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Crowley sprawled on the sofa, one leg on, one off, watching Aziraphale move books around the shelves of the closed bookshop. The angel was wearing the new trousers he'd recently acquired. He'd looked exasperated when Crowley had expressed surprise. 'Really, my dear, don't look so shocked. I do update my wardrobe periodically, you know. I know I'm a bit out of date but I'm hardly dressed for the eighteen hundreds, am I?' Crowley was fairly sure that his pocket watch, and quite possibly the waistcoat, was at least that old, but he decided not to bring it up, because the new trousers were very appealing.
They weren’t skinny, of course, because nothing on Earth was going to persuade Aziraphale to adopt that sartorial choice, and rightly so. But they were cut slimmer than his old ones. He wasn't wearing a jacket, so there was nothing to obscure the way the material was curving over Aziraphale's arse and thighs, stretching every time he took a step up or down the ladder he was using to reach the higher shelves. Crowley was, in a very pleasant sort of way, losing his mind.
He picked up his phone and told himself to behave. Their relationship had moved on, and he could look and touch now, which was wonderful, but Aziraphale was busy. He had work to do. He didn’t need a horny demon distracting him every time he had to get something done. Besides, if he made too much of a pest of himself he might be ejected from his comfortable spot, and that didn't bear thinking about.
He tried to distract himself by writing outrageous, inflammatory things on a parents’ WhatsApp group he’d somehow managed to join for the local secondary school. Musing whether it was suspicious that Karen had won two prizes in the last raffle, snidely commenting that 'some' parents let their children have far too much 'screen time', and suggesting that drinking alcohol at after-school events set a 'bad example' and perhaps the parent-teacher association should only serve alcohol-free wine next time. The horrified responses to that idea were genuinely hilarious.
But it wasn’t long before his eyes slid up from his phone. Aziraphale had also procured new shirts, again in a slightly slimmer cut, and the new shape did wonders for his broad shoulders and powerful arms. Crowley was going to have find out the name of the angel's tailor and make sure the man had a long and healthy life ahead of him, because that kind of genius needed to stick around.
This particular shirt was white, a change from the angel's usual pale blue, and the crisp, miraculously crease-free material was tucked into his waistband, utterly refusing to come even a little bit loose. More was the pity. Crowley imagined burying his nose in the broad expanse of cotton across Aziraphale's back, sliding his hands along his arms, over his sides, tugging the fabric at his waist so that it escaped whatever angelic grip was keeping it in place, pushing it up ...
"... what do you say?"
Crowley started out of his daydream, realising he'd been asked a question. "Uh, what?"
Aziraphale turned to face him. "I said, I thought perhaps we could stay in tonight. Have something light for dinner. If I keep eating four course meals, I might pop out of these new clothes." He smiled sheepishly.
I'll gladly pop you out of those clothes, thought Crowley. "Sure, angel," he said, "Whatever you like."
"Are you all right, dear boy? You look flushed."
"M'fine. Don't worry about me. You get on with your book moving stuff."
Aziraphale's mouth quirked and he tipped his head to the side thoughtfully. "It is rather warm in here, isn't it?"
"S'it? Hadn't really noticed." Crowley stretched his arms over his head and yawned.
The angel studied him for a moment, then leant against the bookshelf behind him, extended his right arm, twisted his wrist, and unclipped his gold cufflink. He dropped it carefully into his trouser pocket.
Crowley froze mid-stretch and stared, eyes wide.
Aziraphale grinned wolfishly and carefully rolled up his sleeve. Then he repeated the process with the other arm.
"Ngk," said Crowley.
The angel pulled the knot from his bowtie, slid the material through his collar and let that drop into his trouser pocket too, before undoing the top button of his shirt. "That's better," he said.
Crowley squirmed, his usual ridiculously tight jeans suddenly feeling uncomfortable. "I'm gonna discorporate," he muttered.
"Oh, don't do that, darling, at this point the paperwork would literally be hellish."
"Please come here."
Aziraphale approached the sofa and dropped down to place his lips on Crowley's. Crowley slid his fingers into his fluffy curls and kissed a little harder, but Aziraphale drew back.
"I've still got some, what did you call it – book moving stuff? – to finish," he murmured. "But feel free to keep watching. I really don't mind, dear boy."
Crowley's head fell back onto the arm of the sofa with a soft thump. "Wasn't just watching," he muttered, waving his phone. "Very busy with... demonic wiles."
Aziraphale chuckled low in his throat and turned back to face the shelves. "Of course."
Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, determined not to look at that arse. At least, not for the next few minutes.
You know," Aziraphale said casually, over his shoulder, "I really don't mind. Anything."
"What?"
"Make yourself as comfortable as you like. Any way you like. The door's locked. Any way."
Crowley's phone fell from his fingers and hit the rug on the floor with a soft thump.
"What d'you—" he started, but Aziraphale had disappeared into the maze of shelves.
Crowley took a deep breath he didn't need. No, he told himself. He couldn't be suggesting what Crowley's fevered brain was inferring he was implying. He probably only meant... roll up your own sleeves, help yourself to something cold from the fridge. Definitely not... not.
He gave himself a little shake and reached down to retrieve his phone. Then he stopped, frowning. There was something in the air now. Not quite a sound, not quite a scent, not exactly a vibration either, familiar but yet, not. It curled around him, bright and warm. He closed his eyes and fell back onto the sofa cushions. It was... nice. Smooth and soft with a little bit of an edge. Felt the way skin-warmed brandy tasted. There was no urgency to it. Nothing harsh. Just a pleasant, delicious heat that made his skin tingle but, at the same time, left him calm and languid. It was sunny afternoons. It was dozing in front of a fire. It was evening drinks and meandering conversations and laughter.
Crowley let his senses roll in it, like a cat through catnip. Eyes still closed, he heard Aziraphale's footsteps return and smelled the angel's familiar scent: vanilla and breakfast tea, old books and fresh rain. The gold-warm sensation was still there, stronger now, gentle vibrations resolving into whispers of oh go on then and perhaps just one and well, why not?'
Crowley had experienced other demons' temptations before. They were generally more compulsion than temptation—black, sticky, careless things that flattened the inhibitions of everyone in the general vicinity, whether target or not, and caused a lot of messy fallout. Often, of course, Hell didn't care overmuch about that, but there was a reason Crowley was sent to do the delicate work. He was subtle. He was precise. He worked on exactly the person he was meant to be working on, never letting anything leak beyond that individual. He never pressured. He never needed to, because, what Crowley understood that other demons did not was that genuine choice was more intoxicating than any sort of compulsion could ever be.
This was easily as good as some of his best work.
Crowley's fingers lightly stroked his own thigh and heat bloomed at the base of his spine. His cock throbbed in the tight confines of his jeans. He could undo his fly. Release some of the pressure. Aziraphale wouldn't mind. He'd said he wouldn't mind. His fingers twitched a little closer.
Oh, go on then. Why not?
"Aziraphale?" Crowley mumbled, eyes still closed.
The angel's voice was honey and single malt, the soft lap of distant waves and the slide of cool silk. "Yes, my dear?"
Crowley sighed. He wanted to roll over. He wanted to grind into the sofa cushions. Or maybe just pull his cock out and slide his hand over his own length, right here, in the open. Exposed. Cool air touching his skin. His palm feeling the heat, the solid hardness. And then the pure, unadulterated relief of skin sliding over skin. The crest of pleasure. The boneless, dreamy sensation that came after release.
An anxious part of his mind told him that he shouldn't. Aziraphale wouldn't want him doing that on his sofa. And besides, it was... selfish. Too self-focused. He should be taking care of Aziraphale. He should...
He should...
Oh why not? What's the harm? Who's counting?
Aziraphale chuckled, and the atmosphere popped like a soap bubble. Crowley blinked his eyes open. The angel was standing at the end of the sofa, studying him again, eyes dark and heavy lidded.
"Were you tempting me?" asked Crowley, shaking his head lightly.
Aziraphale chuckled again. "As if the angel of the Eastern gate could ever tempt the Serpent of Eden."
It had been so lightly-done that, for a moment, Crowley actually wondered if his fevered imagination had conjured the whole thing.
"After all, it's not as if I've ever had cause to perform any temptations over the last few hundred years."
Ah.
"Angels don't get sent to tempt. Well," his voice dipped so that it was little more than a rumble, somehow bypassing Crowley's ears and heading straight for his groin, "except when they lose coin tosses to wily demons."
Crowley groaned. "You're good."
"Of course. I am an angel."
"You're good at this."
"Am I? I rather feel I should apologise. I shouldn't have. Not without warning. Forgive me."
Crowley blinked. "N'thing to forgive. Was nice. But, why?"
"Hm, call it professional curiosity."
"Really?"
"You've been lying there, staring at my back for hours. No—" he said as Crowley started to say something, "don't deny it. You have. And you've been anxious about it. Worrying what I might think."
"Didn't want to be a pest," muttered Crowley.
"You could never be. I told you, I don't mind. I like having you here. Anyway, I suppose I wondered if I could persuade you to... forget about your anxieties for a moment. And I've never tried tempting anywhere near you before. That was the whole point of the Arrangement, after all—we were never in the same place. I was rather curious as to what you'd think of my skills."
"I think I left those temptations in excellent hands."
Aziraphale's feathers weren't visible, but nevertheless, he preened. "You know, that's lovely to hear. I thought I had it, but I do appreciate the opinion of a professional."
"Very subtle touch. Almost believed you when you said that thing about the angel of the Eastern gate not being able to tempt the Serpent of Eden. Thought I must be imagining things."
"Oh that's excellent!"
"Yeah. Now, please, will you come here?" Crowley palmed his cock through the denim of his jeans in an effort to get more comfortable and ended up groaning at the sensation. He was unbearably hard. "Please, angel."
Aziraphale's voice dropped low again, although there was nothing miraculous in it now. It was just him. "You look delicious, lying there like that. I rather think I'd like to watch."
Yet again, Crowley found himself staring. "You're not serious."
"Oh, but I am." He leaned back against the bookshelf, casually folding his still-bare forearms and crossing one ankle over the other.
"Fuuuuck."
"Later. I promise."
"Uhh. But what about you? What do you get out of..." Crowley trailed off.
"Firstly, darling, no one's keeping score. It's not as if we're short of time. Secondly, I get to watch, and please believe me, that's extremely enjoyable."
Oh.
Crowley pressed his hand over the bulge in his jeans. "Are you sure? Because, ngghh..." He opened his fly, pushed his jeans a few inches down his hips, and let his cock spring free. He hissed with relief.
Aziraphale laughed, low and throaty. "Actually I might be starting to question my decision. You look delectable. I could eat you. But no," he continued before Crowley could say anything, "I can't always go around cramming everything I like the look of into my mouth."
Now it was Crowley's turn to laugh. "I wouldn't complain, angel."
"I know, but I'm going to enjoy this. Really."
Crowley held his gaze for a moment, then slicked his hand with a thought and slid it up his cock. Oh, but it felt good. A slow, lazy slide up, and back down again, pulling slightly at the skin, the dark purple head completely exposed. His cock pulsed, a bead of pre-come appearing at the slit. He stroked it gently over the sensitive skin and sternly told himself not to speed up too quickly.
Aziraphale's mouth was slightly open. "Oh," he whispered, "that's beautiful. You're beautiful."
A tiny moan escaped Crowley's lips as his other hand slid under his shirt. "'M Wearing too many clothes. Help me."
Looking a little dazed, Aziraphale raised his hand and clicked his fingers. Crowley's clothes faded into the aether, not the in the usual instantaneous way, but rather in threads and specks, disappearing like smoke, the angel's power delicately tracing over his skin, leaving him breathless. He tipped his head back exposing his neck, knowing very well how much Aziraphale enjoyed the line of his throat, and pinched his nipple between his long fingers, letting it harden before switching to the other. Then he let his hand drift down to tug gently at his balls, all the while slowly fucking his other fist.
Crowley pointedly fixed Aziraphale's gaze, and then raked his eyes down his body, making it very obvious that he'd noticed the heavy bulge in his trousers. Oh, those fucking trousers. He sped up just a little. Aziraphale's hips jerked.
The angel slowly uncrossed his arms, his right hand dropping to his groin, shifting himself. "Mmm," he said, closing his eyes. It wasn't very different from the sort of sound he often made when faced with a perfectly caramelised crème brûlée
"D'you know," muttered Crowley, hand sliding faster now, "that every time I watch you eat, I lose my mind... ungh... you make those fucking noises and... ahhh... I fucking throb for it. It's torture. But... uhh.... so good. I spend half my time trying to find the best restaurants, just so I can watch you rhapsodise over food. And then—"
"Fuck," mumbled Aziraphale, eyes so locked on Crowley it was as though he didn't dare to even blink. He'd stopped touching himself, and his hands were now gripping the edge of the bookshelf he was leaning against, so hard his knuckles were turning white.
"Mmm... and then... and then..." Crowley's thoughts were scattering, hot pleasure flooding his groin as he continued to stroke his cock with one hand and massage his balls with the other. His cock pulsed again. He slid his hand up, twisting his wrist slightly at the top. "I'd... go back to my flat and... do this. Twice. Three times. And... it was never enough."
"Oh!"
"Sometimes, I... ah... didn't even get back there. Pulled the Bentley over somewhere and..." he groaned desperately, "just did it right there. Needed it. Couldn't think about anything else."
"You..." Aziraphale was breathing unevenly now, but still not touching himself. A spot of material darkened on his trousers as his cock twitched very obviously through the fabric.
"Once..." Crowley's hand was moving fast now. He couldn't stop himself. "Once I didn't even get that far. Went to the gents in the restaurant... uhhh... locked myself in a cubicle, leant against the door and..." the memory was sharp, depraved, delicious.
"Fuck," groaned Aziraphale, eyes closing, hips pushing forward to chase friction that wasn't there. "Oh fuck."
Crowley came, hard, thick, white ropes covering his chest and stomach. He continued stroking, gasping, riding out the pulses. Aziraphale was there in two strides, dipping his fingers in the come and licking them clean.
"That was marvellous," he whispered.
Crowley laughed weakly. "Glad you enjoyed it."
Aziraphale kissed him and Crowley tasted himself, bitter and umami, on his tongue. "I did. Very much. Let's do it again."
"What, now??"
"No, silly, another day. Now I believe I promised something about fucking."
"You did, yeah..."
"I hope you're going to hold me on it."
Crowley shook his head fondly, "hold you to— you say these things on purpose, don’t you, angel?"
Aziraphale's eyes glinted. "Perhaps."
Crowley threw his head back and laughed. And then he clicked his fingers.
They fell backwards onto Aziraphale's bed upstairs. It had ridiculous tartan sheets and pillowcases, but the mattress was the very best quality—yielding enough to feel soft, yet firm enough to provide support. The angel liked his comforts, after all, and even if he didn't sleep much, there was no need to be uncivilised about things.
"I feel over-dressed," said Aziraphale, looking down at himself. He raised his own hand, but Crowley reached out to stop him.
"Did I tell you," he said darkly, "how much I like these new clothes?"
"I believe you said something when you first saw them, yes."
"I mean, how much?
"Ah, perhaps I haven't heard your full opinion?"
"No... I'm not sure I've made myself completely clear." Crowley rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled over the bed so that he was behind Aziraphale, his head resting on his shoulder, mouth close to his ear. "Your arse," he said, the flat of his hands sliding over the angel's hips, "looks fucking magnificent in these trousers. I wasn't staring at your back, you idiot, I was starting at your arse. I couldn’t control myself. All I could think about," his voice was barely a hiss, now, "wasss getting my handsss on it and," he slid one hand between Aziraphale's legs, twisting his wrist to cup his cock and allowing his forearm to press gently against his balls.
"Ohhhh," moaned Aziraphale, leaning into Crowley's chest. "Oh, that... that feels good. Don't stop."
"Mmm I'm not going to." He stroked through the fabric, and Aziraphale jerked his hips, his breathing already uneven. Crowley pressed his face into the shirt, much as he'd imagined earlier. "I like this, too," he whispered, other hand sliding around the angel's waist. "Your shoulders look, oh, so good. And your arms. You know how much I lose it over your arms at the best of times. These rolled up sleeves are fucking obscene." He was already half-hard again, and he pressed against the angel's back. "But the trousers. Ngh." Crowley dug his fingers into the fabric on either side of Aziraphale's cock, so that he almost, but not quite, had him gripped, and moved his hand upwards.
"Ah!"
"That good, angel?"
Aziraphale drew in a long, shaky breath. "I'm glad you like my trousers, but if you carry on, I fear I'm going to ruin them."
Crowley chuckled, low and throaty. "I'll miracle it away."
"But," said Aziraphale, suddenly twisting and slipping out of Crowley's grip, catching him unawares. He pushed him down onto the bed, holding his arms over his head. "I'd always," he punctuated his words with hot kisses. "Know it was there. Underneath."
Crowley wriggled, relishing the sensation of being pinned down. "One more reason for me to lose my mind every time you wear them."
"True. Still. Fucking was promised, and I know," Aziraphale let go of his arms and dropped his lips to Crowley's chest, down the planes of his stomach, along the sharp lines of his hip bones. "You wouldn't want me to be disappointed."
Crowley whined and threw his arm over his eyes. Aziraphale giggled and gave his cock a long, luxurious lick, finishing by closing his lips around the head in a perfect 'o' and humming. Crowley felt himself go from half-hard to fully hard in an instant, and Aziraphale released him, popping his lips delightedly.
"Luscious," he said, holding Crowley's gaze, his blue-green eyes dark and stormy.
Crowley's eyes dropped to the bulge in Aziraphale's trousers, his own cock twitching as he imagined how hard he must be. How needy for friction. How desperate to slide against skin, feeling tightness and heat, finally letting the pressure build up and crest. The thought made him shiver with pleasure. "What happened to... ahh... not cramming things in your mouth, angel?"
"Oh, darling, it's me. How long did you expect that to last?" asked Aziraphale, his lips dropping to Crowley's balls and the delicate skin behind them. "Turn over for me."
Crowley scrambled to comply, resting on his elbows and knees, exposing his arse.
Aziraphale pulled one of the ridiculous tartan pillows underneath Crowley's hips, then pressed his mouth to the fleshy part of his buttock and bit, gently. Crowley moaned and he repeated the action on the other side, before planting his hands on his cheeks and exploring with his tongue.
Crowley ground into the pillow, the cool fabric delicious against his skin. Aziraphale's tongue was thick and firm, and very wet, and the sensation was filthy and oh, so good. The angel had read every book on sexual practices worth studying, a really quite astonishing amount of erotic literature and, for good measure, several seminal texts on human anatomy. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he was going to do it all, and Crowley was going to fall apart.
Aziraphale withdrew his tongue, dropped a kiss on Crowley's entrance, and then slipped well-slicked finger inside. Crowley wailed.
"So good for me," murmured Aziraphale. "So nice."
"Bastard," groaned Crowley in a broken voice as white hot sparks shot up his spine. "Fuck!"
Aziraphale kissed his back and inserted another finger, and then another, stretching him open torturously slowly.
"Pleassse," Crowley hissed, lost.
"Since you ask so nicely," said Aziraphale, a wicked smile in his voice. Crowley heard the sound of a zip and the deep, hungry moan of an angel who'd finally put his hand on his own cock. Aziraphale withdrew his fingers and Crowley bit down hard on his lip at the feeling and then. And then.
Oh, Satan. Aziraphale pressed into him, and the thick slide of it was impossibly good, the slightest burn adding an exquisite edge to the sensation. He pushed deep, and Crowley felt fabric against his arse. The realisation that he still hadn't removed all his clothes was almost enough to make him come all over the pillow he was still grinding into.
"Oh, Crowley," murmured Aziraphale, drawing back and pushing back in, finding the perfect angle. "I've been thinking about this all day. You have no idea."
Crowley was actually going to discorporate, and what a way to go. He tried to collect enough of his scattered thoughts to produce coherent speech. "Yeah?" he managed. Well, it was something.
"Mm, you," Aziraphale was moving faster now, hips snapping. "You always look so... enticing. And... oh... your hips," he pressed his fingers into Crowley's flesh, hard enough to leave bruises.
Crowley moaned, his cock already leaking. His balls tight and full of heavy heat. He already wanted to come again and surely, surely, Aziraphale's control was hanging by a thread at this point. "I'll bet," Crowley ground out, his voice uneven, "you're really fucking desperate to come."
The angel gasped, hips stuttering. "Oh, fuck, Crowley, if you start saying things like that I won't—"
"After watching me slide my hand all over my cock and... all over my balls and..."
"Ohhh..." Aziraphale was moving fast now, losing himself in it. Crowley grinned wickedly to himself.
"And now you're buried in my tight. Hot. Little. Arse."
"I... I..."
"Go on, do it. Let go. I want you to." Crowley's voice was dark, barely a growl.
"I... I'm..." Aziraphale slid his hand round to Crowley's cock, curled his fingers around it and slid his hand upwards as he snapped his hips again, hitting the right spot with exquisite precision. Crowley exploded, his vision going fuzzy-white at the edges, and felt Aziraphale follow him with hot, delicious pulses.
They collapsed on top of each other, breathing hard.
"That," said Aziraphale, after a few moments, "was spectacular."
"Mm," hummed Crowley. "Was."
Aziraphale shifted his weight so that he was lying on the bed, looking into Crowley's face. Crowley huffed a laugh. "You're still dressed."
"The clothes seemed to be working for you," said Aziraphale, smiling.
"Really were. Kind of rumpled now, though. Let me." Crowley made a small gesture and gently blew warm air over Aziraphale's chest. The shirt and trousers disappeared and then reappeared, neatly pressed and folded and secured to clothes hangers hanging over the wardrobe door, where the angel could see them.
Aziraphale smiled fondly. "Thank you."
"Shh," said Crowley, tugging at the covers and pulling them over the two of them. Aziraphale kissed him, and then rolled over and shuffled backwards so that Crowley's slender frame was pressed against his broad, finally naked, back.
Crowley buried his nose into Aziraphale's neck. "Do you know how much I..." he trailed off, as he often did.
"I do," Aziraphale saved him, as he often did. "I can feel it, all the time really. More now, that you're not actively trying to supress it. I love you, too." He reached up and back to push his fingers into Crowley's hair.
"Whatsup, angel?" asked Crowley, sensing something unspoken.
"Oh, well. This isn't... It's not a request, you understand."
"Mm?"
"I just want you to know that I know it's... difficult. So it... it does mean a lot to me when you say it. Because I know it's difficult, I suppose. Sorry, I didn't mean to sound like... oh, this is terribly selfish of me, and rather silly."
"S'not." Crowley stretched into the touch of his hand, raised his own and intertwined their fingers.
"Hm, it is. Forget I said anything.
"Love you, Aziraphale," mumbled Crowley into his skin, so softly it was barely a vibration. Not even words, really. One could make a case that nothing had been spoken, it was merely a whisper of air. But the angel heard it, and felt it, and that, really, was all that mattered.