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Ware, Hertfordshire, 1690s
(on the way to Cambridge)
There was a thud against the inn bedroom's door. Aziraphale rolled over and blinked into the darkness. "Who's there?" he whispered.
No answer. Then the door opened, and closed, not quietly.
Aziraphale had snuffed the candles before going to bed, so it was too dark to see anything more than a liquid shifting of shadows. But he could hear the slight shuffle of feet working their way around the massive end of the bed.
He sighed. Wonderful. Just when he'd got all nice and comfy, too! Perfectly snuggled up and sinking into no less than three mattresses, the top one of luxurious down. And then plenty of bedclothes to keep out the chill: fresh linens, wool blanket, silk quilt, and richly embroidered coverlet. And now he had to get out again to deal with this interloper.
He reached for the oaken stave that kept the whole cosy baklava from sliding off the frame onto the floor, and tugged it free. It had a good heft to it. He stayed still and waited.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the shadows slide around the right bedpost. The bed curtains wafted slightly.
The figure swirled up to the post by the head of the bed. There was a faint fiddly scratching sound, and then a hand thrust through the curtain at the head. Long pale fingers scrabbled at one of the carven figures on the headboard.
Extrapolating from that bit of visual, Aziraphale aimed and gave a firm smack with his stave through the curtain. There was a heavy THUNK of positive contact—
"AAAAAAAAAH FUCKING HELL!"
"Stand and deliver!" cried Aziraphale, brandishing the stave for another blow. "In the name of—"
The curtains exploded inward in a fury of woollen fabric and dust, and Aziraphale found himself flat on his back in a deep divot of down and linen and silk, his arms pinioned over his head, his lower half trapped between hard…thighs? Yes, definitely thighs. Manly ones. The man crushing him muttered what sounded like incoherence, but the consonant-heavy curse had consequence to it: the bed stave in Aziraphale's fist crumbled into sawdust.
Oh. Oh, dear. Man-shaped, not manly at all.
What he'd taken to be a skulking highwayman was actually…a skulking demon. Still up to no good, but not as easily bested, even when caught off guard. And Aziraphale wasn't exactly girded for battle; he had taken off his breeches and stockings to sleep, naturally. Thank heavens he'd kept his shirt! Though it was a flimsy covering at best.
"You dare interfere with a minion of Satan!?" thundered the demon, eyes blazing with yellow flame, hair flaming up in a corona of scarlet—red—ginger?
Oh dear, oh no. Not just any demon. Aziraphale groaned, and sank unresisting back into the mattress.
"What's the matter now," goaded the demon. "Lost all your fight, eh? Typical. Pathetic. You won't last long in Hell, I can tell you."
He pressed harder against Aziraphale, and that called forth all manner of interesting sensations in Aziraphale's lower half; his stomach suddenly tight with an ache of anticipation, his thighs itching to open, his usually quiet Effort perking right up to greet that equally present and obvious member, pushing alongside it through a layer of breeches.
Oh NO. Not this again. Aziraphale began to struggle, and only succeeded in rubbing himself against—against—oh, bless it. How was this happening once again? It wasn't supposed to be part of the Arrangement. Although doing it back in the 1020s, in that damp tent in the Forest of Dean after an ill-advised clandestine meeting-slash-hike along the River Wye, had probably cemented it as part of the Arrangement in both their minds.
It had been a rather athletic little excursion, all told. Roughing it in more ways than one.
Aziraphale's face flushed hotly at the recollection. He wrenched his arms, only to hear more mocking laughter.
"Oho, now you're fighting? As well you should, faced with a fiend of the pit, forsaken, immune to all pleas of mercy or gentleness—"
"Let me up," Aziraphale gasped.
"Not bloody likely. You've probably got a sword hidden under the pillows—"
"A flaming one, actually," snapped Aziraphale.
"—so beg me for mercy and perhaps I'll let you live. Not unscathed, of course, but…but…" The demon seemed to register Aziraphale's words at last, and faltered. "Er…ah…erm…"
"Yes, er-ah-erm, Crowley, it's me."
Crowley froze. Aziraphale expected him to recoil in a flurry, but instead the demon's fingers tightened around his wrists. Crowley murmured another incoherence, this one rich with sibilance, and a tiny cluster of infernal lights gleamed, as if the ends of his fiery hair were sending out sparks. They flittered up to the canopy overhead, casting an eerie reddish light over the giant bed.
Lit from behind, edged in crimson fire, he looked every inch the heart-stopping demon. Aziraphale tried very hard not to gulp.
"It is you."
"Yes." Aziraphale licked his lips. "Obviously."
"You don't have a flaming sword!" Crowley accused.
Ah. Right. Not so scary. "Only you know that. I thought you were some random criminal—er, demon, rather—who'd caught me unawares."
"Could have said something." Crowley cursed under his breath.
"Bless you."
"Oh for fuck's—that's just rude. And why on earth were you telling me to stand and deliver? That's my line."
"I lost my head," Aziraphale admitted. "Can you honestly blame me? Random demon? Middle of the night? In my nightshirt?" Crowley's golden gaze dropped to his chest. Ah. Probably shouldn't draw attention to the lack of clothing. "And—and—in any case, if you're posing as a highwayman, you should expect token resistance at least a certain percentage of the time. Humans have all sorts of nasty things to hand. Pistols. Knives. The occasional rotten pineapple."
"Pineapple."
"Yes! And they're not afraid to use them."
"No flaming swords, though."
Aziraphale sighed. "What are you doing in my room, anyway?"
"Didn't think anyone would be staying in here," Crowley muttered, and the chagrin on his face was so familiar Aziraphale bit back a laugh. "It's not really a room, you know. Just a novelty. The bed's too damned big to keep up."
"Hmph. They were certainly willing to charge me for the night's sleep. A great deal, in fact. Beyond what I generally pay for lodgings on the road to Cambridge."
"That's because they see you coming a mile away. You spend money like it's going out of style, and they all can see it."
Aziraphale frowned. "Is it?"
"What?"
"Going out of style? Humans seem to love it."
Crowley snorted. "Figure of speech, come on."
"Yes, yes, fine. Are you going to let me up?"
"Hm." Crowley's eyebrow tilt turned speculative. That was a familiar look, too. Any hope that Aziraphale might have harboured that Crowley hadn't noticed…noticeable things pressing up between them faded like a waft of candle smoke. "Not sure yet."
His weight suddenly increased, and the feather-down mattress beneath them sank even more. One hand locked around both of Aziraphale's wrists, and the other dropped down to toy with the tassels at Aziraphale's shirt collar.
"Er. Crowley…" The collar was already open far more than was proper. His throat was already exposed, his skin already damp with perspiration.
"Mm?"
"I—we—I should—you should—"
"Yes?"
It was only a mutter, and still Aziraphale could taste the breath of it against his lips. He squeezed his eyes shut, but still he could see the shadows of Crowley behind his lids, red and infernal.
Oh no, a horrified voice inside of him squawked, oh no, oh no, oh no—
Oh yes, argued a smaller but stronger voice, and all protests faded as Crowley's mouth descended upon his in a searing kiss.
"We mustn't," Aziraphale gasped, "Oh, we shouldn't, not again, oh—" but the cry was swallowed whole and forgotten, as easily as a sip of wine drunk by firelight. Crowley's mouth was hot and wet, and his tongue plundered deep until it was all encompassing, the only taste and sensation that mattered, and Aziraphale was kissing desperately back, and writhing up against the heavy sinuous weight of Crowley's thighs.
Crowley broke away and kissed down his neck, over his throat and into the well between his collarbones, his teeth nipping sharply. His hand still held Aziraphale's wrists, but it was a loosening, distractible grasp. Aziraphale could have broken out. Should have broken free. Crowley's other hand dragged over the fine snow-white linen of Aziraphale's shirt—bloodied by the glittering hellish glow—and dipped beneath the hem, seeking, seeking, oh. His long fingers wrapped round Aziraphale's prick.
"There you are," he whispered, sounding smug even for a demon.
"Oh." Aziraphale couldn't stop his whimper, especially when Crowley immediately let go. Oh! "Oh, wait—please—"
"Hush." Crowley kissed him again, but his fingers were now working at the juncture of his own dark breeches, jerking out the laces with rough, furious vigour. He left off and got a hand under Aziraphale's thigh, shoved up and oh oh, the slick nudge of his cockhead was there, jutting into the tight clasp of Aziraphale's arse.
"That's it." Another little nudge and the tip of him slipped inside. "This what you wanted?"
Yes. "Oh. Oh—" He bit down hard on Crowley's name before it could escape him.
Crowley grunted. His hair drifted down and stroked over Aziraphale's cheek. Without thinking Aziraphale turned his head and closed his lips round the curling scarlet, let the ash and bone and sweet richness of it fill his senses. A bit between his teeth, blocking his tongue, curtailing his shameful, specific need.
"Yesss." Crowley nudged in further with a tiny gasp, and levered his thigh, spreading him wider. "Yesss. Let me in, angel, yes, like, ah, yes, like that."
He was doing something to ease the way, something infernally warm and slippery, and it was a good thing because it had been a bloody long time, at least for Aziraphale. He spread his thighs as wide as he could to let Crowley in, every slow, thick, punishing inch of him.
"Please," he babbled, hot and shivering all at once, not really knowing what else he was asking for—other than more of what he currently had, Crowley atop and inside him and around him, hands holding him tightly.
"Giving it to you, aren't I? Be a good, patient little angel…" Crowley's voice trailed off into a hissing groan as he eased deeper. "Fucking hell. Yes. You're so fucking—come on, take a little more, yeah?"
He shoved in all the way, and Aziraphale cried out.
Then he was being fucked hard. They were fucking, he had to admit it, and properly, like Aziraphale hadn't been fucked in at least a century. He was moaning like a fool as Crowley sat back, holding Aziraphale's thighs splayed open in his lap so he could thrust in deeper, rock his hips harder. His hands no longer held Aziraphale's wrists prisoner, they were everywhere: tight around Aziraphale's thighs, gripping his buttocks, thumbing into the wells between hip and groin, stroking briefly over his tight balls and straining cock before sliding up to knead his belly, push into the hair of his chest, prickle over his nipples and pluck and pinch them, oh, clever clever evil demon—the little pinches tugging Aziraphale into a higher, shriller plane of pleasure.
Everything was liquid running together, his arse open for the taking, his mind in sparkling tatters, Crowley's hands, Crowley's cock, Crowley's panting mouth, Crowley's eyes burning into him. Crowley's groans were soft, barely audible. Aziraphale's own moans drowned them out. He tried to hold back, but each thrust seemed to pierce him on a sweeter, higher level, pitching him up into helpless cries.
"Oh, please," he begged, gasping, "please, I need, come here!"
Crowley bent to him, mouth claiming his again, his tongue fucking into Aziraphale's in the same rhythm as his cock working below. Aziraphale sank greedy fingers into his silken hair, holding him fast, trying to pull him ever closer. They were rocking hard now, and despite its massive solidity the bed was creaking around them. Thrust. The bolsters scattered. "Yes, yes, please, darling, yes." The blankets torn asunder. Hard, hips, working. The mattresses shifting with each thrust as if they were sailing on a sea of feathers. Their bodies swayed, rocked, listed, and the down was moving with them, so soft and giving underneath Aziraphale's arse, as soft as Crowley's hair, as soft as Crowley's mouth, as soft as Crowley's now dazed eyes glowing into him, burning him between kisses.
"Bloody gorgeous," Crowley was mumbling into his mouth, words and gasps and groans all running together, "oh, angel, oh, oh—"
His hips slowed to a steady rhythm again, but deeper, more shattering, every inch of him piercing like a weapon and yet angling perfectly to drag over the sensitive nub inside. Aziraphale wanted to scream. He was aching to come. He looked down between them, caught by the sight of Crowley entering him, by the rub and stroke of Crowley's balls against his arse, with every sweet slowing thrust.
"Crowley," he gasped, the name burning his tongue so sweetly, and he had to close his eyes at the shock in Crowley's gaze. "Don't—oh—"
His cock was trapped between their sweating bellies. He shoved up, trying for more pressure, any real pressure, and nearly wept with relief as Crowley's fingers closed round him. There, yes, that. He needed that. There was no diddling about now: Crowley was pumping him fast and hard, fingers twisting as his cock pounded into Aziraphale's arse, his moaning just as desperate as Aziraphale's, a string of broken, urgent, endearment:
"C'mon, angel, don't stay behind, come with me, come for me, yesss, that's it, that's it—"
and Aziraphale was coming in hot streaking pulses between them, the release so hard and hot that he fancied the stars overhead had increased a thousandfold, dizzying him with their sparkling light. Above him Crowley cried out as he followed, and the illumination blew bright and hot as a supernova. The bed creaked like a crack in time.
And then the mattresses, unstaved, bedclothes flailing, slid unceremoniously the rest of the way off the bed frame.
"Fuck! What—"
They were dumped apart. Aziraphale's elbow caught the floor, and he found himself with a mouthful of pillow fluff. Blast and damn.
"—the hell?" Crowley was somewhere distant, sounding as though he'd ended up beneath a pile of linens.
"Ah." Aziraphale struggled to extricate himself. "It was the stave, I suppose. What I hit you with. It's supposed to keep the mattresses from sliding off."
"I know what a bed stave is for, angel." Crowley fought his way around bolster and wool, crawled back over to him, and collapsed, cuddling up so that he was spooning Aziraphale from behind. Oh. Well. That was rather nice, wasn't it?
"Don't you want to…correct things?"
Crowley shrugged. "M'comfy enough for the moment."
Despite his smarting elbow, Aziraphale had to agree. "Yes."
"Yeah?"
"Surprisingly."
"Be my guest, though," Crowley added, and he wriggled closer. "If you like."
"Ah. Overdrawn on miracles yet again, demon?"
Crowley made a scornful noise, muffled as his nose was half-buried in Aziraphale's hair, but he didn't deny it. Slippery serpent.
"Well, I'm sure the Lord will provide." Aziraphale tugged at the heavenly ether. There was a jangling of celestial bells, and then they and the slumpy mattresses and all the bedclothes were back where they belonged, with staves restored. Aziraphale's nightshirt was still rucked up to his chest, but that was all right. The clingy warmth of Crowley's belly and groin against his skin was quite tolerable. His arse ached, and his valiant organ lolled limp and sticky over his thigh. Goodness, but he was sticky all over. He should probably do something about that?
In a moment or two.
He wriggled a little, re-situating things so that Crowley was snugged up behind him just…just so, and he breathed deeply in the red starlight. He startled briefly at the light combing of the hair over his temple. Crowley's fingers, caressing there.
Which reminded him. "Why were you fiddling with the headboard when you came in?"
"Ah." Crowley left off. Then he stretched up, a little more than humanly possible, and patted one of the carvings above to their right. It was of a woman with one breast bared, the other covered by her hand. She also held a shield emblazoned with a man's face over her nether regions.
"The picture of modesty," Aziraphale said.
"Yeah, yeah, judge not. Watch." Crowley stroked a finger over the breast, and the little shield popped to one side. A small dark cavity gaped back at them. "Hideyhole."
"Good gracious. So what have you been stashing in this poor creature's fundament?"
"The odd thing every now and again. Precious gems. Secret treasonous messages. Soul or two." He waggled his eyebrows down at Aziraphale, who rolled his eyes. "Just a stray temptation this time, for the bishop who'll pass through here next month."
"Oh really." Was that why he'd felt such immediate desire? Nonsense. Crowley couldn't tempt him.
Not infernally, anyway.
"Don't worry, I didn't try to waste it on you," Crowley said, a dark richness in his tone that said he knew exactly what was going through Aziraphale's head. "Don't need to, do I?"
Oh, good lord. "I wouldn't put it past you to try."
"Heh." Crowley flopped his arm over and held out a palm in front of Aziraphale's chest. There was a sickening swirl of atoms, and then a gentle warm light was resting in Crowley's hand. It was the size of a small snuffbox. Nothing flashy—never mind the unholy origin—just an unassuming glow, a yellow glint as calm and constant as a banked hearth. Aziraphale's heart gave a strange twisting beat.
Then Crowley's fingers closed again, covering the glimmer. He reached up and pressed the temptation away into the bed's secret hollow, and Aziraphale's heart resumed its normal, steady beat. Still very loud in his ears, though.
"…so usually I don't have any trouble accessing it," Crowley was saying, "because no one's fool enough to buy a night in the most ridiculous bed in Ware. Outside of a stunt or an orgy, anyway."
"All the other rooms were occupied!" Aziraphale protested. "And I was tired, it was a very long ride."
"Hmph." Crowley subsided behind him again. "I'm due in Oxford but you don't hear me whinging."
They lay in silence, listening to the various night sounds of the inn. Creaking of settling timbers, human sounds from other rooms, snores, other softer sounds. Overhead, the hellish red lights flickered and began a slow fade into darkness.
"Why are you going to Cambridge?" Crowley asked. His fingers drummed a soft rhythm out on Aziraphale's thigh.
"Oh. The Wren Library has opened, and I promised them…a book."
"Oh, dear." Crowley began to laugh, and the jiggle of his hips against Aziraphale's arse was delightful and incredibly irritating all at once. "That hurts. That stings. Thought they wouldn't take you up on it, did you?"
"I don't know what you mean! I'm very happy to donate it. It's only the Eadwine Psalter."
"Only, mm-hmmm."
"Yes, only. It's awfully large for me to be toting about—"
"—or stashing away in your own angelic hideyholes—"
"Quite. So I thought they could care for it. I'm in Cambridge often enough, furthering discovery, aiding with inspiration—"
"—taking credit for human advancement, enlightenment—"
"Never! Not really!"
"No?"
"Well. Only adjacently, in reports to Heaven! You know how the higher-ups want justification for my presence here."
"Even if they don't bother to check?"
"Same as yours."
"Mmm. True." Crowley yawned. "Speaking of. Duty calls. Should probably hie myself hence. Thence. Wherever...ence."
"To Oxford, yes, of course." Aziraphale dragged a hand over the rich coverlet. Back to the cold separation, then; despite the red wash of glittering stars overhead, no hint of lark or dawn.
It was just that they were curled up so very comfortably, Crowley's limbs twining them together. He was like an ember, like the barely banked coal of his temptation. Warm. Hot, even. As he had been in the damp tent, back in the Forest of Dean; in fits and starts and stolen moments since then. As Aziraphale had imagined Crowley would be, before any of this had started and he was merely a fool, staring dazzled into glittering stellar light. Heart of a star.
The aspect may have changed, but the light still burned.
Aziraphale cleared his throat, and made himself, for once, ask for what he wanted. Or at least, the fraction of it he felt he could take here and now.
"Would you…like to stay the night?"
There was a very long pause.
"Oh, well." Crowley sounded as though he were scowling.
But then, to Aziraphale's delight, his arms slid slow and tentative around Aziraphale's middle. "Makes sense," he said airily. "But only if you reckon there's enough room."