It had started out innocently enough, Aziraphale thought. An irrepressible craving for crêpes was – well, it wasn’t necessarily becoming of an angel, but it wasn’t officially frowned upon, either. It was a small earthly pleasure, and Aziraphale could allow himself a small earthly pleasure, which is what he told himself several times a day when he indulged in one of his countless small earthly pleasures.
Perhaps he should have settled for an English bastardization of a crêpe; perhaps he should have dressed more modestly; perhaps he should have better allocated his miracles so he could use one to get out of his sticky situation. He had a lot of time while he was locked up in the Bastille to think about all the things he could have done differently to avoid getting locked up in the Bastille.
His overwhelming conclusion was that he hadn’t done anything wrong, really, and he ought to be set free. But Aziraphale knew the world didn’t always work the way it ought to work, and so he was stuck, heavy cuffs chaining him to the wall and chafing his skin, uncomfortably warm underneath all his layers, and still hungry.
It wasn’t that he disagreed with the sentiment of the Revolution, per se; it was more that he disagreed with the prospect of his own head becoming a casualty of said Revolution due to a series of dreadful mistakes. Not to mention all the bloody paperwork. So it was only natural, then, for his entire ethereal being to flood with relief when Crowley appeared.
What went on in his corporeal being at the sight of Crowley, well. That was only natural, too, in a different sense. It was entirely natural for his humanesque body to react in line with what his humanesque mind was thinking, no matter how much he wished it wouldn’t at the moment. He was sure Crowley could smell it on him, the devious little serpent. He was probably doing it on purpose, and Aziraphale didn’t fancy being ridiculed for his bodily urges at the moment, so he tried his best not to draw attention to it, to steer the conversation so he could be ridiculed for something else.
He had a seat back on his uncomfortable wooden stool, pressing his thighs close together, babbling about brioche. Crowley was staring at him, his face obnoxiously inexpressive except for the derision, and Aziraphale hated how much he wanted to see him, wanted to affect him somehow, wanted to throw his stupid sunglasses out the window just to make him act like he cared about something.
Of course he cared. Aziraphale knew he cared. He wouldn’t have been there, wouldn’t have come to the angel’s rescue if he didn’t care. They had been on the same page regarding the caring for a while now. But it was infuriating, sometimes, how smooth he could talk, how laid-back he could seem, because Aziraphale knew he was neither laid-back nor smooth, and he just wished Crowley wasn’t such a convincing actor.
It wasn’t enough simply to know that Crowley wasn’t as cool and collected on the inside as he appeared outwardly; Aziraphale still couldn’t be sure what he was thinking, and it was killing him. Crowley held all the cards in this situation, and although Aziraphale was fairly sure he knew what cards they were, he still would have preferred to see them. He was feeling vulnerable and powerless and humiliated and desperately, hopelessly aroused, and it was all he could do to play it cool.
Every word that left Crowley’s mouth was like the blow of a blacksmith’s hammer to the red-hot iron core of Aziraphale, making his limbs feel like jelly and his cunt throb with need. It was the way he spoke through his teeth, slurring his words just the right amount, leaned back against the stones of the cell wall as if he had infinitely better things to be doing. And in all fairness, he did have better things to be doing, chief among them being Aziraphale.
It was already nigh unbearable before Crowley raised his eyebrows and ramped up the smugness in his tone tenfold, cocking his head just so, and drawled, “Well, you’re lucky I was in the area.”
“I suppose I am.” Aziraphale echoed the demon’s lazy intonation, glancing at him sidelong, keeping his face miraculously neutral. “Why are you here?”
“I heard a rumor there was a delicious English dandy chained up in the Bastille, and I had to see for myself.” Crowley gave Aziraphale a measured, appraising once-over, obvious even from behind his dark glasses. “You don’t disappoint, angel.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He wouldn’t ask Crowley to release him from his manacles, but he’d expected him to have done it by now. Not that it was Crowley’s job, not that Aziraphale had any right to expect it from him, it was just that there was a precedent for these sorts of things, and the precedent in place did not involve Aziraphale asking for help.
Either oblivious or impervious to the scathing look the angel was giving him, Crowley leaned forward slightly, as if magnetically drawn. “Gosh,” he murmured, that same husky tone but it was softer, now. “You do look positively decadent.”
"Will you stop that?" Aziraphale snapped, his lips pursed in a little scowl directed at the floor, in spite of the growing heat between his legs.
Crowley wrinkled his brow, his jaw falling open in an expression of mock innocence. "Stop what? What've I done?"
"Stop looking at me like I'm a piece of meat," the angel clarified testily.
"A piece of meat, angel? I could never." Crowley grinned wide, twisted his body and swung his legs over in one fluid movement to slink across the floor until he was on his knees at Aziraphale's feet. "You're a ripe peach," he continued reverently, "or a delightful chou à la crème."
The angel shifted uncomfortably, highly aware of where Crowley's head was, looking intently anywhere else to hide the flush in his cheeks. "That isn't better, my dear."
Then the demon's long, slender fingers wrapped delicately around the back of Aziraphale's calf, not squeezing or pressing or pulling, simply holding him. The only thing separating their skin was the thin layer of Aziraphale's silk stockings.
"Want me to make it better?" Crowley purred, stroking his fingers lightly down the length of the angel's calf. He peered over his glasses at Aziraphale's face, his yellow eyes full of heat and hunger.
Aziraphale held his breath and squeezed his legs together harder, his cheeks burning. Of course, this was what he wanted, but it wasn’t really the best time or place for it, which was exactly why he should have expected it from Crowley. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean,” he sniffed, his attitude slightly undermined by the strain in his voice.
"I mean I could have a taste of your sweet nectar," Crowley replied, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Lick up all your delectable cream filling."
"Crowley," – Aziraphale paused and swallowed hard, – "would you mind cutting the food metaphors?"
"Alright, angel, no metaphors." Crowley licked his lips hotly, closed his eyes and took a deep inhale to savor the scent of Aziraphale. "In an entirely literal sense, I want to spread your legs and get my mouth on you."
Choking on his own spit, Aziraphale whimpered in the back of his throat, blinked hard, squeaked out a little “Oh.”
The demon removed his glasses and set them aside on the ground, one elegant eyebrow arched up in a question. "What do you say?"
Trying not to visibly shake from being wound so tight, the angel hummed and nodded thoughtfully. After a pause, he lifted his hands to draw attention to his still-shackled wrists. "You have me at your mercy, my dear. Do with me as you will."
"Well, that won't do at all," Crowley said, shaking his head. Rather than snapping his fingers as he usually might, the demon took Aziraphale’s hands and gently removed the metal cuffs himself, smoothing his hands over the raw skin of the angel’s wrists before looking up, right into his eyes. "You have me at your mercy, at your feet and at your service. Will you let me service you?"
“Oh, please, yes.” The angel’s voice could only rightly be called a moan, but whether it was a delighted moan of arousal or a wretched moan of shame at losing his composure was anyone’s guess.
Crowley didn’t particularly feel it would be fruitful to guess at that mystery, not when his time could be better spent making damn certain that the next moan would be one of ecstasy. His fingers flew gracefully up to the bottom few buttons of the angel’s waistcoat, opening up his layers and pushing them out of the way to gain access to his breeches.
Nudging between the angel’s feet, Crowley parted his thighs and made quick work of the button flap before sliding his hands over Aziraphale’s belly to rest on his hips. He took a moment to admire his handiwork, sitting back on his heels to rake his eyes over Aziraphale’s body, taking in the view of his half-dressed state, his hands gripping the edge of his stool, his eyes wide and his lips parted.
Crowley took his time in focusing his gaze and his attention on the angel’s sex, leaning forward to admire him up close. The thatch of hair between his legs was darker than the white-blond of his head, a shade closer to the color of his eyebrows, spread thickly over the folds of him.
Unable to resist, Crowley moved a hand down and ran his fingers through that hair; it was soft and warm and damp, damper as Crowley felt closer to the center, until he slipped his thumb between Aziraphale’s plump lips and felt the slick heat of him. The demon inhaled a quiet little gasp and bit his lip to stifle a groan, his eyes wandering back up to Aziraphale's face.
"You're so wet, angel," he murmured hoarsely, his thumb rubbing idly along the slick inner folds. "Have I been neglecting you too long?"
Aziraphale nodded frantically despite himself, eking out a hum of agreement. Crowley's eyes lit up at the sound, the desperation in the angel's voice, the furious flush in his cheeks. He grinned, not in his typical roguish manner, but in a show of pure delight.
"Cruel of me, really," he said nonchalantly, not taking his eyes off Aziraphale's face. "Simply criminal to leave you like this when I could have been taking care of you. Why didn't you say something?"
"Oh hush, you knew, you incorrigible beast," the angel huffed in frustration, shifting his hips with a petulant whine. "Are you going to do it anytime soon?"
"Impatient little princess," Crowley teased fondly, a sparkle in his eye. "Spoiled, you are. And me always indulging you, always giving you what you want. Can't say no to my angel."
Aziraphale smiled softly, even through his mild annoyance and heavy arousal. "You cannot act the martyr here, my dear, we both know you're indulging yourself at least as much."
Unyielding in the ministrations of his hand, Crowley slid the other one down the angel's leg, hooking him behind the knee and pulling him forward, pulling him closer. He insinuated himself under Aziraphale's leg, his shoulder supporting the angel's plump thigh as he positioned himself just so.
"That's right, angel," he murmured, his hot breath dancing along the angel's sensitive, burning skin, making him twitch and clench slightly. "Love the way you open up those pretty thighs for me, give me such a delicious feast."
Crowley looked up at Aziraphale's face one last time, taking in the sight of him, before dipping his head. He laved his tongue over the angel's belly, licking a broad stripe across the expanse of naked flesh, interspersed with a few sloppy, open-mouthed kisses for good measure. Aziraphale was squirming already, Crowley's hot mouth easily bringing out the worst in him.
As the demon kissed and licked down the juncture of his hip and thigh, Aziraphale sighed, a sound of mingled pleasure and impatience. Crowley's free hand was still rubbing and stroking his sensitive labia, his fingers dipping between the folds occasionally to feel the slickness of him, but steering clear of the angel's clit and his tight hole, squeezing hungrily around nothing. Aziraphale tried to shift his hips, tried to press deeper into Crowley's touch, but it was futile.
"Stay still," the demon muttered, his lips grazing the skin of Aziraphale's thigh. "Can you do that? Sit still with your pretty little cunt on display for me? Can you bear to give up control, just long enough for me to eat my fill of you, or should we skip that part altogether?" His eyes glancing up at the angel's face, Crowley flicked his tongue out to wet his lips.
"I can take you home and you can bring your cock out and use me, all night if you like," he continued coyly, an idle threat. "You can take whatever you want from me and more. But I'd much rather stay here and lick and suck you until you can't remember your own name."
"Then stop talking and do it, you dreadful fiend," the angel groaned miserably. "Put your wicked tongue to good use, before I give up on you and just rub myself off."
Without any further warning, Crowley leaned in close and licked all the way up from Aziraphale's slick hole to his swollen clit, drawing a long, low moan from the angel. Crowley moaned as well, overwhelmed by the decadence, and turned his head to nip and suck at Aziraphale's skin. Biting gently into the sweetness of the angel's lips, the warmth of his thighs, the soft mound of flesh below his belly, Crowley relished the taste and the blooming red marks and the stutter of Aziraphale's breath coming from above.
Aziraphale fisted his hands in the sea of ruffled cloth surrounding his wrists, using every last bit of his remaining willpower not to mess up Crowley's impeccable hair. Later, he assured himself in the back of his mind, he could do that later. For now, his task was to sit still.
He hadn't been told to be quiet, however, which was a blessing, because Crowley's mouth had the uncanniest ability to bring out noises the angel didn't even know he could make. A high whine escaped him as the demon mouthed along the outer edge of his labia until he came to a stop with his nose buried in Aziraphale's curls while he dragged the flat of his tongue roughly over the angel's clit. Aziraphale gasped at that, his legs shaking, and bit his lip to stifle a loud moan.
He could feel Crowley smiling, could feel the smug curl of the demon's lips against his soaking cunt, and he thought petulantly that it wasn't fair for Crowley to be so satisfied with himself for this. They'd both been desperate for it, but Aziraphale had at least tried to keep it to himself, while Crowley had practically begged for the chance to go down on him. Yet here they were, Aziraphale a pot about to boil over, Crowley the chef and the lid and the burner underneath him all at the same time.
Crowley shifted his position politely, handling the angel with care, forcing his legs further apart and diving lower to earnestly explore the wet heat between the plump lips of his cunt. The demon's tongue, strangely pointed and impossibly gentle, drew tight little circles around the edge of Aziraphale's hole, and he let out a pleased hum at the taste before dipping shallowly inside. He pushed his tongue in and out, going deeper with each thrust until he was fucking hard into the angel, filling him up with his tongue quite nicely.
Aziraphale shuddered with his whole body as Crowley's tongue plunged just a bit deeper than should have been strictly humanly possible, pressing insistently against a sensitive spot inside him, drawing out several high, breathless gasps and sighs. The demon's tongue was thick and hot and heavy and relentless, and Aziraphale couldn't have moved if he wanted to. Just when he was sure he could come any second, Crowley pulled back, not lifting his head but instead nudging his way up to swirl the tip of his tongue around the angel's clit.
A powerful, filthy moan ripped its way out from Aziraphale's chest, his head tilted back, his eyes closed in pure bliss. Crowley flicked his tongue teasingly around his clit for a few seconds longer, then wrapped his lips around the nub of nerves and sucked at it hungrily. He was making the most delightful noises as well, suckling obscenely and breathing heavily and letting out indulgent, greedy little hums as if enjoying the finest meal of his life – which, if one were to ask him, he would say he was.
Crowley didn’t slow down or hold back in the slightest, continued sucking and licking at the angel’s clit until his moans almost became screams, overwhelmed by the sensation and stimulation, drowning in waves of ecstasy. He felt hot and tense all over, thinking he might discorporate on the spot if Crowley did anything else, and then Crowley began doing something else, and Aziraphale found it suddenly very difficult to do anything at all.
Mouthing around the angel’s clit just gently enough to keep him on the edge, Crowley moved his free hand down below his chin and slid one long, thin finger inside Aziraphale. He did all he could do with that one finger, thrusting it in and out of the angel’s wet heat, pushing it in deep and crooking it just so, making Aziraphale cry out and attempt in vain to buck his hips again. He repeated the process with two fingers then, scissoring them and opening Aziraphale up, and Aziraphale thought surely the demon must be magically suspending his orgasm, because this was lasting far longer than he’d ever gone before, but somehow he wasn’t complaining.
Then Crowley was sucking his clit with renewed vigor, flicking his tongue over and around it, fucking three fingers hard and fast into Aziraphale’s hot cunt, his other arm wrapped around the angel’s thigh and holding him in place. He moaned hungrily, sending delicious vibrations to the core of Aziraphale, and rubbed at that sweet spot inside him again, and Aziraphale finally crested the wave of sensation he’d been riding for so long.
Crowley drew out the angel’s orgasm the same way he’d drawn out everything leading up to it, pulling the pleasure out of him slowly and deliberately. He reverently lapped up Aziraphale’s juices as he rode out the aftershocks, pulling away gently, slowly, tilting his head up to see Aziraphale gazing down at him with his pupils blown wide. Crowley looked the angel in the eyes, lifted his hand to his mouth and licked it clean, laving his tongue filthily over his fingers before shoving all three in his mouth and sucking, his eyes fluttering closed as he moaned indulgently.
By the time he’d finished his display, Aziraphale was staring at him, his jaw hanging open, not breathing. Crowley gave him a little smile, snapped his fingers to redress the angel, and rose to his feet, extending a hand to help Aziraphale up from his stool.
“My dear, you haven’t – do you want –” Aziraphale’s voice was as shaky as his legs and he struggled to complete his sentence, but Crowley understood him well enough.
“Later, angel,” he murmured, slipping his glasses back on, restarting the flow of time with a thought. “Buy me lunch first.”
Aziraphale offered his arm for Crowley to take, preparing to walk casually out of the prison, unseen and unnoticed. As the demon’s hand wrapped around his arm, impossible to ignore even through all his layers, Aziraphale turned to him and smiled. “What would you say to some crêpes?”