crowley hedged. The drinking, yes, absolutely; Aziraphale had just watched him expel three days’ worth of alcohol from his system after all. The fight at the bar had just… happened. "Don’t know what else to tell you, angel."
"There must be something. Help me. Please. I want to understand."
"Yeah, I fucking do too," he snapped. Sinking back on his heels, Crowley scrubbed his hands through his hair, flinching when he passed over his black eye. "Whatever’s in here" —he rubbed one fist in the centre of his chest— "it– It’s telling me to burn the world down, and. I need you to stop me. Fight me into the fucking ground, but I can’t–" Crowley’s voice cracked and broke. "Can’t listen to it anymore, Aziraphale. I can’t listen, I can’t take it. It’s hurting you."
"Crowley. Can you look at me?"
Aziraphale’s voice was quiet, a balm that soothed the wild darkness. The unfamiliar tingle of divine Grace wrapped him in a gossamer cocoon, drawing the splinters of pain away. His swollen eye slowly blinked open to reveal Aziraphale’s softly-smiling face, a faint glow shining gold though the tips of his hair. Crowley couldn’t tell if the white-blond curls had been turned to a halo by one of the shop’s many lamps or if it was due to the Heavenly power Aziraphale was pushing into and through him, until the only ache left in Crowley’s unworthy body was the pressure of his knees against the ages-old Persian rug.
"There you are," Aziraphale said, breaking into the beatific smile that Crowley had first seen on a Wall and had looked for every day since. He was struck dumb by Aziraphale’s beauty even as Aziraphale reached out to stroke his cheek with a thumb. "Now, my dear. I believe I know what you need."
"How?" Crowley asked miserably. "I sure as fuck don’t."
"Because when I feel this way, you always take care of me."
Crowley jolted.
Of course he'd told Aziraphale about his… inclinations. That was why they worked so well together; Crowley was almost entirely dominant, and Aziraphale dove enthusiastically, joyously, into his own submission. But it was the almost and the nearly of the thing that made him wary.
Because one night, in the quiet and the dark, he’d whispered to Aziraphale that a little bit of rope could get him hot between the legs; Aziraphale, running his fingers the length of Crowley’s bare spine, had murmured back that he was a deft hand with a cane or a crop. The memory of Aziraphale’s voice, so rough and deep, was the reason that Crowley had spent many a night thereafter with a hand curled around his aching cock, whining into his fist as he imagined strikes blazing red against his skin. It used to scratch the itch of those desires well enough.
Except that now it had gone and backed up, spilled over in an oil-slick tide that poisoned the shore of Aziraphale’s adoration. The very foundation of them, a group of the two of us was built on sand, and Crowley was the wind and rain intent on tearing it down.
Crowley stared at Aziraphale with that storm in his gaze. "Can't ask you to do that, angel."
And underneath, the thing he didn’t say: I can’t do it, angel.
Upstairs and Down had said that both angel and demon were free agents; They had signed the papers and said the vows, witnessed by legions of the holy and the damned. And it didn’t mean a blessed thing if They didn’t feel like honouring the agreement. Crowley couldn’t trust that either head office wasn’t plotting to rip Aziraphale away from him again—and if They so happened to interrupt an intimate moment, well, all the better.
So he had to be alert. He had to be on guard. And he couldn’t keep one eye on Aziraphale and the other over his shoulder if he lost control. He couldn’t protect their simple, fragile existence if he was blissed out on pain.
If he was tied and gagged, he couldn’t drop to his knees and beg Aziraphale to stay.
Whatever Aziraphale saw in his—undoubtedly panicked—expression brought a strange gleam to those blue eyes. "Well, you aren’t asking me. Are you?" He rose, tugging his bowtie until it hung loose around his neck. "I'm offering. Or, if you'd like" —something dangerous cut open the edges of Aziraphale’s smile— "I could demand it of you."
A sound, high and embarrassing, wrenched itself from deep in Crowley’s throat. The unfamiliar Dominant with Aziraphale's face used those Cupids-bow lips to grin, sharp and hungry. Aziraphale brought one hand to his cuff, removing the sliver of gold that held it closed and casually folded up his sleeve, looking for all the world like he wasn’t driving Crowley out of his mind.
"I think that you believe you need to be punished for your behaviour," Aziraphale continued, turning his attention to his other cuff, fussing at the folds until they were square and even. "You're quite easy to forgive, my dear, but I think you’ll more easily accept that if I were to take penance from you first. Unless, of course, I’m mistaken?" Blue eyes, darker than Crowley had ever seen them, flicked to meet his own through Aziraphale’s lashes.
Unless I’m mistaken.
An offer. Crowley could climb to his feet, push away the arousal that pulsed to the beat of his thundering heart and take whatever wine Aziraphale would surely suggest, safe in the knowledge that this would never be mentioned again. Aziraphale might even ease onto the couch next to him, whisper so sweetly in his ear while his talented fingers peeled away Crowley’s trousers. Crowley could take him as he’d been aching to for days, and Aziraphale would not only let him, but beg for it.
Or…
Finished with his sleeves, Aziraphale slid his hands into his trouser pockets, waiting. Expectant.
Somehow, Crowley managed not to squirm under the weight of that imperious stare. Instead, he was frozen, eyes glued to the growing bulge in Aziraphale’s trousers, the proof that Aziraphale wanted this. Wanted Crowley. Crowley was abruptly very aware that his palms were moist where they pressed into his thighs and his cock was wet inside his jeans. He never bothered to wear anything beneath them—never enough bloody room, for one—and the bite of the zip against his most sensitive flesh was a torment that all the parts of him he denied wanted to rut into. He wanted pressure, wanted to rub against something, staring up needily at Aziraphale until he was grabbed by the scruff and shaken into submission.
He could have that, and so much more, if only he was brave enough.
"No," Crowley said at last. "No, you’re not mistaken."
"Excellent," Azirapahle purred. Bubbles fizzed and lifted from Crowley’s stomach. Aziraphale blinked as the aloof Dom fell away, leaving just his angel’s concern. "Remember, my dear. This ends whenever you want it to. I will not be disappointed or upset if you use our safeword."
"Yeah. I know." Despite himself, relief coursed through Crowley’s chest, loosening the knot behind his ribs. Before he could talk himself out of it, Crowley rushed to add, "Can I, um. Ask something? First?"
"Of course! I’d be delighted." And bless it, Aziraphale did look delighted, genuine excitement bleeding through his detachment.
"I–" Crowley drummed his fingers on his knees, eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s Oxfords. Why was this always so bloody difficult? Heat crept up the back of his neck, flushing crimson across his cheeks and tinting the tips of his ears. "I, um. Don’t want to c- come. Not until you. Make me."
Silence.
The quiet stretched, long enough that Crowley was beginning to fear the answer. He carefully lifted his gaze, nerves stretched thin, waiting for any indication of Aziraphale’s displeasure. Instead, he found that Aziraphale was wearing his most bastardly smile, the quicksilver mind beneath that riot of curls almost visibly churning with possibilities. Then Aziraphale’s attention focused entirely on Crowley, and the undertow in the ocean of want there pulled Crowley in and dragged him out to sea.
When Aziraphale spoke, his voice was pitted with gravel. "It’s rather unlike you to think that I would let you have a single orgasm this evening."
"Don’t poke fun," Crowley said helplessly. The promise in those deep words rolled down his spine and into the yawning pit of need boiling below his navel; the idle threat brought one arm across his middle, armour for his vulnerable stomach. "This is–"
This is hard enough.
Aziraphale’s Cheshire grin sobered at once. "Oh, darling, I’m sorry. You’re doing so well for me, and I never meant to make light of that." Thick fingers threaded through Crowley’s hair in long, soothing strokes that tightened into a tug at the end. "But… You are sure?"
Crowley tipped his head back, exposing his throat in a gesture that made the smoothness of Aziraphale’s hand falter. He was a lamb, trusting and sacrificial. "Yeah," Crowley breathed.
Once more Crowley was left kneeling at the feet of an angel he didn’t recognise, Aziraphale’s warmth cooling as he looked Crowley up and down. "Very good."
He wasn’t talking about Crowley’s response.
"Not good," Crowley snarled, too cracked open and raw for that kind of talk.
"Hm." Why was that derisive sniff so hot? Another bead of pre-come welled at the tip of his cock and joined the others soaking into Crowley’s trousers. "Well, you will be by the end of the night. You see, Crowley, I don’t have time for brats. When I give a directive, I expect obedience." Fisting a hand in Crowley’s hair, Aziraphale pulled his head back so their eyes could meet. "Can you do that for me? Can you obey?"
Crowley whimpered, the only sound his mouth would make besides a dry click when he swallowed. It took him two more tries to find his voice. "Yes. Yeah."
"Good," Aziraphale said, darkly pleased. Fuck, Crowley was going to replay that sound for decades. "Up with you, then." Crowley had barely gained his footing on shaking, foal-like legs before Aziraphale had him by the shoulders, steering him in a half-circle and then pushing lightly on his chest. "Sit."
Aziraphale’s favourite chair had been pulled from behind the desk to the centre of the room, where the last of the late evening sun streamed through the domed glass overhead. Crowley blinked in the sudden brightness that had to be angelically augmented. The shades came down over the windows with a snap, the lamps around the shop clicked off, and even the front door darkened until no light could peek through.
Aziraphale had created a spotlight over Crowley’s helplessness.
Crowley bit back a moan.
With an easy strength that made Crowley's breath stutter, Aziraphale gathered both of his wrists in one large palm and stretched them overhead. Without being told, Crowley grasped the wooden chair back, prompting a smile from Aziraphale that meant he’d been good. Crowley had never cared about compliance before—in fact, a formative part of his existence was about the very opposite—but right now, for Aziraphale? He’d walk back into Heaven if that’s what Aziraphale demanded of him.
Thankfully Aziraphale wanted him right here. Right in this little circle of light, slowly being consumed by those deep blue eyes. "Your hands stay here. If you move them, I will assume you’re calling red. Yes?"
"Yep. Got it," Crowley agreed weakly.
"What to do with these legs of yours," Aziraphale pondered, all but putting a finger to his chin in false consideration.
Wrapped around you, pulling you into me, never letting go, never, never, never.
"Ah, yes. That will do nicely, I think."
Crowley had half a moment to wonder if he’d accidentally said that aloud before Aziraphale hooked one hand under either of Crowley’s knees and lifted.
The instinct to brace himself on Aziraphale’s shoulders fought a brief and dirty battle with his explicit instructions. Crowley gritted his teeth, knuckles turning white beside his head as Aziraphale arranged him to his liking. His own response to Aziraphale’s manhandling could be investigated later.
In the end, Crowley’s legs were spread indecently wide, each left hanging from an armrest in order to show off the bulge at their apex. The denim was so strained over his cock that it didn’t even have the room left to throb—thanks to some divine shenanigans, Crowley was sure, given that his hips had enough give to flex and shift. He also didn’t care, presented as he was to Aziraphale’s approving, ravenous gaze. Aziraphale liked it. Aziraphale was pleased.
"So, this little thing is the root of all our problems?" Aziraphale was cast in shadow, standing just at the edge of the light. It made his voice, low and taunting, even more judgemental as it rolled over Crowley, shackled by nothing but a desire to obey. "It’s these few inches of flesh that have turned you into such abysmal company?"
Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, carmine-coloured splotches blooming over his chest and into the stubble on his jaw. Aziraphale, more than any other being, knew that the problem rearing its libidinous head wasn’t little in the slightest. But it was humiliating, being reduced down to that hot, pulsing length. Like he was a mere human, burdened with base desires and powerless to overcome them. Crowley panted, wood creaking beneath the tightening of his fingers.
"It’s just as well that I know what to do with such a disruptive tart." God, Aziraphale’s clipped, posh accent was going to be the death of him. Crowley wondered if She would give him strength if he asked for it.
An unexpected tapping on his sternum.
Tap, tap, tap.
Crowley cracked one eye, then snapped both open to focus on the long, slim paddle in Aziraphale’s hand. It was a kitschy little thing—barely three fingers across, covered in faux black leather and cartoonish red lips—but, if handled correctly, could make an angel sing. Demons, Crowley thought with a hard swallow, were made of the same stock—and Aziraphale had professed experience.
The deftness in Aziraphale’s fingers as he swirled the paddle around first one clothed nipple and then the other was just as breathtaking as the pressure that turned nubs into peaks. Aziraphale drew one rounded corner into the shallow valley between Crowley’s pecs, dragging it almost thoughtfully over the dips and contours of his belly where it caught on his silver tie and snagged every button on his waistcoat. Crowley couldn’t name the look in Aziraphale’s eye when his hand came to a stop, the paddle resting on Crowley’s snake-headed buckle, but he recognised it all the same, knowing it was reflected in eyes that bled pure gold.
"You know what comes next, I assume." Aziraphale’s prim enunciation was beginning to falter, the only outward sign that he was just as affected as Crowley was.
A hot, needy pulse between Crowley’s legs. "I do."
Aziraphale’s voice dropped, thick and raspy. "Ask for it."
Crowley hated the sound that escaped, a broken mewl that bordered on a sob. Aziraphale, the bastard, let his lips quirk into a smirk that Crowley found just as devastating as his order. He knew—Aziraphale knew—that Crowley could barely voice his desires when he was the one orchestrating them; to demand it from him now was impossible. Crowley tried to breathe out a word, but it was silent because Aziraphale had used that paddle to flay him open, had taken the very sound from his lungs. He’d dug down in the hard, protective shell at Crowley’s core, gotten those blasted manicured nails into the hairline cracks and was prying apart the armour that no one else had ever touched. Crowley’s lips were moving, mouthing the one thing that Aziraphale had asked of him, but even he wasn’t sure whether he was begging for more or mercy.
"Please." It was barely audible, breath hitching on the P, the rest a whisper, a prayer.
"Yes," Aziraphale encouraged, stepping into the light. It shone in his curls like all the paintings humans had done of angels come to Earth. "Please what?"
"Please, angel," he tried again, a little stronger. "P- punish me."
"Mm, music to my ears." Aziraphale gestured with his free hand, like Crowley’s pleading was truly some celestial harmony. "Like Schubert and Rachmaninoff and Beethoven. But, there’s one thing missing." Aziraphale thumped the paddle against Crowley’s belt. "You know what it is, darling. I need to hear it. Ask me properly, so I can give us both what we want."
Crowley squeezed the chair back until his knuckles ached, head dropping down to his chest in shattered subservience. "Please, Aziraphale. Please, will you hurt me?"
Aziraphale moaned, cupping his own significant arousal. Crowley whimpered in response, transfixed by the way those thick fingers slid over Aziraphale’s trapped erection. He was good, he was pleasing Aziraphale.
"Oh, my love, I’d imagined, but I never thought–" Aziraphale jerked his hand away, brought it to brace himself on the arm of the chair, just behind Crowley’s knee as he loomed closer, chest heaving. "Do you see how much I want you, Crowley?"
Crowley’s head was spinning too much to answer. Aziraphale had imagined him like this. On the very same nights, maybe, that Crowley had stuffed himself full of silicone and begged a spectre of his angel for more. Less than ten minutes across town, Aziraphale might have been stripping his cock with hard, fast strokes, coming to the image of Crowley, trussed up and submissive and needy. Crowley’s hips bucked, seeking even the dubious friction of his zip. Aziraphale growled, the hand splayed beside him moving to pin him down at the waist, and Crowley writhed just to feel the casual power in Aziraphale’s strong arm. More wetness spread across his lap and fuck, he’d never leaked so much before.
"Now, I won’t be so cruel as to make you keep count," Aziraphale rumbled, voice so, so deep. He traced the outline of Crowley’s cock, trousers moulded so tight that Crowley could clearly see the shape of the head, almost down to the sensitive vein where it met the shaft. "But I shall start with twenty."
Start with. Someone help him.
Then Aziraphale seized him in a scorching kiss and brought the paddle down.
Crowley shouted into Aziraphale’s mouth as the pain bloomed. Twenty strikes to his cock, and Aziraphale was splitting his focus with a fiery kiss that tasted like holy vengeance. Like a live wire had been strung from balls to lips, the mix of signals swirled into one long line of excruciating pleasure. Aziraphale bit at Crowley’s mouth with a graceless hunger, the paddle moving with the unceasing rhythm of a metronome. Crowley made soft, pained noises that Aziraphale devoured as if they were manna rained down from Heaven. He wanted to wrap his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, arch against him and shudder through a truly explosive climax.
Somewhere between impacts ten and twelve, Crowley’s trousers vanished.
He jerked back, his howl muffled by the way Aziraphale followed, swallowing the sound with a moan of his own. Without the denim to dampen the blows, the wet thwak of pleather against flesh brought tears to Crowley’s eye. Aziraphale’s steady beat made him plummet, made him soar. Crowley’s breath whistled through his nose, Aziraphale’s lips still moving against his own like Crowley was his last meal, and below it, a familiar cliff that Crowley was terrified to fall off of.
With effort, Crowley wrested his face to the side, gulping down huge lungfuls of air and whimpering "angel" on every exhale. The little he could see of Aziraphale’s expression looked just as wrecked as he felt, which couldn’t be true because Crowley was blurring at the edges, collapsing inwards with the force of a neutron star.
"Twenty," Aziraphale said, voice almost unrecognisable. "But that isn’t enough, is it?"
Crowley’s cock answered for him, a gush of pre-come that smeared an arc of white across his waistcoat. Aziraphale rapped the paddle’s edge, softer but fast, just where his fire-red tip blended to a less angry pink—just where Aziraphale’s tongue usually made Crowley lose his mind.
"If you don’t stop, I’m gonna–"
Aziraphale looked positively mesmerised. "You wanted a forced climax, yes? Made to scream despite your very best efforts?" Aziraphale’s hand vanished from Crowley’s hip and reappeared over his crossed wrists, the weight of Aziraphale’s considerable muscle holding him fast. "Typically you have impressive restraint, my dear, but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re really a strumpet at heart."
He'd never really gotten the appeal of being called a fucking slut before, but Aziraphale’s lovingly degrading filth poured in through Crowley’s open, panting mouth, making every erogenous zone tingle on its way to his cock. Crowley shoved his head into the back of the chair to ground himself before he did something as shameful as come from the growled words alone.
It didn’t stop the string of half-formed thoughts from becoming words: "I am, for you, only for you, no one else ever, angel, I swear–"
"Good," Aziraphale said in a voice that rumbled Crowley’s bones. Crowley’s wings flexed on another plane, fanning open in a gesture of submission that Aziraphale must have caught a glimpse of because his responding smile was dark and wicked. "Because you are good, aren’t you?"
"No," Crowley protested, even as he spread his legs wider in surrender.
"Well, then it’s fortuitous that I have just the thing to rein in a needy jezebel like yourself."
Crowley’s breath came in little hitching gasps as Aziraphale pulled away, straightened to his full height. A glimmer, radiating gold, appeared around his brow, coalescing, solidifying, into a thin band of light that cast the rest of the room in a soft glow. If Crowley squinted, the blanket of holiness stinging at his eyes dissipated like fog, leaving him able to see the bits of Old Enochian that wove through the circlet on a plane further even than the ethereal. The overwhelming brilliance dimmed as Aziraphale reached up to pull it from his crown, though it pulsed in his grip like a living thing. Bathed in the light of his own divinity, Aziraphale was beyond gorgeous; he was beautiful, he was mighty, and Crowley was in awe.
Aziraphale held the mark of his Grace in both hands like it was something dear and fragile, not a weapon created for war. Something very much like fire danced in the blown-wide pupils of his eyes, the reflection there not knowing what to make of this object not of the Earth. Crowley watched with bated breath as Aziraphale sank to his knees, placing one elbow on either of Crowley’s open thighs. This close, the sanctity sizzled, it burned, and Crowley was helpless as he arched up into it. He swore the underside of his cock would be scorched red when he looked again, his Fallen flesh in contest with an Adversary.
But no; when he glanced down his half-naked body, the tip of his cock was flushed, the rest near-visibly throbbing, but still a match to his hips and belly. Hovering just above was Aziraphale, shifting his halo to one hand so that the other could come to cradle Crowley’s balls. His blunt fingers were the perfect size, caressing each one with focused intent before moving on to the other. Just as Crowley began shuddering from the sensation, Aziraphale traced the side of his shaft with a featherlight touch that Crowley knew would make his demonic essence flee his body.
"Yes?" Aziraphale asked, curling his fingers around Crowley’s erection.
It took a moment for Crowley, lust-addled and punch-drunk, to parse his meaning. When it finally hit him, another piece of the chair snapped off in his hand; Aziraphale was going to use his halo as a God-blessed cockring. Crowley’s exhausted, aching muscles protested as he pushed his legs open another inch or two in invitation, a high, thin sound accompanying his vigorous nod.
"Fuck. Yeah, want that, need that, so much angel, please."
One of them repaired the seat, reinforcing it with the same press of will upon the fabric of reality. Crowley didn’t care much who had spared the thought, just glad that he had something to cling to as Aziraphale carefully shrunk his halo to size and began easing it down Crowley’s shaft. Crowley’s babbling reached a fever pitch and then fell off, devolving into wordless moans. The halo left behind a veneer of holiness; it evaporated from contact with Crowley’s damnation, the swift-but-violent clash a million billion tiny eruptions along his skin. And Someone, he hadn’t indulged this side of himself for so long so the pain, short-lived as it was, made his head feel swimmy and his limbs leaden. He’d never seen his cock so swollen, ready to burst at the slightest stimulation. But Aziraphale had agreed that Crowley couldn’t come, not yet, and he wouldn’t until he was told to because he’d finally given up any pretence that he wasn’t good.
"Go– Sa– Oh fuck, anyone, angel you have no idea what this is like, it’s so– so–" Lost for words, Crowley simply thrashed, head dropped back and what felt like every tendon in his neck standing out.
"Yes, you’re doing so well for me," Aziraphale murmured. "Will you be good and prepare yourself?"
Aziraphale had always preferred the silky lubricant that Crowley could summon, a little put out that he could never manage the stuff himself. Obviously he’d meant for Crowley to click his fingers, render a hole that hadn’t been used in months slick and ready, and Crowley lived to serve, even when he hadn’t broken into pieces first. So he could either please Aziraphale and remain hobbled by the command to stay—
—or he could please Aziraphale with so much more.
A flick of Crowley’s fingers coated them in the same lubricant that they kept in the bedside drawer. Aziraphale watched with eyes that first widened and then narrowed, the air of his possessive growl puffing against the underside of Crowley’s cock as Crowley reached between his legs and drove two fingers in to the hilt.
Fuck.
He hadn’t taken anything more than a tongue in almost half a year, and the burning stretch radiated from arse to groin and back, crashing into his cock in waves that pushed out dribbles of excitement despite the halo clamped tight around him. It felt like his very being was contained by that little ring, the frenzy of emotion and arousal pushing against the barrier, unable to escape even in Crowley’s dazed huff. The slow withdrawal and fast push in again was multiplied, need piling up against its only exit while this small piece of Aziraphale bound him. He dragged his fingers in and out again, mouth hanging open, eyes only opened to slits in order to watch Aziraphale’s face.
Aziraphale was flicking his own eyes up to meet Crowley’s and then down again, staring with a bitten lip and fingers gone white and bruising on Crowley’s thighs. Wetting his lips, Aziraphale cupped his hands under Crowley’s arse, pulling him closer until he almost dangled off the end of the chair, then used his thumbs to pull apart the pale globes interfering with his view.
"Ah! Yeah, yeah, angel, fuck." Crowley had found a rhythm: slow thrusts, as strong as he could make them from this angle, showy for his angel’s pleasure. Aziraphale looked positively hypnotised, shuffling even closer. "Love when you fuck me. Please, I want you to fuck me."
"Patience," Aziraphale said, but absently, attention still focused unblinkingly on Crowley’s hand.
Distracted as he was by his own long fingers, Crowley didn’t realise Aziraphale had moved until two more joined his own on the outthrust. More lubricant was pulled from that place between places, layering over the extra digits working their way past Crowley’s rim. The stretch was so much. Crowley hadn’t known before tonight that his brand of masochism included this kind of burn; now, it threatened to send him into the stars. Aziraphale hooked his fingers, just slightly, just enough that Crowley’s could fall into their curve as they moved. Crowley jerked into every thrust, legs threatening to close around Aziraphale’s broad shoulders because oh Someone, they were fucking him together.
"‘S so good," Crowley slurred, his sanity hanging on by a thread.
"Yes," Aziraphale said, cracked. Like he was overcome. Aziraphale guided their fingers out slowly, until only the tips were left inside. Crowley breathed raggedly, glad for the break—until another blunt point of pressure wiggled up beside the other four.
"Shit! It’s so– It’s too–" Crowley clawed at the chair, hearing fabric tear. "‘S too much, angel. Can’t– can’t–" He especially shouldn’t, not if his nails were elongated like this, tinted black to match the scales blazing a path beneath his shirt and down his shins.
"Move your hand." Aziraphale sounded breathless, like they’d been going for hours.
Feeling much the same way, Crowley wriggled his fingers free; Aziraphale’s pinkie and thumb immediately took their place. Crowley swore as five fingers drove into him, slow and methodical. His arms flexed, legs straining to pull his weight up off the chair and then drop back down onto Aziraphale’s next thrust. Aziraphale groaned as his knuckles were forced past Crowley’s rim, mouth hot and sharp as he sucked vivid bruises into Crowley’s shaking thighs. He twisted his hand every few strokes, making Crowley scream. The scalding holiness around his cock increased to a full-on blaze, gasoline poured on a bonfire and fed with a bellows.
"Relax," Aziraphale said quietly, obviously striving for soothing in the heat of their inferno. "I don’t want to hurt you."
"H- hurt me with what?" Crowley’s stomach tensed, anticipation buzzing beneath his skin.
In answer, Aziraphale folded his thumb tight to his palm and pressed deeper. The widest part of his hand caught on the firm ring of muscle that could either deny him entry—or relax to welcome him inside. Crowley scrabbled for purchase on the chair, scoring splintered lines along the wood as he stared at the skylight overhead and Aziraphale worked his way in with tiny little rocking motions.
The moment that Aziraphale’s hand clenched into a fist, scales exploded across Crowley’s face, rippling down his spine and up his feet. He would have fucking come from it, were it not for the sacred band holding his very essence at bay. Crowley groaned another curse, the fiery stretch putting a sharpened edge on the all-encompassing pleasure, the pressure of being stuffed full in a way he’d never been before and now could never go without. He forced himself to breathe, air sucked in and puffed out from between his teeth. Now that he had this, his mind ran rampant.
Maybe Aziraphale would shift his hand so that he could make room for his cock, fucking his own fist inside of Crowley. Maybe he would see how open Crowley could spread for him, working the fingers of his other hand in until he could lace all ten together. Maybe he would–
–look like he’d just seen God Herself. Aziraphale looked astonished, in awe, just as Crowley had been. When he spoke, his voice was reverent.
"My love, look at you," he breathed. "Oh, God, Crowley. The way you take me, I don’t–"
"God," Crowley echoed, the singe of blasphemy on his long, forked tongue another scorching thrill.
Scales formed a mask around his eyes, swept down his jaw to meet the others, the ones that were a deep, deep red, as they marched up his throat. Crowley had never allowed this part of himself—the part that was entirely demon—to surface, but now he couldn’t hold the changes back if he tried. Aziraphale looked stunned, tracing his face with a veneration that should have been given to Her. But here he was, hand buried in a demon’s arse, staring into huge golden eyes with a devotion he’d never shown to Heaven.
My path to the Lord is here, Aziraphale had said once, hand on Crowley’s chin. Your eyes, Crowley. Yellow means glory and divinity. It means God’s presence, and I have never met another who carried the Almighty with them like you do.
"Tell me," begged the Aziraphale of the present. "Tell me that you’re good."
"Nn, harder, please. Please, I want it, I want it, I want it, I want you–"
Aziraphale’s motions turned rough, almost brutal. "Say it."
"For you," Crowley gasped, succumbing at last. "For you I’m good, angel, only for you, the only one I want to be good for, you make me good–"
"Yes," Aziraphale said, finding that secret place that made bursts of white explode in the blackness of Crowley’s closed eyes. "Keep saying it. Convince me of it and I’ll let you come."
How was he expected to talk while Aziraphale’s entire fist was hammering at his insides?
Groping blindly, Crowley fumbled his quaking fingers around Aziraphale’s arm. He followed that unyielding line first to elbow and then to shoulder, wrapping at last around the nape of Aziraphale’s neck to draw him up and into a fierce, searing kiss.
"I’m good," Crowley whispered against Aziraphale’s lips, too far gone to care that tears—actual tears—were making their way down his black-scaled cheeks. "I’m g- good. Angel, I’m good, ‘m good, I’m–" Shit, he was really crying, his body screaming as his rising need battered against that shining golden ring.
"You are," Aziraphale murmured back, trailing his lips over the salt-damp ridges of Crowley’s face. "You are, my dear. So good."
"Let me come, angel? Please? Please." Crowley cradled Aziraphale’s jaw to kiss him again, open-mouthed and wet.
"Just a little longer, darling," Aziraphale said, sounding oh-so-close himself.
Somewhere in the darkness, glass shattered as Aziraphale ducked down and took Crowley’s cock between his lips.
Aziraphale immediately welded his free hand to Crowley’s stomach to keep him from bucking up into the wet and the hot and the tight, his mouth sealed around Crowley’s tip while his tongue played in the weeping slit. Crowley tried to chase more anyway, jerking into Aziraphale’s iron hold in hopes that his cock would slide even a millimetre more past those perfect pink lips. Aziraphale merely looked up coquettishly, flicking his tongue around the crown like it was a God-blessed lolly. Crowley keened, high and thready, as Aziraphale’s knuckles formed a channel over that magical gland and rubbed, the barely-there motion of his hand feeling enormous with each inch lost and gained. Crowley threw his head back and sobbed, racked with hiccoughing breaths as Aziraphale continued to suckle the head of his cock, lapping at the pre-come that welled before it had a chance to drip. Like those inches were a bloody straw and Aziraphale intent on drinking every. Last. Drop.
"‘Ziraphale," Crowley moaned, the blanket of subspace so warm and heavy. He almost didn’t want to come, floating on a stream of pleasure that knew no shores.
The slurping noise as Aziraphale pulled his mouth away was obscene. "Yes. Again. Tell me again."
Crowley closed his eyes as the stream met a sea. "I’m good!"
Pleasure crackled down his spine in a torrent as Aziraphale took him to the root.
Someone was screaming from very far away, their voice raw. The sound caught in the enormous black wings that curved around both demon and angel, rustling the innermost feathers. Crowley knew that he’d broken—arms hanging uselessly behind his legs, lips shaping the words I’m good over and over until they lost all meaning—but he couldn’t even begin to care as all that pent-up desire shuddered through him in a release he felt all the way down to his True Form.
Aziraphale gently pulled his hand out in wiggly little increments that made Crowley whine through his aftershocks, unexpectedly spilling again when Aziraphale’s thumb popped free. At some point he must have eased his halo from around the base of Crowley’s cock because Crowley had softened considerably. His legs had been shifted to a more natural sitting position and Aziraphale was rubbing at the sorest places with palms full of divine warmth. Aziraphale met Crowley’s lips with the ghost of a touch, Crowley’s response tacky and graceless.
When his breath evened and his tears dried, his corporation was entirely human-seeming once more. Not quite ready to look at Aziraphale, Crowley gazed further into the bookshop.
It was in ruins.
His wings had knocked aside anything that might have been in their path, which was only to be expected. But books and knickknacks and souvenirs and clutter littered the aisles between shelves where spines were sure to be cracked and pages wrinkled. He couldn’t even escape the carnage by sitting back; stuffing exploded every which way around him as his eyes flitted from side to side, and he distinctly remembered more breaking of glass while he’d pulled the armchair nearly in half with his bare hands.
And yet Aziraphale met his gaze with an expression so kitten-soft that Crowley thought he might melt through the floor. The light overhead mellowed to a warmer tone, dimmer as Aziraphale idly traced Crowley’s flanks.
"I believe we may have caused a blackout," he said, grinning as if letting Crowley in on a secret.
"M’yeah," was all Crowley could manage in reply. Really, he’d be surprised if the bulbs of the streetlamps lining the next few blocks were intact, to say nothing of the glass that must be decorating Aziraphale’s gorgeous Persian rugs. At least the skylight was in one piece. "Erm, ‘bout the shop…"
Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, that? Never to fret." To Crowley’s shock, he gestured broadly; a surge of angelic power, a little bibbidi-bobbidi-boo, and A.Z. Fell and Co. was exactly as it had been when Crowley had drunkenly stumbled in. Aziraphale turned back to him, beaming. "Shall we clean up, darling? I would love to run us a bath."
Crowley stared. "You never let miracles touch your boo– Wait, wait, wait, wait. We?"
A rush of pink coloured Aziraphale’s cheeks, this of all things turning him shy. "Well, ehem. Yes. Together, if you must know."
"Oh, I must," Crowley agreed, nosing into his favourite place on Aziraphale’s throat and pointedly nipping the skin. Aziraphale, rutting against the bloody chair leg until he came was a sight that Crowley wished he could have witnessed himself. That Aziraphale had done so while his lips were pressed to his own fucking halo earned him another chastising bite.
"Are you feeling any better, my dear?" Aziraphale pulled his fingers through the tangle of Crowley’s hair, peppering gentle kisses between temple and jaw.
Crowley pressed his face further into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. "Don’t want to say it, but… Yeah. I do." He should probably feel shame about it, but all that filled him was an afterglow that nearly shone from every pore.
"Not that I would want this all the time—I quite enjoy our dynamic as it is, you know—but, possibly, in the future, would you consider permitting me the honour of doing this for you again? Only as the need arises, you understand."
Was he–
He was rambling. Aziraphale was nervous. The being who had just Dommed Crowley into next week was squeezing whiteness into his own fingers with nerves. Crowley just had to kiss the bashfulness from Aziraphale’s pretty mouth.
"‘Long as it’s not all the time," Crowley allowed.
"Then will you come up to a bath? I have the most wonderful new scented oil and I can wash your hair for you." Aziraphale’s blue eyes were huge and beseeching. He needed the closeness just as much, Crowley realised, thoughts still sluggish and heavy.
Still, it made giving in almost as easy as breathing: "Sure, angel. Let’s have a bath."