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Aziraphale is better to Crowley’s lovers than Crowley is.

Every winter Crowley finds some corruptible soul and engages in a season of debauchery. It’s the best time in the human’s short lives and Crowley doesn’t care about them come spring, discarding them like a dropped crumpet.

Aziraphale feels for the poor things. Falling from Heaven is supposed to be painful and that’s what he imagines being cut from Crowley’s life feels like.

Crowley’s lovers come in all sizes and colors but always run a little towards soft in the middle. Aziraphale, a little soft himself, can appreciate that. He imagines if Crowley slept with someone bony there would be all too many sharp corners involved.

Aziraphale didn’t mind Crowley’s sharp corners, but he imagines someone with less padding might. Aziraphale spends a lot of time imaging what Crowley’s interactions with his lovers are like.

Aziraphale has consoled thousands of Crowley’s ex-lovers when the daffodils start to bloom. He wraps them up in a blanket by the fire and has what Crowley rudely calls an “exit interview.”

“I invented those, you know,” Crowley says. “Humans get a chance to tell their employers what they really thought of their time with them and it's delicious.”

Aziraphale tsks at him while stuffing Crowley’s latest lover into a cab. He miracles the cab driver into doing the ride for free. The lover turns in her seat to stare forlornly at Crowley as the cab pulls away.

“Must you always break their hearts?” Aziraphale asks.

“It’s not my fault they fall in love. I’m very clear with my expectations of our arrangement.”

Aziraphale doesn’t think that’s fair. How could anyone spend that much time around Crowley and not fall in love? Three months was such a long time for humans.

“Tea?” Aziraphale offers and they disappear into the depths of his bookstore.

Aziraphale doesn’t remember the first lover of Crowley’s that he met but he remembers being surprised. Who could fall in love in the span of a human’s lifetime? Then he remembered that for demons, sex doesn’t always mean love, it was more of a recreational sport of sorts. They come to Crowley for what had been many times described to him as life-changing sex, then wound up with Aziraphale taking care of their hearts.

He doesn’t catch them all of course, but Crowley is very regular with his one lover per year habit. They rarely go a year without seeing each other now but there were times when they went decades apart. After Louis XIV’s court though, Aziraphale had made a point to meet all of Crowley’s chosen lovers at the end of autumn.

Crowley is always affectionate with them, dripping off their arms in a way that always surprises Aziraphale. It’s as though Crowley can’t get close enough to them, especially when they’re both bundled up for winter. Aziraphale supposes he’s a little jealous. Crowley rarely hangs off him like that but that must be the difference between Crowley’s friends and his lovers.

Crowley’s lovers are always eager to tell Aziraphale all about how wonderful their winter has been, even as their heartstrings shatter. Aziraphale wishes he spent that much time with Crowley, wishes they could spend every day together. But he has his bookstore and his obligation to Heaven and Crowley has Hell and his plants so they mostly meet in the park to feed the ducks. Well, Aziraphale feeds the ducks. Crowley just slouches about like a model.

There was one lover in particular that Aziraphale would never forget, a young man by the name of Richard who was a member of Louis XIV’s court. The food at that time had been excellent and the sanitation terrible. The court was full of promiscuous dandies, visiting from Britain, and one of them had been Crowley’s winter lover.

Aziraphale dislikes Richard. He’d only been trying to be polite when he met Richard but Richard had sneered at him and found every possibility to be nasty to him. When Crowley ditched him, a full three weeks ahead of schedule, he’d sought out Aziraphale and cornered him in his favorite restaurant.

Few things made Aziraphale lose his appetite but Richard made him ruin a perfectly delicious soupe à l’oignon. It was rude, as were the things that spewed from Richard’s mouth. Foul, explicit things that turned Aziraphale’s ears red. Richard told him in great detail about how Crowley had fucked him, how Crowley touched him and gave him all the things Crowley would never give to Aziraphale. Aziraphale realized halfway through his speech that Richard was jealous of him somehow. Aziraphale supposes he does get to spend eternity seeing Crowley when Richard will barely outlive the next two years, judging by the sores on his hands.

Richard storms out of the restaurant and Aziraphale snaps his fingers. Richard falls flat in the street, tripping over an uneven cobblestone that had been perfectly laid seconds before. Aziraphale flushes and hurries from the restaurant, unsure why he did that.

Aziraphale tries to put Richard out of his mind but he cannot. For the next decade, he doesn’t see Crowley and all he can think about is the things Richard described. Thinks of Crowley’s slender hips between his thighs. Thinks of the face Crowley makes when he comes, the snarl on his lips as he chases his own pleasure.

Most of Crowley’s partners have told Aziraphale what Crowley is like, since Richard. There must be something about him that people feel inclined to confess to him all of their cardinal sins in regards to Crowley. He hears about the days they wasted lazing about in bed, about their pride at having Crowley on their arm, about their indulging their gluttony, their greediness for Crowley’s attention. Mostly though he learns of their rage at Crowley turning them aside and their envy of Crowley’s relationship with Aziraphale. Most of Crowley’s partners become jealous of their relationship, because really what do a few carnal delights have against thousands of years of friendship.

His favorite stories though are the ones about lust. Those are the stories that he listens to the closest because those are the experiences with Crowley that he has never had personally.

They described Crowley looming above them as he fucked them. They described him with their cock up his demonic ass, riding them to completion. They described the way Crowley’s tongue felt extra long wrapped around their cocks during blow jobs or impossibly deeper in their cunt while he ate them out. Aziraphale drew the stories out of them like a priest in a confessional. Tell me how you’ve sinned, in exacting detail. Tell me how often you have sex, what positions you’re in, what it feels like to get to touch Crowley, what it feels like to have his whole demonic attention focused on corrupting you.

He learns that Crowley likes to be in charge, regardless of his position, that he likes to guide and control his own pleasure and likes nothing more than to pin his partner’s hands and use their bodies for his own entertainment. It seems the demon is interested in all kinds of debauchery and things which would have an angel seriously tempted to fall from heaven just for a taste.

He learns about what kind of sounds Crowley makes when he comes, learns what tricks Crowley favored in a blowjob, learns that Crowley likes to stretch out their sex, to make it last for hours. He learns that Crowley likes to cuddle afterward.

It's almost enough, to learn these things second hand.

Then the apocalypse happened and winter came and Crowley doesn’t take a lover. It’s January and Crowley doesn’t come around his shop hanging off of someone new’s arm. Instead, he comes alone. He always hurries straight to the fireplace and settles himself down on the floor in front of it, a pile of long lean limbs.

Aziraphale shifts in his comfy armchair by the fire and looks up from his book.

“Missing Hell?” Aziraphale asks as Crowley scoots almost into the fire.

“I’m cold, angel,” Crowley complains. “Why must winters exist? Who is responsible for these seasons?”

“Oh, Heaven, of course, the snow is lovely,” Aziraphale says. “And you can read books snuggled up by the fire with hot cocoa or mulled wine.”

“It’s so cold,” Crowley hisses and sticks one leg straight in the fire. The wood cracks a little under his weight. “And the ground is slippery and my car was so frozen I couldn’t open the front door. No one knows how to drive on the ice and humans nearly crashed into me three times on my way over. I had to use a miracle to save people.”

“Maybe if you wore another layer you’d feel better,” Aziraphale says. He’s riveted on where the fire is licking at Crowley’s long leg. Aziraphale himself always wears no less than three layers. Any less would be scandalous.

“I’m cold-blooded, angel!” Crowley says, sprawling back onto the carpet in front of the fire. “More layers won’t change the fact that I don’t have a heat source.”

“Is that what your winter lovers are for?” Aziraphale asks, the pieces falling into place. “A heat source?”

“Oh yes,” Crowley sighs. “Such good heat sources, humans. Thirty-seven degrees of delicious heat.”

“I thought you were just tempting them to sin!”

“I can multitask. I invented multitasking. Humans do such a bad job at so many things when they multitask.”

Aziraphale sputters.

All those stories of incredible sin and they were all just tangential goals to staying warm for the winter? Crowley may be the snake of Eden but Aziraphale hadn’t realized he could do so much sin without deep focus.

“I’m just going to--” Crowley says and shifts into his true form. Aziraphale watches on as the massive black snake curls its entire body around the fire.

Aziraphale frowns in his direction and puts his feet up on the ottoman. He turns the light on over him with a click of his tongue and settles back in to read.

Well, he intends to read. Instead, he ends up staring blankly at the page in front of him as though the words are written in Hellish script instead of plain French. He takes a breath in to question Crowley then lets it out in a gusty exhale. How do you ask a demon why they put such effort into their sinning? It’s in their nature. But Aziraphale had thought the sex was for the depravity of it, not a necessity. Humans were such strange creatures, they thought that being naked together meant that you had to have sex and if Crowley needed skin to skin contact to stay warm… Still, that doesn’t explain the effort Crowley puts into sex.

It can’t feel that good can it? It’s a sin. Aziraphale has indulged in gluttony and sloth at times but never lust. It just seems like so much work and for what.

At least the cuddling makes sense now.

Crowley crawls out of the fire, trying to regulate his body temperature.

Aziraphale scowls at his book and works on the puzzle that is Crowley.

“Why haven’t you found a new heat source?” he asks eventually, turning a page for the pretense of being otherwise engaged. As though his brain isn’t working overtime to fill in the sudden gaps in his understanding of Crowley.

The snake just sticks its tongue out in Aziraphale’s direction and goes to sleep.

“Hmph,” Aziraphale says.

Maybe Crowley is trying so hard in order to ruin his partners for sex with anyone else. Yes, that seems demonic enough.

Momentarily satisfied, Aziraphale returns to his reading.


Aziraphale asks his question again when they’re at a food truck, two days later. Crowley is wearing his usual deep cut v-neck and skinny scarf.

“I’m rather hung up on someone,” Crowley says and accepts their naan and tikka masala from the vendor. He holds their food out to Aziraphale and Aziraphale notices the tray is shaking. He looks up sharply at Crowley. He is shivering violently, teeth clenched together.

“Oh, Heaven,” Aziraphale and puts their food down on a nearby bench. He shrugs out of his outer jacket then out of his cardigan, which he holds out. Crowley looks at it with an unreadable expression on his face.

“It’s warm from my body heat,” Aziraphale says and takes another step towards Crowley with it. He might not be Crowley’s lover but he is his friend and this is what friends do, right?

“It’s white,” Crowley complains but he takes it and shrugs it on over his thin clothes. “I’ll look like an angel.”

“Yes and it’s fluffy and soft too,” Aziraphale says. It’s his favorite cardigan. He’s had it for thirty years and he takes care to never let it get damaged.

Crowley looks good in white. For a moment Aziraphale can see what he would look like as an angel, strong white wings spread out behind him. He wonders what would have happened if they met when they were both still angels. Would they still have been friends? He has to think so. There is no version of this world that Aziraphale can imagine where they aren’t friends. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

They walk back to the bookshop briskly. Crowley stops shaking after a couple of minutes with the cardigan and resumes his usual saunter. Something in Aziraphale’s chest eases.

Aziraphale unlocks the front door and waves Crowley through before him. He locks the door behind them and makes sure the sign is flipped to closed.

“Shall I start up the fire?” he asks.

“I get too hot by the fire, I can’t sleep like that,” Crowley says. He wraps himself up tighter in the cardigan and drops down on the couch next to Aziraphale’s desk. “Tell me about the book you were reading earlier.”

Aziraphale launches into a description of the plot with delight. Crowley turns into a snake and digs himself deeper into the cardigan, his head popping out of one sleeve so he can make eye contact with Aziraphale. His eyes drift closed as Aziraphale talks and Aziraphale has the distinct pleasure of being around Crowley when he’s asleep.

Crowley trusts so few people, as is smart as a demon, that he didn’t sleep once between receiving Adam and the arrival of the apocalypse. Now he snores faintly, even as a snake, and Aziraphale smiles with quiet pleasure.

They stay like that for an hour before Aziraphale starts to worry that the cardigan must be cold by now. He doesn’t want to Crowley to wake up cold. Very carefully he extracts Crowley from the cardigan and wraps Crowley around his shoulders. Crowley flexes and yawns, curling tightly around Arizaphale and falling back into a deep sleep. Aziraphale smiles, victorious, and puts the cardigan on over them both.

A knock comes from the front door. Aziraphale starts and Crowley tenses. Aziraphale pets him softly to try and keep him asleep.

The knock comes again.

Grumbling softly, Aziraphale buttons up his cardigan over Crowley and makes sure his black scales are tucked out of sight before hurrying to the front door.

One of his favorite customers waves at him through the front door. Well, not a customer because Aziraphale never sells his books, but a seller of used books.

Aziraphale cracks the front door open.

“Now is a bad time,” he warns her. “But if you have something good?”

“I have something amazing,” she promises. She’s practically vibrating with excitement, her nose bright red from the cold.

He lets her in.

“I was in France last week and I found this book of drawings. It’s by someone named Richard from Louis XIV’s court.”

Aziraphale remembers Richard. He makes a habit of buying books written by people he’d known over the millenniums but maybe he’ll make an exception this time. Maybe he should buy the book and feed it to the fire.

“Look,” she says and pulls a leather-bound sketchbook from her satchel. They walk to the front desk and she opens it on the worn wood.

It’s certainly a book of drawings and they’re drawings of Crowley. Richard may have sucked but he was a good artist. He drew Crowley smiling and frowning, closeups of his face or distant drawings of his entire lanky body. He looked like he always appeared to Aziraphale, like a snake made of sharp angles. He flips the page and sees Crowley laughing, Crowley feeding the ducks, Crowley in a compromising position--

He slams the book shut and feels Crowley startle under his cardigan.

“How much?” he asks with a brittle smile.

He overpays for the book but he must have it. The book is instantly his most treasured possession.

He shoos her out the door and locks it behind her just in time for Crowley to poke his head out of the neck of the cardigan. They stare at each other, Crowley looking as surprised as a snake could manage and Aziraphale smiling as innocent as the angel he is.

Aziraphale walks over to his desk and tosses the book down with careful nonchalance. Crowley can smell a good secret like a shark with blood in the water so Aziraphale uses every bit of his angelic powers to avoid glancing back at the book. He makes a beeline back to the comfortable armchair by the fire and sits down with his old novel.

He can almost hear Crowley thinking, then he does the snakes equivalent of a shrug and rearranges himself under the cardigan. Aziraphale is an angel, his back never aches, but the rearranged weight of Crowley lets him sit more comfortably.

Aziraphale pets Crowley in thanks and licks his thumb to turn the page.


It takes a surprisingly long time to get time alone from Crowley. Aziraphale had not realized now long often they were together now, without the pressures of Heaven and Hell keeping them apart. No more feeding ducks in the park. They ate lunch together almost every day and Crowley liked to digest by the fire or, more recently, wrapped around Aziraphale in snake form.

When he finally has time alone, he hurries to his desk and snatches up his prized possession. He closes up the shop and scampers up to his apartment.

He starts as he always does on the first page.

This must have been a new notebook when Richard met Crowley because the first few pages don’t contain Crowley at all. Aziraphale flips past them quickly, skimming over drawings of several other dandies. Then he turns the seventh page and sees the first drawing of Crowley. It’s clearly from a distance but Aziraphale would recognize those lanky legs and the cock of his hip anywhere. He’s dressed a bit like a dandy too in shades of red and black. His sunglasses were fashionably small and perched high up on his nose. He was clean-shaven, though Aziraphale remembered a rather atrocious goatee around that time. He must have shaved it off just before traveling to France.

Aziraphale runs his finger over the drawing, feels the indents his pencil made in the paper. He recalls first meeting Crowley himself, and the impact that made on him.

He flips to the next page and every drawing is of Crowley lounging about on fancy sofas and dancing with ladies whose faces are smudged out.

Aziraphale wishes he had half the talent Richard did at drawing, so he could make his own book of Crowley drawings.

The drawings only became explicit halfway through the book, after a series of drawings where Crowley was clearly posing for him. Each pose is more seductive than the last until a hasty sketch of Crowley unbuttoning his pants.

Aziraphale swallows hard. He flips the page and his brain comes to a sudden halt.

There is a full-page charcoal sketch of Crowley pulling off his shirt, and stretched across his back in black ink was a tattoo Aziraphale has never seen. Two black wings stretch out from his shoulder blades, the wingtips wrapping around his biceps.

Aziraphale stares, his emotions a jumbled mix in his chest. Crowley had more tattoos? Aziraphale hadn’t known that Crowley felt anything strong enough to get it inked into his skin. Unlike the snake mark Crowley gained when he fell, this tattoo was new to the last two millennium at least. They’d spent a great deal of time running around half-dressed in Rome and Crowley hadn’t had any tattoos then, at least that Aziraphale had seen.

Aziraphale can’t pull his eyes away from the wings. They’re slightly stylized but otherwise accurate to what their wings looked like when they first met, six thousand years ago. Aziraphale had thought Crowley had been eager to leave his angel past behind him and embrace his life as a snake. Apparently, he’d been wrong.

What else had he been wrong about?

He turns the page and there’s a drawing of Crowley looming over Richard, his chest bare except for more tattoos. A black snake winds itself up around Crowley’s chest, its face nestled just below his left collar bone and its tail hanging down to his right thigh.

Aziraphale runs his fingertips over the charcoal and smudges it slightly, blurring the tattoo.

“Oh Heaven,” Aziraphale cursed and snapped his fingers to bring the drawing back. He leans in closer, his nose almost against the page. Crowley’s eyes are half-lidded and there’s a smirk on his lips, the look of a demon about to bring down a victim, so focused that the world blurs away and only Crowley and his victim exist.

Aziraphale realizes with a start that he wants Crowley to look at him like that.

Almost all the rest of the pictures are unbearably intimate. They’re obscene of course but Aziraphale expects that. What he hadn’t expected is the love in each stroke of the pencil. Every expression of Crowley’s is carefully cataloged, even the scary ones. Richard really loved Crowley. Just another broken heart in the pile of Crowley’s conquests.

He feels sorry for Richard, for the first time ever. He also feels blindingly jealous.

He understands Richard’s rage now. He too would hate it if Crowley had another confidant, someone else he enjoyed the company of more. He hated that he doesn’t know Crowley the way his lovers did, even though they only had Crowley’s attention for the blink of an eye.

He finds himself unwilling to leave any part of Crowley a mystery. He wants to know everything, experience everything.

He closes the book with a snap.

Who could it be that Crowley was hung up on? Who would Crowley be too scared to ask out? Or worse, who had rejected him?

Aziraphale felt a surge of wrath at the thought. Who would possibly reject Crowley? He was everything.

Aziraphale would do anything to know Crowley in his entirely.


In the end, though, he does nothing. He doesn’t know how to tell Crowley how he feels. Angels aren’t supposed to have emotions themselves. Emotions are the realm of demons. He has no experience in these matters. He had never known a human long enough to crave them like that, certainly not before the human was well beyond the age where such things were possible.

He just continues to wrap Crowley around him as a snake, offering up his body heat and home, and hopes that Crowley will feel the silent love he’s sending his way and make the move for him.

Because God moves in mysterious ways, it doesn’t quite go to plan.


It’s an unbearably cold day, even by Aziraphale’s standards, and Crowley is missing.

Aziraphale putters around his shop, unable to sit still. He checks the clock. It’s half past six and the sun has set and still, Crowley doesn’t come through the door. The thermostat hung just outside his shop window drops to minus three degrees Celsius.

Finally, finally, the bell at the door jingles. Aziraphale perks up immediately, pulling off his cardigan just as Crowley slouches into the shop, dropped over the arm of a stranger.

Aziraphale experiences a moment of what the humans call blinding rage.

“Crowley,” he says in greeting and it comes out colder than the weather outside.

Crowley blinks at him. Aziraphale’s jaw twitches and he refuses to look at the human.

“You must be Aziraphale,” the human says when the silence stretches between them.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. And he can’t help himself, he uses all the demonic skills he’s learned because of their arrangement and says: “You much be Roger.”

“Ted, actually,” the human says and casts a hurt and confused glance at Crowley. In two years, Hell will have him but right now Crowley won’t. “Excuse me.”

The human pulls himself free of Crowley and rushes out of the shop. Crowley doesn’t even look at him go, he’s too busy staring at Aziraphale. For once, Aziraphale is sure he has Crowley’s full attention.

“What the hell, Aziraphale?” Crowley demands. “What did you do that for?”

“You don’t need a winter lover,” Aziraphale says. “You already have me. I can keep you warm twice as well as any human.”

“I have other needs too, angel!” Crowley snaps. And oh, Aziraphale had known Crowley enjoyed sex but he had not known he needed it. He thought he enjoyed it the way Aziraphale likes food, not the way Aziraphale needs books. “Are you going to fuck me, too?”

“Of course I am,” Aziraphale snaps back. “That’s part of being your winter lover! I am not committed to you any less than entirely.”

“Oh,” Crowley says and he looks at him like he’s never seen him before. “Oh Hell, angel, if that was what you wanted you only had to ask.”

They barely make it to the apartment upstairs.

Crowley shoves Aziraphale up against the wall just inside the door and kisses him.

Aziraphale knows about kissing, objectively, but he’s rapidly realizing that his books didn’t do it justice. It’s not ‘life-affirming’ or there were no ‘sparks’ or any of those human terms, it’s just Crowley’s wicked mouth against his and he wouldn’t stop kissing him to prevent the apocalypse. He could lose himself in Crowley’s touch, drown in his attention.

Crowley runs his tongue along Aziraphale’s lip and Aziraphale opens his mouth to ask what he’s supposed to do with his hands. Crowley slips his tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth and Aziraphale forgets he has hands.

Kissing was good but this, ‘frenching’ as the humans say, was miraculous. Part of Crowley was inside of him. The lines between their human bodies were blurring. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley’s neck and pulled him closer, sucking at his tongue to try and get him deeper inside.

“Hell, angel,” Crowley says, and he has to pull back to do so. Aziraphale almost chomps down on his tongue to stop him. “Have you done this before?”

“With who?” Aziraphale asks, his angelic neurons frazzled.

“Certainly not another angel, but we’ve had six millennia amongst humans, surely you must have—“

“Humans die so quickly,” Aziraphale says. “There were a few I liked but they were so old by the time I realized my feelings.”

“Angels and their emotions,” Crowley laughs. “It only took you six thousand years to ask me.”

“Well I only just started liking you recently, demon,” Aziraphale says defensively.

“I’ve liked you for six thousand years,” Crowley says and Aziraphale can’t wrap his mind around that so he pulls Crowley in for another kiss.

Crowley presses close to him like he needs it to survive. Aziraphale performs a minor miracle and gives himself a fever. What a strange tingly sensation it gives him. He can feel the heat coming off himself in waves and Crowley moans and presses closer.

“Can we do this against the wall? I thought humans used beds,” Aziraphale says after a few minutes lost in kisses.

“Angel, we can do it wherever we want,” Crowley says. He moves down to kiss under Aziraphale’s jaw.

“Bed, I think,” Aziraphale says. Crowley doesn’t seem to care, he’s too busy fitting his lips to Aziraphale’s neck and sucks. “Oh, Heaven.”

These human bodies had such a capacity for pleasure. His head is fuzzy with it, his limbs heavy and yet he has more energy than he did when he was first created from nothingness.

Crowley snaps his fingers and suddenly their both in Aziraphale’s bedroom. Crowley shoves Aziraphale down on the bed and dives back after him, wrapping himself in as much of Aziraphale’s warmth as he can.

Aziraphale snaps his fingers and their clothes disappear. He pulls back, eager to see Crowley’s tattoos for himself. Enthralled, he runs a hand along the path of the snake on Crowley’s chest.

“When did you get these tattoos?” he asks, trailing his fingers back and forth across the snake’s tail on Crowley’s thigh.

“Oh, sometime in the eighteenth century, that’s when humans really got good at it,” Crowley says with his usual uncaring attitude except for this time Aziraphale can feel the hammer of Crowley’s heart everywhere he’s pressed up against him.

Aziraphale rolls them over and sits up between Crowley’s thighs. He pushes Crowley back down on the bed when he tries to rise up, his full attention on Crowley’s tattoo. He can’t feel the ink inside of Crowley’s skin, it's been there so long.

“Come on, angel, do something!” Crowley says and Aziraphale sighs, pulling his eyes away from Crowley’s gorgeous ink.

Then Aziraphale leans down and takes all of Crowley into his mouth in one go, desperate to have some part of Crowley inside of him again. His tongue, his cock, whatever Aziraphale can get.

“Fuck! Angel!” Crowley shouts. “How do you know how to do that?”

“I read a lot,” Aziraphale says, pulling off to swallow thoughtfully. “Also I asked all your lovers about what you liked in bed.”

“You what?”

“I was intrigued,” Aziraphale says.

“You just asked them about what I liked in bed?”

“Most of them offered it up while they were crying their broken hearts out.”

“That’s private,” Crowley says and Aziraphale scowls at him and tightens his hand around Crowley’s cock.

“Point made,” Crowley gasps. “Come up here, damn it.”

He pulls Aziraphale up by his shoulders and kisses him frantically.

“What do you want to do, angel?” Crowley asks. “Anything you want is yours, you just have to ask.”

And oh Crowley is good at temptation. Aziraphale wants it all, wants to recreate every drawing in his

“I want to be inside you,” Aziraphale says.

“Fuck yes,” Crowley says and snaps his fingers. Nothing happened.

“What did you do?” Aziraphale asks and Crowley tangles their fingers together. He brings their hands to his mouth to kiss Aziraphale’s fingers, then guides Aziraphale down past his wet cock to his ass.

“Here?” Aziraphale asks and it must be correct because Crowley is wet as a girl. Aziraphale would never have considered it himself but humans are relentless in their chase of pleasure so it must feel good.

“To make things faster,” Crowley explains. He shoves three of his own fingers into himself up to the knuckle. “Hurry.”

“You’re going to fast for me,” Aziraphale says and pulls at Crowley’s wrist. Reluctantly Crowley removes his fingers. Aziraphale runs his pointer finger in a circle around Crowley’s hole. He pushes his finger in and feels what it’s like to be inside Crowley.

It’s good. Of course it’s good. As much as he loves having Crowley inside of him, he might enjoy the reverse even more. Crowley is spread out on his bed, clawing at his sheets, knocking his head against his headboard. Crowley is warm inside, for all he’s starting to look a little blue at the lips again. Aziraphale leans forward to cover Crowley’s body as he explores. He presses a kiss to the head of Crowley’s snake tattoo. Crowley’s cool hands caress his sides.

“More?” Aziraphale asks and when Crowley nods he presses three fingers inside. Now he can feel the strength of the muscles in Crowley’s ass, feels the way they shiver as they stretch. He isn’t sure why humans do anything other than this.

“Use your cock,” Crowley demands. Aziraphale pulls his fingers free reluctantly and grips Crowley’s hips to hold him still.

“Stop moving so much,” Aziraphale says as Crowley rolls his hips desperately.

“Hurry up then,” Crowley says and Aziraphale presses the head of his cock against Crowley’s entrance and slowly presses forward. It takes almost no pressure at all to slide inside of Crowley and oh, oh Aziraphale hadn’t known it would feel like this.

“Warm me up, angle,” Crowley says and Aziraphale can’t help but snap his hips the last inch forward and collapses on top of Crowley, blanketing him in his weight and warmth. Aziraphale pants and blinks and tries to make sense of the sheer pleasure he’s experiencing from the tight grip of Crowley’s body. Heaven, he was inside of Crowley, and that was just close enough to satisfy the furious envy he’s felt ever since Richard.

Gasping, Aziraphale drops his head to Crowley’s shoulder. He lets his mortal body’s instincts take over, for the first time, and draws back to thrust up into Crowley again. He hates every moment they’re not connected but the friction feels the same way to him as making Crowley smile does.

Aziraphale cannot get enough of it. He grips Crowley’s hips tight and pulls Crowley towards him with each thrust. Crowley’s limbs wrap around Crowley like a bony octopus. His cock bumps between then, hard and leaking.

“It’s a good thing I don’t have Heaven breathing down my neck anymore,” Aziraphale says against Crowley’s shoulder. “I covet thee enough to fall from Heaven just to keep you.”

“You would be the only gorgeous demon,” Crowley gasps and his hips, sweaty and warm, escape Aziraphale’s grasp.

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale says. “There’s already you.”

Crowley’s back arches and Aziraphale fucks forward and suddenly Crowley is screaming. Aziraphale froze as Crowley took huge gulping breaths, his slitted pupils blown almost round.

“Do that,” Crowley orders, voice barely above a hiss. “Again.”

Gently Aziraphale pulls out and thrusts in and Crowley wails and shakes in his arms.

“Again, again,” Crowley chants and Aziraphale obeys. Each time he slides home, Crowley’s whole body flinches like he’s touched an electrical outlet with a fork.

It’s better than his own pleasure, somehow, to watch Crowley’s face go slack with pleasure, the tension around his eyes easing. Crowley looks relaxed and happy in a way Aziraphale has never seen him, even in Richard’s drawings. Triumph surges in his heart.

“Angel,” Crowley warns. “Angel, I’m about to--”

Crowley spills between them.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says and then Crowley’s ass clenches down around him and his eyes roll back from the pleasure.

Aziraphale slumps across Crowley as waves of pleasure crash over him. Hu

Adam and Eve had had the right idea, fucking instead of eating apples. Aziraphale doesn’t think he’d ever eat again in his life if he could have this instead. What are crepes next to Crowley?

Lips press against his forehead.

“Did I do good enough?” Aziraphale asks. “Will I do for the winter?”

“Angel, a single winter could never be enough time with you.”

Hope blossoms in Aziraphale’s chest.

“How long do you think?”

“An eternity to start, and we’ll go from there.”

“That sounds perfect to me.”