The apocalypse had been over for three days, and an angel and a demon had been fucking steadily for most of them. It had started, of course, in the bookshop after the Ritz. “I suppose you wouldn’t want to...” Aziraphale had said, and trailed off, looking at Crowley meaningfully, taking his hand. “It is a bit vulgar,” Aziraphale continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially, and Crowley gaped at him, sure he was jumping to the wrong conclusion. Aziraphale couldn’t mean? “I’ve never...and I’ve always kind of wanted to try and Heaven seems to not really be watching right now and well…” Aziraphale said, and pressed Crowley’s hand to the not insubstantial effort he was making. Crowley had squeezed, gone to his knees, before his conscious mind processed what his corporation was doing, and that was that.
Having discovered this new (very old) thing, Aziraphale was insatiable. For his part, Crowley found him irresistible. Six thousand years of pent up desire and longing could do that to an occult entity. Crowley knew, objectively, that this was probably a phase, like the first time Aziraphale tried sushi and ate himself sick for the better part of a month, but Crowley would be damned (again) if he didn’t take advantage.
“I am going to ravish you,” Crowley says, shutting the door of the bookshop behind him with a tinkle. “You’ve no idea.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale’s cheeks are a little pink from the wine they consumed at dinner, his bowtie just a bit askew. He’s the loveliest thing Crowley has ever seen. They had fucked just this morning, Aziraphale slow and gentle inside him, before Crowley left to check on his plants. Then, tonight at dinner, Aziraphale had just looked at him, met and held his gaze, and that was enough to kindle the fire all over again. Aziraphale’s knee pressed against his as they ate dessert, his hand, drifted over to Crowley’s thigh in the Bentley on the way back to the shop. All these things have made Crowley bold, and Aziraphale is not exactly resistant.
“Will you have your wicked way with me then, dear?”
Crowley simply hisses in reply and pins Aziraphale to the nearest bookcase. His hand drifts down in exploration and meets slick folds. Aziraphale gives him a knowing gaze and then they are upstairs in the bedroom, naked on the sheets that are still mussed from this morning, through no demonic intervention of Crowley’s own.
Crowley rocks into him slowly. Aziraphale’s cunt is dripping wet, making a mess of the sheets beneath them. It is already almost too much to bear. “Harder dear,” Aziraphale says, soft hands coming to rest on Crowley’s sharp hips. Crowley shudders and obliges, he can’t help but do what the angel asks, could never help it, certainly not here, now, flayed open as if he, not Aziraphale were the one getting--
“That’s it dear, right there.” How the heaven does Aziraphale sound so composed? Crowley is half out of his mind already. He hisses, concentrates, tries to keep hitting that same spot and is rewarded when Aziraphale wriggles, bucks his hips up to meet him. “Ooh yes, just like that,” Aziraphale says, a little breathless now and his nails press half-moons into the flesh of Crowley’s thighs. Crowley drives into him harder, gasping, shaking with the effort of holding a steady rhythm, of giving the angel everything he wants. He feels the exact moment Aziraphale starts to come, suddenly impossibly tighter and slicker around his cock. Crowley scrabbles on Aziraphale’s shoulders for purchase, driving into him, Aziraphale’s hot mouth is at his throat, breathing delicious little sounds into the shell of Crowley’s ear as he fucks him through it. He’s so close. Crowley makes a small desperate noise, shifts deeper inside. All at once Aziraphale disengages his cheek from Crowley’s, pulls back, stills Crowley’s frantic movements with a vicelike grip at his hips, and says, “no.”
“Angel,” Crowley gasps, levering himself up on his arms, letting his head drop as he gasps for breath. He is impossibly hard, another thrust, and he would have been there. Gently, Aziraphale cards a hand through his sweaty hair. Crowley shivers at the touch, tries to thrust again, but the hand at his hip won’t let him.
“Shhh,” Aziraphale says, and then the fingers in his hair tighten, lift Crowley’s head so that he is face to face with those startling blue eyes. He can’t help the moan that escapes him either at the eye contact or at the steady tug at his scalp, just this side of painful. “Could you hold off for me a while, dear” Aziraphale says, a statement phrased as a question. “Bring me more pleasure?”
“But you already--” Crowley gasps, desperate.
“Yes, but I’d quite like another. What’s the point of making this kind of effort if one isn’t going to enjoy it to the full potential?”
“Hedonist,” Crowley bites out, but the urge to come is already receding. He is so, so very hard, but no longer on the precipice. Aziraphale’s thumb draws a slow caressing circle against his hipbone and sends another bright shock of desire in its wake.
“Are you ready now?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley doesn’t trust his voice, so he merely nods against the lovely pressure of Aziraphale’s fingers in his hair and begins to move again, slowly at first, then faster as Aziraphale’s hand on his hip urges him on. The hand in his hair tugs him down and Crowley licks one long stripe up Aziraphale’s throat. The angel writhes and moans deliciously beneath him, then shudders at the end of one long thrust, eyes fluttering closed.
“Again already?” Crowley asks, stilling.
“Mmm,” the angel agrees. “It’s just so good with you, Crowley.”
Crowley’s body convulses at that, hips moving without his say so. “Angel,” he manages, “can I? Can I please?” He knows he’s begging, but he can’t help it, can hardly care anymore, he’s so desperate.
“Not yet,” Aziraphale says and Crowley lets out a wordless sound of frustration. Aziraphale takes advantage of the situation to slip two of his plump fingers into Crowley’s mouth. Crowley moans around them. “Go on then,” Aziraphale says. Helpless, Crowley starts to fuck him again, sucking in breaths around Aziraphale’s fingers, laving them with his tongue even as he rolls his hips. Aziraphale's fingers are...surprisingly grounding. They taste of old books and ink and the dangerous fizz of the divine. Aziraphale is making delicious sounds beneath him, hurtling towards what appears to be a third spectacular orgasm. Crowley wants nothing more than to see Aziraphale come, then to make it feel good for him. His own pleasure recedes a bit, a carefully banked fire behind the buzzing in his head. He can’t think of anything but Aziraphale’s fingers in his mouth, gently sliding into him as he slides into Aziraphale.
“I’m going to,” Aziraphale sighs, and Crowley nods encouragingly around the fingers in his mouth. Aziraphale shudders against him, slips his fingers out, and pulls him down into a deep kiss. “That was perfect,” Aziraphale says against his lips, pushes Crowley back a bit to say, “you’re perfect.”
“‘m not,” Crowley shudders. The angel is so beautiful Crowley can’t look. He’s positively radiant. How could such a creature allow Crowley to... ? How could such a creature call him perfect? Crowley knows this...this fucking like rabbits...is just a passing fancy, carnal enjoyments spurred on by the recent threat of nonexistence, but he wants, oh how he wants---
“Look at me, love,” Aziraphale says, two spit slick fingers gently turning Crowley’s chin towards him. He needed have bothered, Crowley’s head had snapped up at that word. They haven’t...not ever...not once in these heady three days of post apocalypse fucking, not in the six thousand years before. “You’re doing so well, love,” Aziraphale says and Crowley moans, presses, against him, he just can’t help it, it’s so close to what he wants to hear, what he knows Aziraphale must feel, but is worried Aziraphale will never find the courage to say. “Steady,” Aziraphale says, carding both hands through Crowley’s hair and bringing their faces together. “Can you manage another for me, do you think?”
“Anything for you angel,” Crowley says, the words torn out of him like a gasp. “Anything you want.”
“Make me...again,” Aziraphale says. “You do it so well.”
Crowley makes an inarticulate noise, fucks into Aziraphale harder than before and the angel sighs out in pleasure again. Aziraphale is flushed and gorgeous, but blessedly composed. Crowley feels like he is shaking apart. He knows his eyes have gone full yellow as he struggles to hold himself back. He is gasping into the angel’s neck, pulling against the hands in his hair if only so as to give Aziraphale an excuse to hold him, to hold the pieces of him together.
“I ought to have made An Effort the same as you’ve got,” Crowley gasps out between thrusts. “Could have gotten one of those thingies, a...a cock you strap on...could have come as many times as you and still fucked you silly.”
Aziraphale looks up at him, adoring and uncomfortably knowing. “But that wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun for you, Crowley. You like this.” Crowley bites back a moan. “You like denying yourself for me, you like feeling me around you, feeling yourself inside me, unable to do anything but bring me pleasure. You like being nice to me.”
Crowley’s hips are moving now entirely without his control. “Angel, please,” he gasps. “I can’t.”
“You can,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley’s body is wracked by a shudder at the steel and flame in Aziraphale’s voice. “You can,” he says again, soothing this time. “For me.”
“I can’t,” Crowley grits his teeth, feeling an emotion close to panic well up. He is ready to fall over the edge, its’ inevitable, he’s going to be a terrible disappointment to his angel. Unexpected tears spring to his eyes.
“You could never disappointment me,” Aziraphale says, almost as if he heard Crowley’s thoughts. Aziraphale reaches up and caresses the side of Crowley’s face, the snake tattoo by his ear. His thumb brushes away the tears where they have spilled out over Crowley’s cheeks. It is too much. Crowley trembles with the effort of holding back, and Aziraphale murmurs appreciatively. “You’re so good for me, Crowley.”
Crowley lets out a sob, fucks into Aziraphale wildly. He feels the angel clench around him again, another burst of wetness. Aziraphale cries out in pleasure. “My love,” Aziraphale says breathlessly as he trembles and shakes around Crowley for the fourth time tonight. It’s entirely too much. Crowley is crying in earnest now, he can’t help it. They shouldn’t have done this face to face, he thinks, this was dangerous, far more dangerous than walking through a church or saving a few books. “Aziraphale,” Crowley gasps, “Aziraphale, I need…”
“I know love,” Aziraphale says, and his hand is back in Crowley’s hair, not at all gentle but somehow incredibly kind, exactly what he needs, tugging him closer to the brink and still holding him away from it. In their various rounds of fucking, they have come close to this--Aziraphale has praised him, pulled his hair, held him back, but never this. Never has he been so entirely in Aziraphale’s hands. It is overwhelming, he feels stripped to the bone, raw, used, but not in a bad way. Could sex be like this for humans? He had had no idea.
“You’ve done so well for me love,” Aziraphale says, smoothing the tears away with the hand not fisted in Crowley’s hair. “Would you like to come now?” he asks.
“That’s...that’s up to you,” Crowley gasps.
“Very good,” Aziraphale says approvingly, and Crowley feels the words through him like a physical caress. “Please, now, inside me.”
That’s all it takes. Crowley is coming, for what feels like ages. Aziraphale’s hand gradually loosens in his hair until it is a barely there presence, petting him the way he might run his fingers gently between the feathers on Crowley’s wings. Crowley collapses onto Aziraphale’s chest, still shaking with the aftershocks, wet with sweat and tears and Aziraphale’s slickness, his mind somehow, blissfully, blank.
Aziraphale’s arms slowly come up to encircle Crowley’s shaking form, and he gently maneuvers them so that they are lying on their sides. Crowley has never felt so held before. It’s horrifying and wonderful at the same time. He feels far away from everything. Time and space have gone a bit fuzzy around the edges. Dimly he is aware of Aziraphale saying soft things to him, kissing his temples and the skin under his eyes.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley shakes himself, comes back to himself enough to pay attention because he recognizes that Aziraphale’s tone has suddenly shifted into something serious. “I meant it,” Aziraphale says.
“Meant what?” Crowley asks.
“I love you,” Aziraphale says.
“Oh,” Crowley has imagined, has fantasized about this moment for thousands of years (not very demonic of him, but it’s true). He had never imagined feeling so calm, or hearing Aziraphale say it in that way, so very sure.
“I thought you would never admit it,” Crowley says, more honest than he intends to be. “I thought it was always just going to be me.”
“Oh, love,” Aziraphale presses a kiss to his forehead. “It’s just taken me a bit longer. But I am sorry.”
“For having denied you all those times, for not running away with you, take your pick.”
“Angel,” Crowley sits up a little, looks into his eyes. “I have you now, don’t I? That’s all that matters.”
“You had me back then too,” Aziraphale says, blue eyes so earnest it hurts. “You’ve had me for thousands of years, Crowley, I just was too much of a coward to recognize it.”
“Hmm,” Crowley flops back on the bed, feeling both very well fucked and pleased in a warm sort of way that has nothing to do with physical pleasure. It feels like an echo of something divine, but without the answering burn Crowley has come to associate with anything holy. “So, I guess...this could be a long term thing then?” He rolls over to look at Aziraphale, smiling.
Aziraphale is not smiling. Tears hang at the corners of his eyes. “For however long you’ll have me, Crowley,” he whispers fervently.
“Could be a very long time,” Crowley whispers back, their noses almost touching. “Could be eternity, even.”
“Nothing would make me happier,” Aziraphale says, then leans in to kiss him, deep and slow.
After what could have been an age, Crowley pulls back a bit reluctantly. “So, this kind of thing,” he says, gesturing between them. “Whatever just happened here, we could do this again sometime, yeah?”
Aziraphale’s arms tighten minutely around him. “Yes, of course, if you’d like.” He pauses. “Might want to talk about it a bit though, first. Pick a word for if it’s all too much and you want me to stop.”
“Right, ok” Crowley mumbles, blushing a bit despite himself. “How about Jacob?”
“Well, he did wrestle in the night with an angel,” Crowley smirks.
Years and years later, there’s an angel and a demon and a small cottage in the South Downs. The demon cooks dinner and sits and watches as the angel enjoys it. The angel tuts disapprovingly as the demon terrifies the plants in the garden, but he smiles all the same when the demon brings him fresh roses in the evenings.
The ring on the demon’s left finger glints in the sun as his elegant hands dig in the dirt to repot a lemon tree sapling. The ring on the angel’s left finger clinks against the handle of his mug of cocoa as he sits inside reading. There was no ceremony, no celebration, just a quiet moment at home when the demon returned one night and tipped the gold bands into his angel’s palm from a small, very expensive looking black velvet box. They have been wearing the rings for a century now and have no plans to take them off. There’s another ring too though, which the demon only wears sometimes, on odd evenings when he turns to the angel and says, “will you--?” and the angel says, “of course, love” and gently settles a thin strip of leather around his throat. And the world keeps turning just as it has done, and will continue to do, for thousands of years.