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The evening is hot. The day had been hot too; no, the whole bloody month had been hot. Not the light, breezy, fun summer day kind of hot that made you want to get a 99 Flake and spend the afternoon on a picnic blanket at the park; the oppressive muggy kind of hot that traps every particle of dust and dirt and holds it there, just waiting to deposit it directly on your skin as you innocently walk along the street.
Crowley hates it. He’s a desert snake by nature: give him a dry heat and he’d be in his element but this oppressive warmth is another thing entirely. Outside, the thick, still air is catching and holding everything – the pollution, the stink of urine and rotting vegetables, all the normal London smells normally kept at least partially at bay – at street level. As a consequence Crowley has barely left his flat - high-rise enough to catch the occasional hint of a breeze and be clear of at least the worst of the smell - in over a fortnight. Overheated, sweaty and driven half to distraction by boredom: Crowley is just about ready to burst.
He can’t settle to anything tonight, either. He’s tried listening to music, reading, trolling people on Reddit – nothing is sticking. His skin is itchy; his blood is fizzy. Every time he sits down to do something his thoughts wander to places they shouldn’t and before he knows it he’s on his feet again, pacing paths through the flat in a bid to outrun himself.
Needless to say, it’s not working.
Fuck. There’s only one thing for it, then.
He’s going to bed.
*
The bookshop is deliciously cool. Decades ago, after that first – and only – horrifying time that Aziraphale had discovered a spot of brown mould growing on one of the books, he had miracled the atmosphere of the shop to consistently hold the very best conditions. Never too hot or too cold, never too dry or too humid. Always just right, come rain or shine. It was particularly nice in this sort of weather. Although, Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to mind it too much. Of course he felt sorry for the poor souls who had no choice but to be out and about in it every day, and he could do without the occasional whiff of the pub’s bins which still managed to find its way into the shop, but the street is quieter and he’s had far fewer potential book buyers to discourage than usual. On balance, it’s a net-positive. He’s getting lots of reading done.
There is something, though. Something in the air. It’s making Aziraphale’s skin tingle in a not-unpleasant way.
He doesn’t pay his body an awful amount of mind, generally speaking. Oh, he looks after it and tends to its occasional needs; he dresses it with, he believes, a modicum of flair and gives it the very best food and drink but beyond that it occupies little of his attention. But sometimes, just once in a blue moon, it perks up – so to speak – and demands a little more. And it seems that tonight might be one of those nights.
There is no sin in taking pleasure in one’s corporeal form. Whatever the official line might have been once, Aziraphale has been on Earth long enough to know that. But that doesn’t mean he likes to just… give in to it. It’s partly that he likes to think that he’s in control: that, no matter what his form wants, it is he who makes the decisions on what it does. He’s been tested over the years – there’ve been six-thousand of them, of course he has – but Aziraphale rather prides himself on being the victor over his lesser urges. So long as he chooses to be the victor, anyway.
There is also very simply the fact that not giving in – or, not straight away – can feel rather lovely. Especially when he gets to a certain point and decides that he has been quite patient enough.
*
The plan isn’t working. Crowley can’t sleep. He can’t find the right position, can’t quiet his brain long enough to nod off, and the more he tosses and turns the stickier his skin feels and the more the sheets cling to him in the worst way and the closer the air feels.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ he growls into the darkness, kicking the thin sheet off entirely and coming to rest finally on his back. The darkness says nothing back.
What he’d do, if the streets below didn’t stink worse than hell on a bad day, would be to get dressed, hop in the Bentley and zip over to the bookshop. Aziraphale would be up; Aziraphale was always up. He’d break out a decent bottle of wine, or maybe whisky, and they’d drink until the small hours when Crowley would probably fall asleep on that annoying scratchy sofa in the back room. Then Aziraphale would go back to stock taking or keeping his accounts or whatever boring thing he did to pass the nights in that dusty place, and in the morning he’d bring Crowley a coffee in a takeaway cup.
It sounded disgustingly domestic. Crowley fucking longed for it. But turning up in the middle of the night out of what was moments away from a pea-souper just for, what? A glass of wine and a chat? That came off a bit too desperate even by Crowley’s standards.
He could perhaps… just check in with Aziraphale though. Just to check that he was alright. For Crowley’s own peace of mind. Maybe then he might be able to sleep?
There was, of course, the option of just picking up the phone and saying “Hi Angel, just checking that none of the books have melted in the heat, and also wondering if you’re missing me like I’m missing you,” but again… bit desperate. So, instead, he does something that he doesn’t do very often, and reaches out for Aziraphale with his mind.
It’s one of those features that comes with the whole ‘supernatural being’ thing. It’s not psychic, not exactly, but Crowley can feel whenever anybody like him – demon, or angel – is in the vicinity. Like a little scratchy feeling at the back of his brain; someone about 80 metres that way is not a Someone. It came in useful, especially when you were trying to evade heavenly or hellish forces. And it turned out that, given enough proximity and enough time, it could be… fine tuned. The archangel Michael could be standing in the next room and Crowley wouldn’t have a clue what was inside their head – which would be a mercy – but Aziraphale was different. If it was quiet, if he concentrated hard enough, he could make out the fuzzy shape of Aziraphale’s thoughts. Well, his feelings, really. It wasn’t mind reading really, more… emotional scrying. He could tell if Aziraphale was bored, or peckish, or content. He could tell when he was happy or when he was about to do something really fucking stupid. There was a particular brand of spirited self-assuredness that usually heralded the latter.
Crowley had never asked Aziraphale if he could do the same thing in return. He’d always just sort of assumed that Aziraphale would be far too polite for that sort of thing.
And it wasn’t like Crowley did it all the time. Just… occasionally. And it had meant he’d been in time to get Aziraphale out of multiple scrapes that would have certainly discorporated him so it all balanced out, really. And if it made him feel a bit calmer, a bit… well, comforted… then surely it was fine.
So Crowley lies in the dark and concentrates, reaching out towards Soho and finding the little flame that is Aziraphale. He relaxes and lets Aziraphale get brighter in his mind, filling up his senses, breathing him in. And Aziraphale is-
Oh.
Oh fucking hell.
*
‘Ah.’
Aziraphale slides into the claw foot tub, sighing happily at the small shock of the hot water claiming his skin and trying not to splash any water over the tea lights placed artfully around the rim. Just about anyone else in all of London might have shuddered at the thought of a hot bath in this weather, but it’s one Aziraphale’s favourite little pleasures and he’ll be damned if a bit of warm weather is going to stop him from enjoying it when he feels like it.
He can, of course, simply miracle himself clean whenever he likes. And he does, often, as a touch up between baths. But, he thinks as he soaps up the flannel and begins to glide it over his arms and chest, this is one of those things that humans really have right. There just really is no substitute for a proper bath.
He washes carefully, methodically, making sure to clean behind his ears and in between his toes. Once he’s sure that no smidgen of dirt is left to be found anywhere on his body he carefully rinses and folds the flannel, and drapes it on the edge of the tub where it can drip-dry into the water. And, the job at hand complete, he allows himself to slip almost down to his neck in the near-scalding water. He’s spent the better part of the evening working his way through a rather fine bottle of
Cuvée Noblesse and he takes a sip before putting the glass safely out of harm’s way on the side table he keeps by the bath for precisely this purpose.
Before coming upstairs to the bathroom he had put a record on down in the shop, and the strains of Tchaikovsky drift up the spiral staircase and into the steamy room. Aziraphale closes his eyes and lets his body relax. Oh, he’s waited quite long enough now, he thinks. There’s a shivering at his fingertips and an aching between his legs that won’t be ignored any longer and truly, he’s been patient enough.
His left hand slides down over the soft curve of his stomach, fingers trailing the soft fuzz of hair until they meet the curlier, denser thicket at the joining of his thighs. Aziraphale lets out a steadying breath and slowly parts his knees – just a little, just enough – to slip his hand down, down, probing at the flesh there so gently it makes him nearly shake. He has a vulva today; it’s generally his preferred configuration and, while he has certainly experimented with and greatly enjoyed others, tonight he sees no reason to deviate from the tested-and-true. What is it the humans say? “Don’t fix it if it isn’t broken?” Something like that.
And this – his breath stutters a little as he swipes a testing index finger over the tip of his already-swollen clitoris – is certainly not broken. Oh, yes, this is working just perfectly. There’s just one thing missing.
Aziraphale closes his eyes and turns his thoughts to Crowley. It’s… a little morally dubious, he’ll admit. One should not really pry into the private feelings of others, especially not when one is… well, doing this. But he knows for absolute certain that Crowley spies on him – perfectly innocently, he’s sure – on a fairly regular basis. He knows with equal certainty that Crowley doesn’t know that he knows. After all, it would be such a shame if he stopped. So he doesn’t feel too guilty as he concentrates his attention on Mayfair and the burning demonic presence located in a very particular flat high above the city, and slides his hand lower.
*
A little in shock, Crowley stares at his dark bedroom ceiling, panting just a little, and wonders just exactly how immoral it would be to see to his suddenly rock-hard cock.
In all the years that he’s been ‘checking up’ on Aziraphale he’s never walked in on him before. He wasn’t even sure that Aziraphale knew about masturbation, much less that he participated. And yet, from what he was witnessing, his pretty, sweet, innocent angel was settling himself in for what appeared to be a glorious evening of self-pleasure and Crowley, Satan save him, simply can’t look away.
Nonetheless, in a truly gargantuan act of self-restraint, watching – or rather, feeling – is all Crowley does for several minutes, his hands bunched in the sheets to keep them from straying. Aziraphale’s feelings wash over him and Christ, Crowley’s not sure whether he’s really never been able to sense Aziraphale this strongly before or whether his imagination is just doing a really job of filling in the gaps but it’s almost overwhelming.
Crowley is no stranger to pleasure, especially this kind, but he’s only ever experienced it from his own perspective before. He knows what he likes, knows what he feels and how to control it and manipulate it; can absolutely shag his own socks off when he wants to, but feeling someone else’s pleasure is a whole new thing entirely. Crowley’s pleasure is calculated, immediate; surging with each jerk of his wrist (or hips, on the most desperate nights when he grinds into the soft mattress and smothers his moans with a pillow.) Aziraphale’s feels… different. It pools warmly in his abdomen, growing and pulsing, lapping outwards like the tide coming in.
The sensations that aren’t his settle over Crowley’s body like a mist, simultaneously feeling and not-feeling them. It’s, quite frankly, the biggest fucking tease that Crowley has ever experienced; his body is receiving the signals his brain is sending loud and clear but it’s not enough. He can’t feel exactly what Aziraphale is doing to his own body, only the shimmering rush of endorphins it leaves in its wake, but his mind is doing a very good job of filling in the blanks and, all things considered, he’s perhaps the most achingly hard he’s been in his life.
Crowley whines, feeling the last of his resolve disintegrate, and reaches for his cock.
*
When Aziraphale looked for Crowley the very last thing he expected was to find Crowley already looking back.
For a second he’s aghast. It’s like being walked in on and only realising once you open your eyes – or, at least, that’s what he imagines it feels like. It’s never exactly happened before.
It knocks him off his stride so much, in fact, that it takes a few milliseconds for Aziraphale to process what’s happening. For a moment all he has is blind panic; then his brain kicks into gear and several realisations fall into his head all at once and vie for the most attention.
Firstly: Crowley has been looking for probably more than just the last couple of heartbeats.
Secondly: Crowley is still looking.
Thirdly: Crowley is not just looking, he is watching.
And the last, and crowning, realisation hits as Aziraphale focuses himself enough to properly look back: Crowley likes what he sees.
Aziraphale has intimate knowledge of what Crowley’s frustration feels like. Crowley is so often frustrated: at the traffic, at the divine plan, at Aziraphale. Aziraphale had thought he’d tasted every flavour of Crowley’s frustration but this one is new, and it’s delicious. This isn’t a bad frustration. This one wriggles in his chest; makes him yearn to be touched. Aziraphale takes a deep breath, slides further down under the bath water, and obliges.
He drags the tips of his middle and ring fingers up the edge of his labia – always so sensitive – before turning his attention to his clit and oh, it’s getting just exactly the reaction from Crowley that he’d hoped for. He can feel the way Crowley is aching; dying to touch himself and resisting. If he stretches his imagination just a little he can almost feel the way Crowley’s cock must be straining at his – trousers? Pyjamas? Aziraphale settles on underwear; it’s late enough that Crowley’s likely in bed, or at least in his bedroom, and while it’s not something they’ve ever discussed he doesn’t feel like Crowley is the pyjamas type – and begging for some friction.
If Crowley feels this good when he’s denying himself then Aziraphale can only guess how wonderful he’ll feel when he finally gives in. Aziraphale isn’t a big fan of guessing, though. He would prefer to know for certain, and he doesn’t think it will take an awful lot to break Crowley’s resolve.
It’s not exactly tempting, he reasons with himself. It’s just… helping a friend out of an unfortunate situation. It’s must be terribly uncomfortable, after all.
He increases the pressure on his clit, just a little, and starts moving his middle finger in small circles, letting himself occasionally brush against the sensitive tip but not too much, not yet. A pulling heat is growing behind his pelvic bone already and he doesn’t want this over too soon, not before Crowley has - ah!
Aziraphale feels Crowley’s will break and has to summon every last fibre of self-control not to come at the first touch of Crowley’s hand to his cock.
*
Well, fuck.
It makes sense, Crowley just about manages to think between the pounding of his heart and the absolute lack of blood in his brain. He’s never been able to feel Aziraphale so strongly before. It makes sense that a two-way connection would be clearer. It would just… have been better if he’d worked it out before.
The moment he’d touched himself – not even properly, just gripping himself through his underwear in utter desperation - Aziraphale’s pleasure had gone almost off the charts, so much that Crowley hadn’t been able to stifle the really un-demon-ly moan that had escaped him completely unbidden. Crowley might have been a bit slow on the uptake, just on this one occasion, but even he couldn’t miss what that meant.
Aziraphale is watching.
Aziraphale is watching me and touching himself about me touching myself and watching him.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Crowley is… quite impressed, really. He wouldn’t have thought the angel would have it in him. But it still sort of feels like he should stop because this has to be wrong, doesn’t it? Even if Aziraphale is evidently participating extremely enthusiastically, it’s still, at best, naughty. He really perhaps shouldn’t be doing this. Definitely. Probably.
But fuck, his hand on his cock feels so good and Aziraphale feels even better and the two together is fucking explosive, and, Christ, he wants Aziraphale to feel good doesn’t he? What sort of friend would he be, if he didn’t?
Crowley relaxes his shoulders, lets his surroundings fade away entirely, focuses everything he has on Aziraphale, and slips his hand under the elastic of his underwear.
*
Aziraphale gasps as Crowley’s hand gets to work, his own fingers striving to match Crowley’s rhythm. He can feel it, feel the pulse of it, the way that Crowley’s blood is racing and he matches pace, fingers stroking his clit just so, his own heart speeding in his chest. He’d felt the moment of hesitation when Crowley had evidently realised he was here, and had equally felt the way that Crowley had doubled down seconds later. Aziraphale will take that as permission, even if he hadn’t felt the way Crowley didn’t just allow him to watch but was letting him in: make yourself comfortable, enjoy the show.
If he closes his eyes he can almost imagine that Crowley is here, can almost hear his stuttering breaths and low whines as he touches himself, can nearly feel how Crowley would run his hands over Aziraphale’s body, encouraging and assisting him. Aziraphale whimpers into the steamy bathroom air. There’s a coiling, tightening in his pelvis but it’s not enough; he wants more, wants better. Wants what he knows Crowley would give him, if only Crowley were really here.
He hooks a leg up on the side of the bath and it’s just enough to - ah- yes- - reach the hand that isn’t working on his clit between his legs and slide his index and middle fingers inside his vagina. Not deep, only up to the second knuckle, but it’s enough to provide the friction against his g-spot that he’s been so desperately needing. Oh heaven, oh God; he can’t hang on much longer.
*
Crowley has barely got started and he’s almost finished.
Fuck, it would be embarrassing if it didn’t feel so good. Curled halfway on his side, underwear not even off, just pushed hurriedly down far enough and binding his thighs together; cock hot and slippery in his hand as his hips jerk into his own fist: Crowley is quickly coming undone. The hand not on his cock hangs desperately onto a pillow and half-asphyxiates himself in an attempt to quiet the urgent whimpers he simply can’t keep inside. There’s no one to hear them but Crowley is convinced that Aziraphale will know and that’s simply not on. He can’t have Aziraphale know how desperate for this Crowley is; how many nights he’s lain here, sprawled in silk sheets sweating and shuddering as the Aziraphale of his imagination does the most ungodly things with his hands, his mouth; the way Crowley has imagined having every part of his body savoured and used. All of these Aziraphales and associated fantasies swirl in Crowley’s head and all the while he can feel the real angel ramping up; growing closer, closer and driving Crowley on with him. One of them, maybe both, is teetering on the precipice and Crowley honestly can’t tell who but one thing’s for sure: it will be the smallest victory but he’s saving face here if it ends him.
‘You first,’ he growls into the darkness – and summons the very last of his mental energy to visualise, as clearly as he possibly can, crashing his mouth against Aziraphale’s and sticking his tongue down Aziraphale’s throat.
*
Aziraphale is so close. It’s like being on a rollercoaster in the dark, climbing a hill that could top out at any moment, making your stomach fly and sweeping you screeching, helpless and exhilarated down and away.
The drop is near, any moment, for both of them. He longs to feel Crowley’s orgasm, to know he’s brought the demon to his knees – figuratively, at least. Although the thought of what else Crowley could do on his knees is one he’ll have to put carefully away for next time. And he could force it; could ease off and make Crowley cross the finish line first for his own gratification, could let Crowley’s orgasm pull him down too. But he can feel Crowley’s wants, the clearest he’s known them in 6,000 years, and Crowley wants Aziraphale to win this race. And Aziraphale is frequently inclined to give Crowley what he wants.
And just then, just at the right moment as Aziraphale twists the fingers of one hand against his g-spot and drags the fingers of the other over the most sensitive spot on his clit, he feels Crowley’s mouth against his: a near-corporeal kiss full of heat, lust and desperation and Aziraphale is lost and gone. He comes with a force that shocks him, gasping Crowley’s name and slopping enough water over the side of the bath to extinguish at least half the tea lights.
*
Aziraphale’s orgasm rocks through Crowley’s body, pulsing and contracting muscles he doesn’t currently possess, sending jolts of pleasure through his brain and his body and – oh Satan – it’s too much, too much; it drags Crowley over the edge and he mewls into the pillowcase as he comes over his hand and his stomach. It might last for seconds or hours; Crowley has no idea but, when he comes back to himself, his whole body is filled with the warmest glow.
No, he realises after a second, not his body. Aziraphale’s.
It’s… nice. Crowley has never felt quite this nice before.
With a flick of his wrist he miracles himself – and the sheets – clean and settles back to bask in their shared afterglow.
Then, the telephone rings.
*
Aziraphale towels himself off just enough to not be dripping water on the floor and then, thinking better of it, miracles himself dry and dressed and sorts out the flood on the bathroom floor at the same time.
The aftershocks of his orgasm are still fluttering through his vulva. It’s heavenly.
Aziraphale straightens his bowtie and makes his way down the spiral staircase and into the shop. He walks to his desk, picks up the telephone and dials the familiar number. He fancies that his reflection, a little ghostly in the dark shop window, has a tinge of pink in its cheeks.
Crowley picks up on the fourth ring. ‘Aziraphale?’ he says, and, oh, hearing his own name said in a voice so wrecked makes Aziraphale feel like he might discorporate on the spot.
With an effort, he pulls himself together and clears his throat. ‘Crowley.’
‘That was… you were…’
If Aziraphale wasn’t blushing before he most definitely is now. He makes sure, when he replies, not to let it enter his voice. ‘I… quite agree. But,’ he hurries on before Crowley can interrupt him, ‘I do believe that a certain amount of romancing first is actually traditional. For future reference.’
He hangs the telephone up with a click and smiles at the thought of the expression which he knows Crowley will be wearing. He thinks he got his point across.
Preening a little, Aziraphale goes back to his book and, quite satisfied, loses himself in literature.
A mile or so away, Crowley stares at the ceiling for several hours and wonders exactly what he’s gotten himself into.