Work Text:
Crowley changes, after the End.
They both change. Aziraphale relaxes in a way he never thought he would be able to. There is no one looking over his shoulder, no Home Office to, at best, trick and test. He can do as he will, for as long as he wants. Someday the real end will come, perhaps, but in these days, it's easy enough to understand that it's not going to be tomorrow.
And Crowley, Crowley unfurls. He always went to such efforts to seem lax, like he could just pour himself out and fill whatever space he needed to, but Aziraphale always saw through it. It took him centuries to learn, but he could always tell when Crowley was pushing himself, only getting by. It was a more than infrequent occurrence. Aziraphale, to his discredit, never really learned how to handle it; Crowley wanted badly to be taken at face value, so most of the time, Aziraphale did. In the end, and in the End, it hadn't done either of them any favors.
But Crowley now is different; he actually is so much closer to being that person, to really enjoying himself without having a tightly wound spring in his chest. His laugh is genuine, his smile wider. He would still like to think that he is very cool, which trips him up sometimes, but Aziraphale doesn't think they've ever in their existences had so much fun.
Aziraphale doesn't think anything of the way Crowley acts towards him, at first. From the moment Aziraphale takes his hand on the bus back to London, it seems the two of them are sealed. They make love in Crowley's fashionable, cold apartment, both of them knowing it may be the first and last time; they might both be destroyed, or even worse, horrifically worse, one of them might be destroyed. But they come through, somehow, and they are still whole, still a whole, and that is that.
So when Crowley is physically affectionate with him, Aziraphale neither minds nor expresses shock. Aziraphale feels a little scandalized the first time or two Crowley kisses him in public, but it melts quickly. Crowley keeps his hands all over him, an arm hooked around his waist as they walk or thrown over his shoulder when they sit next to each other. He likes to do this thing where he keeps a hand on the small of Aziraphale's back, and the warm promise of it does something pleasant to Aziraphale's insides.
That's not the whole of it. Crowley has this way of presuming things. He's learned Aziraphale's drink orders, his preferences for food, and he just sort of takes over. It baffles Aziraphale at the start, enough that he doesn't say anything, but the odd thing about it is that Crowley is never wrong. He would rather have the tiramisu than the napoleon; he does prefer French reds to Spanish ones. Something feels good about it, the choice being taken from Aziraphale's hands, the care and consideration that Crowley shows by doing it, by knowing exactly what Aziraphale needs, a cup of tea or a glass of wine or a bookmark or who knows what.
Sometimes Aziraphale feels like a crow is bringing him shiny objects. He finds this extremely funny, but it seems like the kind of thing Crowley would inexplicably find upsetting, so he keeps it to himself.
It's a good little while before all of this coalesces in Aziraphale's head. He turns the matter over more than once, like he has all these pieces that he can't seem to snap into place, a puzzle that only reveals its form once you turn it in a specific way. Crowley loves him, that much is certain; Crowley wants to do for him, and has done without the slightest request for permission. Aziraphale somehow finds himself not worried about it in the slightest, accepting his behavior without complaint.
Aziraphale is thinking about it in Crowley's flat; Crowley has fallen asleep facedown in bed, having just given Aziraphale several mind-blowing orgasms. Aziraphale is sitting up next to him, reading, but he's having trouble concentrating. Crowley has, consciously or not, thrown one proprietary arm over Aziraphale's lap, holding onto him even in sleep. It seems he's not willing to let Aziraphale get away, no matter Aziraphale's opinions on the subject.
Like it doesn't matter, because Aziraphale is a thing that he owns.
The realization strikes Aziraphale low in his belly, and for a moment he feels unbelievably exposed, butterflied open. Crowley owns next to nothing. He has some art, some plants, and a car, though they are not just art, plants, and a car. He gives them exceeding care, even as he likes it to seem like they're just extensions of him, to be handled casually. They are undeniably his possessions, to the point where they are part of his fabric. A Crowley without his Bentley is incomplete. Is a Crowley without his Aziraphale incomplete?
Aziraphale doesn't think he's unduly flattering himself by thinking so.
Aziraphale puts a marker in his book and sets it aside. He doesn't want to disturb Crowley, so he reaches into the air and pulls out a different book. He has several books of this nature, on the subject of things consenting adults might do; he collected them with no real purpose except that some of the writers had wandered through Soho and offered signed first editions. He's barely skimmed them, just enough to know that they vary in their balances of licentiousness and useful content.
He sits there reading all night; Crowley doesn't rouse until past noon. When he does, he blinks up at Aziraphale. "Angel?" he says fuzzily, taking in the scene of Aziraphale with a stack of books and his reading glasses. His nose wrinkles. "You didn't make toast?"
"I suppose I lost track of time," Aziraphale lies. Usually how it goes is that Aziraphale rises for breakfast, and the noise and scent of it wakes Crowley up. This time, Aziraphale wanted him to keep sleeping; it's possible he was stalling for time.
"Not surprising," Crowley says, and rather than getting up, he rolls onto his side, rubbing his forehead against Aziraphale's flank like a cat.
"I've been doing some reading," Aziraphale says.
"Also not surprising," Crowley says, and now he's kissing Aziraphale's stomach and paying no attention.
"I need you to sit up, dear," Aziraphale says.
Crowley pauses, frowning up at him in confusion. "Yeah, okay," he says. "What's the problem?"
"There's no problem," Aziraphale rushes to assure him.
Crowley reaches to the nightstand and puts his glasses on, and Aziraphale doesn't stop him. "Then what's the issue?" he says.
"It has come to my attention," Aziraphale starts; that's how he'd planned it out, but now it seems too formal. "That is, I have had some thoughts, and reading has merely clarified them."
"Okay," Crowley says.
"It has not escaped my notice that you behave, well," Aziraphale says. He takes a fortifying breath. "You behave as if you own me. It can be quite emphatic sometimes, though it has gone without comment from either of us thus far."
"My fault, angel," Crowley says, in a voice that breaks Aziraphale's heart. "Should have kept it together a little better. I'll back off."
"Perhaps I don't want you to back off," Aziraphale says delicately. "Perhaps you could do quite a bit more."
"Excuse me?" Crowley says, his glasses slipping down his nose as his eyebrows go up, wide yellow eyes exposed, shocked and guileless.
"I find the idea of being yours to be," Aziraphale says, looking for the right words, "enormously satisfying."
"Uh," Crowley says. "Uh, okay, shit, fuck, uh- so you, ah, you read about it?"
"I worry that these books are potentially out of date," Aziraphale says, waving a hand at the stack beside him. "But I have even less idea of how to find such things on the internet than I do normal topics."
"But you've got the basics, yeah?" Crowley says.
"Mmm," Aziraphale says. "I think perhaps I am the submissive, but you like performing service. It seemed like this was not an impossible configuration."
"Jesus bleeding Christ, angel," Crowley says, wild-eyed. "You just can't go around saying things like that."
"I just thought it might be nice if we were on the same page," Aziraphale says. "If you wanted to- to own me and to do for me, I think I would enjoy that immensely."
"What would you let me do?" Crowley says, fascinated, and it sends sparks up Aziraphale's spine. "How far would you take this?"
"I think I'd need to try out the limits a bit first," Aziraphale says. "But people wear collars, don't they?" His face brightens. "Oh, maybe with a little tag that says 'Property of Crowley,' that would be quite charming."
"Either this is a dream or I'm going to discorporate," Crowley mutters.
"I should have perhaps attempted to be less blunt," Aziraphale says. "But the idea of continuing to get deeper while dancing around the issue seemed-"
"Like it sucks, yeah," Crowley says.
"Precisely," Aziraphale says. He sighs. "Maybe I shouldn't have just thrown this at you. You are rather more subtle in these issues than I am."
"We can give subtlety a miss," Crowley says magnanimously.
"I just wanted everything to be very clear," Aziraphale says. "I do better that way."
"Oh, trust me, I know," Crowley says wryly. "I'm surprised that you brought this up, but not how you brought it up."
"It is rather like me, isn't it," Aziraphale muses.
"Are you really ready to move beyond the theoretical?" Crowley asks, his movements sinuous as he tosses Aziraphale's book onto the nightstand and crawls into his lap. Neither of them bothered to get dressed again last night, so they're pressed skin-to-skin. "It's all well and good, reading from books. A bit bloodless though, don't you think?"
"Some of them were quite- ah!" Aziraphale breaks off as Crowley bites his neck. "Quite explicit."
"Porn's even more useless," Crowley says. "No sense trying to learn anything with your hand in your pants."
"Perhaps you could teach me," Aziraphale says, and Crowley moans, biting him again.
"What if I just show you?" Crowley says, and in an instant he has his hands around Aziraphale's wrists. He raises them to the headboard, pinning them there. Aziraphale could overpower him in an instant, but he doesn't. Instead he lets Crowley kiss him, harsh and possessive and intoxicating. He's never done it in quite this way before, and Aziraphale finds himself enjoying it much more than he would have expected.
Crowley pulls away, and Aziraphale tries to follow him, wanting more. Crowley tsks at him. "I need you to keep still," he says, his hands tightening on Aziraphale's wrists in a way that makes Aziraphale's heart beat faster. "Will you do that for me?"
"I suppose," Aziraphale says.
"Then hold on to the headboard," Crowley says, releasing him. Aziraphale finds that there are now handholds for him to grip, and he wraps his hands around them, palms out. Crowley makes a low sound of approval. "Do you have any idea how fucking good you look like this? Like a feast, and I intend to have every bite."
This is different than the books made it sound; Aziraphale pictured this as an intellectual exercise, not a physical, overwhelming, tactile experience. Crowley has his mouth against Aziraphale's neck, biting down hard and sucking until Aziraphale gasps, and nothing is in Aziraphale's head except how much he wants more.
Crowley sits back, putting his hands on Aziraphale's chest and dragging them downwards. "I'm going to have fun with you," Crowley says. "I'll take everything I want from you, and you'll love it."
"Yes," Aziraphale gasps, as Crowley wraps a hand around Aziraphale's cock. "Oh, please, Crowley."
"Will you let me do everything I want to you, dear?" Crowley says into his ear, stroking him.
"I'm yours," Aziraphale says, and it tastes like honey in his mouth. "Do what you will to me."
"You are sheer perfection," Crowley says. "Gonna take only the finest care of my angel. Is that what you want?"
"Please," Aziraphale sighs.
"I'm going to spoil you rotten," Crowley says. His hand is quick and sure and slick on Aziraphale's cock, and Aziraphale can't stop himself from moving into it. "I'll give you every little thing you've ever dreamed of, every pleasure you denied yourself. And no one's going to stop me, least of all you."
"Never," Aziraphale says. "Oh, Crowley."
"No one else gets to touch," Crowley says, in a low voice that curls into Aziraphale, permeates him. "They all just have to sit and watch while I enjoy my prized possession."
Aziraphale gasps, caught by the image of it. Everyone would know, even if they didn't know they knew. They'd feel it radiating off of Crowley as Aziraphale can feel it now: like demonic force only not demonic, a feeling of power that Aziraphale can taste in the air. It's intoxicating, and Aziraphale is being overtaken by it, quite willingly.
"Getting close, angel?" Crowley says, before worrying Aziraphale's earlobe with his teeth.
"Yes," Aziraphale pants. "Oh, my love-"
Crowley moves his hand faster. "Then come for me, pet."
The back of Aziraphale's head impacts the headboard, but Aziraphale doesn't even feel it, too busy coming apart in Crowley's hand. He comes so hard it hits him in the chin, but that's nothing. The only thing is Crowley's hand on him, Crowley's words in his head. He can't remember the last time he came like that, and all it took was this, a declaration, a statement of intent.
"Oh," Aziraphale says, still breathless. "Oh goodness me."
"Alright there?" Crowley says, licking his hand clean in a way that makes Aziraphale want to get hard again immediately.
"That was a lot," Aziraphale says.
Crowley's face dims. "I can back off-"
"Don't you dare," Aziraphale says firmly. "But you didn't-"
"Don't worry about me," Crowley says.
"No, I insist," Aziraphale says, and Crowley groans as he unwraps his hands from the headboard and takes hold of Crowley's cock. "From my reading it seems very appropriate for me to take care of you in this regard."
"You are the most ridiculous thing ever created," Crowley says fondly.
"Then I'll stop," Aziraphale says.
"Not on your life," Crowley says, and Aziraphale begins to stroke him. "Think I might get used to that, angel. A little quid pro quo."
"Nothing of the kind," Aziraphale says. "This is a gift."
"A gift?" Crowley says.
"I'm giving you myself, aren't I?" Aziraphale says. "You should use me as you see fit."
Crowley groans. "If you keep talking like that, I will."
"I'm quite serious," Aziraphale says. "I want you to take me as you please. You don't know how exciting it is when you put your hands on me."
"You are amazing, angel," Crowley pants.
"And all yours," Aziraphale says, kissing him as he moves his hand faster.
"Fuck," Crowley says shakily. "Just a little more, almost there."
"Come on me," Aziraphale says impulsively, tightening his hand and moving faster. Crowley makes a scandalized noise, but instants later he's coming, painting Aziraphale with it. Aziraphale feels enormously pleased in a way that feels entirely foreign but deeply satisfying; he'd never let Crowley do that before, much less encouraged it, but it felt right. Something about all of this feels right.
"I feel ambushed," Crowley says, climbing off of Aziraphale and flopping down on his own side of the bed. "You ambushed me."
"I did no such thing," Aziraphale protests.
"Then what was it, hm?" Crowley says. "You stayed up all night reading dirty books and then had your way with me."
Crowley is being flippant and also not being flippant at all, and to Aziraphale's ears, it's far from subtle. He lays down next to Crowley, turning towards him, a hand on Crowley's stomach.
"My dear," Aziraphale says. "If I seem insincere, it's not by choice. I meant every word I said. Perhaps the culmination of it was a bit precipitous, but all I did was sum up what I think you've known for a while."
"I wasn't keeping it from you on purpose," Crowley says, and Aziraphale is sure he thinks that. "Didn't want to run you off, is all it was."
Aziraphale kisses him sweetly. "If you haven't run me off in all this time, you're not going to."
Crowley turns on his side, facing him. "So what is it you want to do, exactly?" he asks. "Give me something to work with here, angel, even if it's just one thing."
"A collar really does sound incredibly appealing," Aziraphale says. "I like-" He stops, considering. "It's just that I like it so much that-" He stalls out. "We're on our side, Crowley. You already claimed me."
"I did a bit," Crowley says.
"This is just the next level of that," Aziraphale says. "I want so dearly to be yours. I think that's what you want too."
"Aziraphale, you couldn't possibly be dense enough to think I don't want you with every fiber of my being," Crowley says.
"I was trying to be polite," Aziraphale says. "What is it that you want? I'm not the only person here. And I already said the ownership bit, so don't think you'll get away with reusing my answer."
"Oh, I didn't know there were rules of order now," Crowley says. His face grows contemplative. "I- the thing is- I care about you. I want to care for you. You shouldn't have to pour your own whiskey or polish your own shoes. If you're mine, you deserve to be taken care of."
"You've never polished a shoe in your life," Aziraphale says.
"And I'm not going to start," Crowley says. "That's what miracles are for."
"I think that sounds lovely," Aziraphale says, putting a hand on Crowley's hip. "When can we start?"
"You do jump with both feet, you know that?" Crowley says.
"I don't know why you think I'd stop now," Aziraphale says. "I've only been doing it for as long as you've known me."
"You did it before, too," Crowley says. "I just wasn't there to see it."
Crowley makes to get out of bed, and Aziraphale catches his wrist. "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to make you breakfast in bed," Crowley says, with the confidence of someone who can't cook and is going to perform some catering-related miracles. "Then I'm going to make you ride my cock until your legs give out."
"Oh," Aziraphale says, the desire hitting him in the stomach. "Oh, I like this arrangement."
Crowley pecks him on the lips, standing up. "Back soon," he says, walking away; he snaps his fingers, and a pair of low-slung pajama bottoms appears on him, accentuating his hips in a delicious way even though Aziraphale just got through seeing what was under them.
Aziraphale watches him go before sitting up in bed. He picks his book back up, trying to find his place. It seems even more pressing now that he be well-informed. He intends to thoroughly test the whole proposition, to the very best of his ability. It seems only sporting.