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Earthly Pleasures

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Perhaps now is a good time to ask.

Crowley is draped across the bookshop couch looking as comfortable as it is possible for a demon to look. More comfortable, perhaps, than it's possible for most demons to look. He raises his wineglass lazily to his lips and sips with a small, contented smile, the very picture of a being enjoying the simple pleasures of life. There is, Aziraphale fancies, a hint of a sparkle in his eyes. He's taken to removing his glasses now, more often than not, when he enters the back room of the shop, a gesture Aziraphale finds strangely touching.

Strangely touching. Aziraphale suppresses a laugh at the way his mind has worded the thought. Does that count as a double entendre? Given what he's thinking of asking?

Now truly does seem as good a time as any to bring the subject up. And yet he hesitates, feeling a tiny stirring of nerves. Which is probably very silly. Crowley is a demon. Aziraphale can't imagine he'll be shocked. Or if he is shocked, well... The thought actually has a certain entertaining appeal. It's not often that Aziraphale gets the chance to shock his friend. They've known each other far too long and far too well for very much to come as a surprise anymore.

They've also known each other far too long and far too well, Aziraphale is certain, for one possibly awkward question to cause any permanent difficulties between them. Much bigger, much worse questions have failed at that.

Surely the worst that can happen is that Crowley will say no, and that would be disappointing, yes, perhaps a bit uncomfortable for a while, but it won't be any kind of a problem. And if he says yes...

Aziraphale looks at Crowley, runs his eyes over the demon's familiar sharp, loose-limbed form, and tries to imagine what might follow a yes. He can't, quite, or perhaps he can only in tiny, half-formed flashes of fancy. But it's an intriguing possibility. An exciting one. Like the prospect of tasting, for the first time, some new and bound-to-be-delectable dessert, and being lucky enough to do so in Crowley's company.

Oh, he does hope that he'll say yes. Or at least that he'll consider it. Perhaps they can...

"Angel?" Crowley's voice, amused and mildly concerned, cuts across his thoughts. "You okay? Do I have something in my teeth?" Crowley runs his tongue across his teeth, checking them. "Nah, wait, I can't have. Haven't eaten anything in... what day is it? You can't get wine caught in your teeth, can you?"

Oh dear. He was staring. And now Crowley, having determined that there's nothing caught in his teeth, is staring back.

He has to say something.

"Crowley," he says, "I was thinking. Would you perhaps like to have sex?"

Oh, bother. He hadn't meant to say it quite like that. He'd meant to include some sort of preamble. He isn't certain what, exactly, but he's fairly sure that's not really the appropriate way to ask.

Some people, when they are surprised, will blink. Crowley is the opposite. When he's surprised, he forgets that blinking is a thing he can do. He stares at Aziraphale, his eyes wide. For a moment, the yellow in them expands.

"Sorry," says Crowley. He sets his wineglass down on the table without looking at either the glass or the table. He misses slightly, and the table adjusts itself a few centimeters over so as not to disappoint him. "Sorry, what?"

Aziraphale finds himself smiling, just a little. Well, he supposes that answers the question of whether it's possible to shock Crowley. He picks his own wineglass up and sips it, the familiar musky flavor a comfort on his tongue. "Sorry. Possibly not the most delicate way to bring it up. But what I said was, do you think you might perhaps like to have sex? With me, I mean. I suppose that might not have been entirely clear."

Crowley makes a strange, strangled noise. Aziraphale has heard many such noises from him over the millennia, but this may be an entirely new variant. "With you," he says. "With you, of course. Sex. With you."

Is that incredulity? Or is he repulsed by the thought? Aziraphale is surprised to find that the possibility stings a little. But he carries on. "Only if you like," he says. "I thought it might be fun."

"Fun," Crowley repeats. "Right." Not repulsion, Aziraphale decides. He looks... flustered? Confused?

"Well, the humans seem to enjoy it." Aziraphale takes another sip of his wine and sets the glass down next to Crowley's. "It certainly looks like fun." He finds his voice growing wistful. "I always wanted to try it, you know. But Heaven..." He shakes his head, blows out his cheeks a little. "Food and drink are one thing. They never approved, of course, but sexual pleasures are a different matter entirely."

Crowley leans forward, searching Aziraphale's face with his eyes, as if trying to interpret what he's saying. Odd. Aziraphale is certain he's being clear. He carries on. "Which is quite unfair," he says, "if you ask me. And entirely irrational. The real concern was with interbreeding with humans, but there are plenty of sexual acts one can perform without having to worry about that!"

"Yes," says Crowley, hissing a bit on the "s" at the end. "Plenty." He nods. Oh, good. He seems to be following along now.

"Still, rational or not, it wasn't a rule I ever dared break. They took it very seriously, you know. Only, now." He smiles brightly. He has many, many feelings about his separation from heaven, not all of them good, but this new sense of freedom, this giddy, floating feeling of liberation is a joy and a relief. "Well," he says. "How does the phrase go? They are no longer the boss of me!" He beams, pleased both with the thought and with his ability to remember the appropriate modern slang. "I can do whatever I like now. We both can. So I thought it might be a fun thing we could do together. I assume it's something you've done before? Only one does hear things. About, you know, some of the things you demons get up to."

"Right," says Crowley. "Right, okay. We're having this conversation now. This is a thing that's happening." He picks up his wineglass, still without looking at it, and drains it. It refills itself, and the table adjusts again as he sets it down.

Aziraphale shifts in his chair, wiggling himself into a comfortable and attentive position.

"Okay," says Crowley. "Okay, okay, okay. Yeah, so. Yeah, I've had sex. I mean, not often, not what you'd call regularly, but yeah. Line of duty mostly. You know--" His mouth twists up wryly. "What us demons get up to."

"And was it fun?" Oh dear. That came out a little more eager than he meant it to.

Crowley shrugs. "Sometimes. I mean, it's..." He gestures up and down his body with one elegant hand. "Bodies, right? Lots of nerve endings."

Aziraphale catches himself leaning forward. Still too eager. Well, to hell with it. So to speak. He's allowed. "Tell me what it's like?"

Crowley tilts his head. His lips do something complicated and thoughtful. He looks at Aziraphale for a long moment without speaking. Then, just as Aziraphale is about to apologize for the question, he says, "You'd rather I showed you, wouldn't you?" His voice, unexpectedly, is quiet. There is something simple and sincere in it, something almost vulnerable, that touches Aziraphale's heart.

"I would, rather," he says. "I can't imagine who I'd want to try it with, if not with you." He smiles at Crowley, hopefully.

Crowley stares at him a few seconds longer, then sits up straighter and claps his hands onto his knees. "Right then. I don't suppose you have a bed in this place?"

It is Aziraphale's turn to be taken aback. Not in a bad way. In a way that sends a strange and pleasant feeling of warmth across the back of his neck. "What... You mean right now?"

"Why not? No time like the present." Crowley stands and offers Aziraphale his hand. "Not every day you get the opportunity to take an angel's virginity, is it?"

"Crowley," he says, an affectionate rebuke.

"C'mon, angel. Let's go introduce you to fornication."

"Oh, Crowley, really." But he takes the demon's offered hand and lets Crowley pull him to his feet, and he doesn't even try to keep the smile off his face. "As it happens," he says, "I do have a bed."


The books have to be removed from it first, of course. And there's a fine layer of dust that needs to be miracled away. As Aziraphale fusses about with it, Crowley shakes his head, the corners of his mouth tugging upward as if almost against his will. "I can't believe I'm about to have sex on a bed with tartan sheets."

"I can change them if you like." Aziraphale raises a hand, ready to gesture the pattern away. What would Crowley prefer? All black, most likely. Well, he supposes he could put up with that.

"Nah, don't bother. 'S not like I don't know who I'm getting into bed with." Crowley is very much losing his battle with his smile. There's something terribly charming about it, and about the almost shy way in which he ducks his head.

Aziraphale feels a not entirely unfamiliar impulse to reach out and touch his hair and realizes, with a startled thrill, that this is actually very much in the spirit of what Crowley's just invited him to do.

Crowley tenses a little as Aziraphale's fingers trail across his scalp, and his lips part in a surprised expression.

"Is this all right?"

Crowley nods, the gesture dragging Aziraphale's fingers back and forth through his hair. "Yeah. You can do stuff like that."

Aziraphale smiles.

Something in Crowley's face softens, and he reaches out to cup Aziraphale's cheek. Odd, how something can simultaneously feel so strange and yet so natural.

And nice. Really very nice. Not even so much the touch itself, as the blissful absence of fear that comes with it. Six thousand years of worrying about being seen speaking to each other, and now Crowley can touch his face, and no one can do a thing about it.

He can take this demon to bed and do all the lovely sensual things humans have been doing together since the Garden, and no one will do a thing to stop them.

He is so very, very fond of Crowley.

"Right," he says. "What shall we do first?"

"Well," says Crowley lightly. "There's always this."

And Crowley kisses him.

This, Aziraphale has done before. Not often. It complicates things with humans, especially when one isn't free to follow through on what they often assume is a promise of things to come. Often enough, however, to know that he likes it.

Crowley's kiss, at first, is a light, simple thing. The merest brush of lips against lips. Gentle, Aziraphale thinks, and the thought fills him with warmth. Or is that the wrong word? Is it, perhaps, hesitant instead?

A small, squirming thread of doubt unwinds itself inside Aziraphale's heart as he considers that word, "hesitant." Is this something Crowley even enjoys? Or is his willingness to indulge Aziraphale in this simply another manifestation of that core of kindness inside him, the one he refuses to admit to out loud even now? Aziraphale wants this to be fun, joyful, even, if he dares to hope, but it won't be unless it is for both of them.

He's about to pull back, about to ask, when Crowley bends forward and kisses him again, and this time it's all soft enthusiasm, Crowley's lips caressing Aziraphale's appreciatively, as if in answer to his worries.

It lasts for some blissfully timeless interval, their lips sliding and sharing, Crowley's hands cupping the back of Aziraphale's head, Aziraphale's spreading against the small of Crowley's back.

Eventually, Aziraphale dares to dart his tongue inside Crowley's mouth, and Crowley accepts it eagerly, sucking it into himself with a small noise that allows Aziraphale to learn a delightful lesson: it is entirely possible for him to smile and kiss at the same time.

Their tongues slide together, entwine, withdraw, return and re-engage, and Aziraphale is reminded, oddly, of a sword fight they'd had once, perhaps a millennium ago. Ostensibly it had been a battle between Good and Evil, but they'd both known neither of them would triumph in any meaningful way, and it had been jolly good fun. They'd ended it sitting on the grass together, laughing.

This is like that, the thrust and the parry, the joy of moving together, only wetter and softer and with a great deal less pretending to be enemies. Aziraphale likes it.

Somewhere in the middle of it, in between a thrust and a parry, he feels Crowley's tongue change, shifting almost instantly into something thinner, lither. Forkier. Crowley tenses and start to pull away, but Aziraphale presses him closer, kissing him deeply until he relaxes again, until his tongue wraps and winds its away around Aziraphale's own, the divided tip flickering against the inside of his lips. Aziraphale likes that, too, very much. He thinks of his first sight of Crowley, serpentine in Eden, of how far they've come together since, how glad he is to have Crowley beside him still, after everything. After all of history.

And then, for a while, he thinks only of the pleasure of it, the glide of lips and tongues and hands, the gently tingling promise of possibilities to come.

At last Crowley pulls back from him, disengaging slowly, with several false-start returns to Aziraphale's lips. He slides his hands from Aziraphale's head, to rest them on his shoulders. He starts to say something, but it comes out as an incoherent hiss.

Aziraphale laughs, not with any mockery, and Crowley frowns, not with any disappointment, He crosses his snake-slit eyes to look down at his own mouth and works his tongue back and forth until it finally obeys him, slipping back into human form.

Crowley clears his throat.

"I'm sorry," says Aziraphale. "I didn't quite catch that."

"I was trying," says Crowley, glaring down at his mouth again – rather a neat trick, really – "to ask if you want to, ah, move to the bed."

"Oh!" Aziraphale feels his face light up, sees it reflected in Crowley's eyes. "Oh, yes, please."

Crowley clears his throat again. "Right. Well. Yeah, let's do that, then."

Crowley takes his hand and they move together to the bed, sitting side by side, their faces turned towards each other.

"I suppose," says Aziraphale, "We should probably be unclothed for this next part. That is, if you're still interested?" After all that kissing, he's fairly confident of the answer, but it seems the gentlemanly thing to ask.

Crowley rolls his eyes and drops them towards the floor, the demonic equivalent of a "Lord, give me strength" glance towards the heavens. "Trust me, angel," he says. "If I change my mind, you'll be the first to know."

"Glad to hear it," Aziraphale says. Or not to hear it, because it's the unspoken declaration that this is something Crowley also wants that truly gladdens his heart. He finds himself giving a little wriggle of delight. "And I do trust you. Completely."

Crowley's eyes widen for a moment, a soft and complicated look stealing across his face. Then he blinks, deliberately, and shakes his head. "You're ridiculous, angel," he says, and caresses Aziraphale's cheek.

"I'm a ridiculous angel who thinks it's probably time to be naked," says Aziraphale, bringing them back to the important subject at hand.

"Right," says Crowley, lifting his hand from Aziraphale's face – it's astonishing how much Aziraphale suddenly misses it – and poising the fingers to snap. "Shall I--?"

Aziraphale pouts at him, disappointed. "Really, my dear. There's no need to rush. We are immortal, after all. It isn't as if we don't have time."

"All right. Have it your way." And Crowley reaches down to undo the buttons of Aziraphale's waistcoat.

Aziraphale watches for a moment, fascinated, somehow, by the sight of those long, pale fingers undoing his clothing. Smiling, he caresses them while they work. He may be impeding more than he's helping, but he doesn't particularly care. They do have time. They can play together as they like.

Crowley kisses him, making it even harder to keep up with the whole undressing-each-other plan, especially when he keeps stopping to do it again. But they make it work, tugging and unbuttoning and squirming in undignified fashion out of their garments.

At one point, Crowley blesses under his breath and insults Aziraphale's fashion sense and its resultant unnecessary – unnecessary according to him – multiple layers of clothing.

A little later, Crowley stands to finish peeling off his jeans and ends up doing a little hopping dance, as if the bedroom has suddenly become consecrated ground, in a desperate attempt to dislodge them. Aziraphale gleefully seizes on the opportunity to criticize Crowley's fashion sense in turn. Really, what is the point of trousers so tight it practically takes a miracle to remove them?

But at the end of all this ruckus, there they are. Together. Naked.

It's interesting. Crowley's corporeal form is nothing Aziraphale hasn't seen before. They've encountered each other so often through the years, and occasionally they've done so at times and in places where there was nothing unusual at all about men – or, by extension, man-shaped entities – being nude in each other's presence. Aziraphale hadn't thought very much about Crowley's body then. It was beautiful, as all human bodies are beautiful, but interesting to him only because of the being inside it. Well, except for the hair, perhaps. He's always rather liked Crowley's hair.

But now? Something in the nature of what they're doing, what they're about to do, or something, perhaps, in the act of uncovering Crowley's body has made him feel differently about it. This, he thinks, as they settle down beside each other again, is the corporeal form that's going to join with his. He feels tender towards it. He wants to to touch it.

He can touch it. He does.

The feel of Crowley's skin sliding beneath his fingers is everything he'd hoped for. A pleasure, an indulgence, warm and silky and very much alive. He glides his hands up Crowley's sides, across his chest. He can feel Crowley's bones beneath his fingertips, the jut and bump of every rib. It feels intimate, more so than he'd expected. Which is silly, he supposes. Isn't intimate precisely what this act is meant to be?

Crowley makes a sound, a small, soft "oh," as if he feels it, too. The pleasure of touching like this. The sense, perhaps, that they've crossed some boundary that's been between them for so long they'd never even noticed it, and discovered something wonderful on the other side.

Crowley reaches out and touches him back, and Aziraphale feels a deep, inexpressible happiness settling somewhere inside his heart.

"We're really doing this,"' Crowley says. His smile is crooked and twitching, as if he's trying to keep it under control and utterly failing. The movement of his hands mirrors Aziraphale's, sliding up his sides and over his chest. His thumbs brush gently across Aziraphale's nipples, and, goodness. Aziraphale had always thought the nipples on male-shaped human bodies amusingly useless, but he is rapidly revising that opinion.

"I certainly hope so!" he says. He wants to say something more, something about the warmth inside his chest, there beneath Crowley's hands. But he still doesn't have the words – ineffable!, some small voice in the back of his head chimes in, perhaps a touch manically – and he isn't sure he needs them, anyway.

Instead, he touches Crowley's body. Explores it. Crowley's sides, his back, his hips, his thighs, the slight curve of his bottom where it meets the surface of Aziraphale's bed. A warm press of palms, a light trill of fingertips, and oh, he very much hopes this feels as lovely for Crowley as Crowley's hands feel doing the same for him. Based on the occasional sounds Crowley's making, he imagines it does.

They don't hurry. They truly do have all the time in the world, and why should they rush something so nice? Despite his earlier attempt to hustle things along, Crowley does seem to be in agreement, for once, and Aziraphale is terribly pleased to know that he can go slowly, given enough of a reason. For a moment he contemplates saying so, but Crowley would doubtless feel the need to argue the point, and much as he enjoys arguing with Crowley, now doesn't seem quite the time.

Instead, he lowers his head to Crowley's neck, to the place where it joins with his shoulder, and kisses him there, against the jut of his collarbone.

Crowley tilts his head back, as if to encourage him. Baring his throat, to the one who was always meant to strike him down. There's a poignancy in that that Aziraphale can't quite bear to think about, not now. He pushes the feeling aside, burying it in the sensual fascination of lips on skin. He kisses up Crowley's neck and down it again. He can feel the beat of Crowley's pulse beneath his mouth. The vibration of his throat as he thrums out the word "Angel."

Aziraphale laps his tongue against that throat, tasting the word. Tasting Crowley. His skin tastes very human, earthy and organic and lightly seasoned with salt. But that isn't all. With more metaphysical senses, Aziraphale can taste more, can taste the occult essence, there beneath the skin. Crowley fizzes like champagne, burns like a flambé.

"Crowley," he murmurs against that skin, above that essence. And then, as a realization sweeps through him, leaving him stunned, he lifts his head to look into Crowley's eyes, shining gold and wide with pleasure. "Oh, Crowley. Imagine. Six thousand years, and this is the first time I've known what you taste like!"

Crowley laughs, his oh-angel-you're-being-ridiculous-again laugh, but it's the happiest version of it Aziraphale's ever heard. "S'pose there's a first time for everything," he says.

Aziraphale begins to answer that, begins to say something like, "Mmm, yes, and I must say I'm rather pleased about this one," but he doesn't get past the "mmm," before Crowley is kissing him again. Kissing his lips, his neck, his chest, his neck again. Tasting him back.

Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley, pulling him close, trying to touch him everywhere, to taste him everywhere, and a moment later they're rolling across the bed together. Aziraphale has no idea which of them deserves the credit for this development, but he's absolutely not objecting to it.

They end with Crowley on top of him, which he also has no objection to, as it gives him a lovely unbroken stretch of skin to caress while Crowley kisses him. Shoulders to back to buttocks to thighs, back up, back down again. Lovely.

To his surprise and immense pleasure, he can feel his body beginning to respond. To the touching, to Crowley's kisses, to the weight of the demon atop him, he isn't certain which, but his phallus is growing hard. (Do they still call it a phallus these days? Aziraphale isn't certain, but perhaps he doesn't particularly care.)

He'd entirely expected that he'd have to miracle it into this state, as he's always had to do before, the infrequent, largely unsatisfying times he's attempted to experiment with such things on his own.

Crowley notices, too. With a last, playful flutter of his lips against Aziraphale's, he raises his head and looks down at Aziraphale, his eyebrows raised. Aziraphale believes that expression on his face is perhaps a smidgen too smug, but is quite willing to forgive him.

Crowley shifts his body against Aziraphale's, rubs up against his hip, and Aziraphale realizes that Crowley's body is already in a similar state. They grin at each other for a moment.

Then a thought flits across Crowley's face. "Ah. Is this okay?"

He rolls himself off of Aziraphale, a wriggling, slithering movement that's as delightful in action as it is disappointing in result, and rises to his knees. He gestures down at himself. "I mean this. You know. It, ah, comes standard with the body. Well, not standard, exactly. Default setting? Yeah, default setting. Like, oh, what do you call it?"

Aziraphale opens his mouth to say that he has no idea and wishes Crowley would stop babbling and climb back on top of him, but Crowley waves his own question away with a sweeping hand gesture and keeps going.

"Never mind. Not important. What I mean, is, y'know, I can change it. If you want. No problem changing it. If you'd rather, I dunno, for your first time and all, if you'd rather do something a little more... traditional?

Aziraphale blinks. "Traditional?" It takes him a second to realize exactly what it is that Crowley's suggesting, and when he does, he laughs. A faint look of hurt confusion crosses Crowley's face, then, and, well, he certainly can't allow that to stand. He rises up to kneel in front of Crowley and takes his hand. "My dear, this is perfectly traditional. I don't know about you, but I've seen humans doing it like this since very nearly the beginning." Sometimes seen in a very literal sense, too. Notions of privacy not always having been what they are these days.

"'Kay," says Crowley. "Just checking. Now, where were we?"

But Aziraphale isn't quite done with this conversation yet, now that they've started it. "Anyway," he says, "you have a lovely phallus."

Crowley groans, whether at the statement or at Aziraphale's choice of words, he isn't sure. "Phallus. Angel. You are killing me."

"Well, you do," says Aziraphale, unconcerned about the possibility of Crowley discorporating. "It suits you." It does. It's long and thin and elegant, flushed a rather pretty shade of pale rose in its bed of dark red curls. "Can I touch it?" Aziraphale can't quite keep the anticipation out of his voice. Doesn't really try.

"'Course you can touch it," Crowley says.

So he does, slowly and appreciatively, savoring the silk-over-steel feeling of it, the seemingly involuntary twitch of Crowley's hips as he wraps his hand around.

Crowley rests his hand on Aziraphale's wrist, stilling it for a moment. "What do you want to do, angel? Tell me. Anything you like." His expression is softly questioning. I'll give you a lift, he remembers that expression saying to him once. Anywhere you want to go.

Where does he want to go? He'd imagined all sort of things, when he was imagining this, wondering how to ask for it. But now? What does he want now?

He considers. Considers Crowley's body, so close to his, with Crowley's... Crowleyness, burning inside it. Considers his own corporation and what it seems to want, the parts of himself still craving touch, and something more than touch. Considers again the concept of boundaries between them, and the dissolving thereof.

"I think," he says. "Well, I'd like to do just about everything, honestly. But perhaps this first time..." He finds himself almost breathless, asking the question. "Would you let me come inside you? Would... would that be all right?"

The look Crowley gives him is incredulous, and for a moment he feels a terrible stab of dismay. Oh dear. This first time. He hadn't even listened to himself as he said it. Is that too presumptuous? He hadn't even meant... Well. Perhaps he had. Perhaps Crowley is rightfully annoyed by the assumption. Perhaps--

But Crowley throws back his head and laughs, and his laughter is far from displeased.

"Satan, angel! I honestly can't tell if that's deliberate dirty talk, or if you have absolutely no idea how you sound."

"What?" What did he say? Ah. "Oh, yes, I see. Well, I was attempting to ask, in a civilized fashion, whether you'd like me to penetrate you--" At this, Crowley laughs again. Aziraphale responds with a friendly squeeze of the demon's phallus, and his laughter ends in a rather adorable little gasping yelp. "But if we're going to be vulgar, yes, I suppose, I do want to come inside you in order to, well, come inside you." He releases Crowley from his grip. "But only if you'd like that. I promise you, I'd be perfectly happy to--"

"Yes," says Crowley, interrupting him, and he loses any further sense of what he was going to say in the distracting sensation of Crowley's fingers dancing along his penis. (Is that the word Crowley would rather he use for it? Does he care? At the moment, he'd be happy to call it anything Crowley likes, so long as it keeps him paying attention to it.)

"Oh, well, in that case," he says, when he feels able to, "I suppose we need some sort of lubrication." Crowley's hand tightens gently around him, and he stops to make an appreciative noise, because, good lord, that's marvelous. "I believe humans have been known to make use of--" He stutters slightly as Crowley's grip loosens, tightens, loosens, and slides. "--of various kinds of oil," he manages. And other substances these days, no doubt, but oil, at least, is comfortably familiar.

"For a virgin," says Crowley, keeping up that marvelous gripping slide. "you seem to know quite a lot about the subject."

"I read," says Aziraphale. "And I talk to people." The members of the gentlemen's club he'd frequented a century or two ago had had some rather strong opinions on the subject, as he recalls.

"And now you fuck," says Crowley, eliciting a startled laugh out of him, and an echoing one from Crowley.

"Yes," he says, enjoying the way the words roll around on his tongue. "Now I fuck!"

Crowley lunges forward and kisses him, harder and faster than before. Aziraphale finds he quite likes it. "Now you fuck me," he says. He pulls back with a smile Aziraphale can only think of as adorably wicked. "Right. Come on, then."

He rolls over, splaying himself on his back, lifts his hips, and spreads his legs.

It's a fascinating sight. But Aziraphale is trying not to lose sight of practicalities. "Yes," he says. "And the oil?"

"Miracle some up," Crowley says. "On your fingers, to start with. If you still want to do things the slow way."

He does. And so he does.

He wonders if Heaven is still monitoring his miracles. He wonders if this one shows up in their ledgers with an indication of the intent behind it.

He almost hopes it does.

He scoots towards the demon and holds a finger out. "Should I just...?"

"Oh, yeah," says Crowley. "Just get on in there."

"There's no need to be crude about it." But he's smiling. Of course.

"Says the angel who fucks."

Aziraphale gives him a look of fond amusement. And, slowly, he reaches out towards the puckered little opening of Crowley's body.

If he were Crowley, he imagines he'd have something devastatingly clever to say just now. Something about gates, perhaps. Guarding them or breaching them, or some such thing. But he's not Crowley, despite having convincingly pretended to be once, and--

Oh. Now there's a strange thought. That he's looking down at a body he once inhabited, from an angle he could never have seen it from while he was wearing it. Not that he'd looked. He'd kept as many of Crowley's clothes on as possible, in the interest of Crowley's dignity.

And here he is, about to be inside that body again, in a very different way. He wonders how all of this would have felt, all this kissing and caressing, if it were him wearing Crowley's skin. Odd, how much more intimate this feels than being him ever did.

"Perhaps not quite that slow?" says Crowley.

"Oh, yes, right. Sorry." He reaches out again, but pauses, again.

"Problem?" says Crowley. The sardonic look he's giving Aziraphale is almost absurd, with him in that position.

"I don't think it's a very good angle," he says. "I mean, to get my hand in. Or possibly anything else."

Crowley sighs, an exaggeratedly put-upon sigh. "Why do I have to do everything in this relationship?" he mutters, sending an odd little flare of warmth through Aziraphale for reasons he doesn't entirely understand and doesn't stop to examine. Crowley rolls over, digs around under the sheets for the pillows, flops back down and shoves one under his buttocks and another beneath his head. "Better?"

"Yes, I do believe it is."

"Right, then," says Crowley. "Do you remember where we were?"

"I may be older than time, Crowley, but I'm certainly not senile." Aziraphale settles himself back down between Crowley's spread-apart knees and spends another few seconds contemplating the view before reaching out with one warm, oil-slick finger and rubbing it in experimental circles around Crowley's opening.

"Doesn't mean you know what you're doing, either," says Crowley, but he doesn't sound at all displeased by what Aziraphale is currently doing.

"I'm sure I can trust you to give me pointers if I need them," Aziraphale says, placidly, and continues to circle his finger, watching the oil spreading and glistening against the pink of Crowley's body.

"Well, you may want to consider putting a finger in there," Crowley says with exaggerated mildness. "Just a thought?"

"Oh, hush," says Aziraphale. "I'm enjoying myself." But he does as he's asked, slowly sliding one digit around, and in. He can feel Crowley's body begin to resist him and then, all at once, give in, opening for him and gripping him tightly as if it has no intention, now that he's there, of ever letting him go.

Crowley is warm inside, soft and strong.

"Goodness," Aziraphale says. "I didn't expect you to be quite this tight."

"I have no idea how I'm supposed to take that," says Crowley.

"Oh," says Aziraphale, feeling ridiculously, smugly pleased with himself even as he says it, "Rather like this, I should think." And he drives his finger deeper into Crowley, pulls back a little, pushes in again.

Crowley laughs, a rich and tumbling sound that Aziraphale would swear he can feel vibrating its way through Crowley's body and rippling against his finger. "Angel!" he says, mock-scandalized.

Aziraphale just gives him an innocent look and keeps doing what he's been invited to do.

Crowley makes a little hissing noise. Aziraphale, having had ample opportunity to study and catalog Crowley's various little hissing noises, is fairly certain he sounds pleased.

"Does that feel good?" he says.

"'S alright," says Crowley, and now he's using that tone his voice takes on when he's trying very hard to downplay his feelings about something. Aziraphale wonders if he ever truly expects that to fool anyone, or if it's simply part of his "style." "It'll feel a lot better later," he adds, "if you're doing it right."

"Well," says Aziraphale, with great sincerity. "I shall try my very best." He slides his finger in, slides it out, slides it in. "If I do something wrong, you must absolutely let me know."

Crowley raises his head off the pillow and looks at Aziraphale with a curious, bright expression. "Oh, angel," he says, his voice lower and slower now. "I don't think you can do the wrong thing."

The ancient, aching familiarity of that touches Aziraphale more deeply than he would have expected. He meets Crowley's gaze for a moment, then drops his eyes, feeling almost bashful. "Thank you," he says.

Crowley clears his throat and flops his head back down onto the pillow. "Perhaps another finger?" he says, more lightly now. "You have to, you know..." One hand flaps around in an entirely indeterminate gesture. "Open things up bit. Well, a bit more."

Aziraphale does as he is bid, unhurried, but not without a touch of eagerness. There is something compelling about the sight of this small part of his body inside this small part of Crowley's. About the way Crowley's body grips and embraces him. The way it relaxes and welcomes him. He feels as if he could happily do this all day.

"All right," says Crowley, after some period of time that may be significant, but certainly is not all day. "Enough. That's enough! I'm ready."

"Are you certain?" Aziraphale doesn't stop what he's doing, but begins to give the sensation of it a bit more intellectual consideration. He looks down at himself. "It seems awfully large to fit in there, still."

Crowley lets out an adorable but incredulous snort. "Are you bragging now, angel? Really? I mean it's a lovely cock you have there, don't get me wrong, won't say a word against it. I'm looking forward to getting to know it better. But going on about how big it is? Tsk. Sin of pride, angel. Really."

He grins, about as wide as it's possible for him to do so without changing shape, levers himself up rather awkwardly on one elbow, and reaches out to trail a finger down Aziraphale's... Are they calling it a "cock" now?

The touch is really quite exciting, and all the more so for being unexpected. Aziraphale shivers a little, and, oh, it appears he was wrong a moment ago, because Crowley's smile gets even wider.

Aziraphale makes a small huffing sound, the one he uses when he wants to express tolerant disapproval. "Don't be absurd, dear. That isn't what I meant at all. Anyway, it isn't as if I chose this corporation. I had to take what Heaven issued me with, didn't I?"

"Well," says Crowley. "I'm glad they did one thing right by you, anyway."

And perhaps Crowley is right, perhaps it is the sin of pride, because Aziraphale feels his face growing warm, and, oh dear, is he blushing? Well. It's hardly narcissistic to be happy that one's body is pleasing to one's... one's sexual partner, is it?

Crowley gives him another smile, light and teasing and rather pleased with itself, and flumps back down onto his pillow.

Aziraphale, without thinking, pulls his fingers out of Crowley, surges his body forward to cover the demon's, and kisses him.

Crowley kisses back, with less urgency than Aziraphale might have expected, but a great deal of warmth.

Still kissing, he runs his hands down Aziraphale's back and kneads his fingers into his buttocks, and, goodness, Aziraphale likes that. Why does he like that?

He likes the feel of their bodies pressing together, too, of Crowley's... Crowley's cock, straining against his belly.

Crowley breaks the kiss, finally, and moves his mouth to whisper hissing words against Aziraphale's cheek. "That's enough waiting, Aziraphale. Now's the time. This is it. C'mon and fuck me."

It ought to sound crude. Vulgar. Off-putting.

It doesn't.

"Crowley," he says, overwhelmed, for a moment, with gratitude for this ridiculous serpent beneath him. For having someone to share this with. For six thousand years of knowing him, for the way every one of those years has led to this.

"C'mon," Crowley says again. It's almost more of a purr this time than a hiss. Although Aziraphale has never quite understood how Crowley can manage to hiss words with no sibilants in them, anyway. "C'mon, c'mon."

Aziraphale yanks his wandering mind back onto practicalities. "Yes," he says. "Right. Just one moment." He rolls himself off of Crowley, or tries to. It's a bit difficult, with all of Crowley's limbs, seemingly of their own accord, interfering to keep him there.

But eventually he is on his knees again, nestled in the loose, improbable angle made by Crowley's thighs. Quickly, he calls up another miracle, conjuring a slick of oil to coat his... Yes, all right, his cock.

There. Let Heaven catalog that one.

"Oh, yeah," says Crowley, his voice dripping with warm amusement. "Gotta make sure it fits."

Aziraphale feels himself blushing again. "Well, if it doesn't, it will be your own fault," he says.

"If it doesn't, I can always adjust things. Think you're the only one who can use miracles for sex? Demons invented that sort of thing."

"I'm quite certain I don't want to know," says Aziraphale, but he doesn't believe he gets his usual righteous tone quite right this time.

"C'mon, angel. C'mon." Crowley wiggles his bum in a manner Aziraphale supposes is meant to be enticing. It's possibly the most ludicrous thing he's ever seen. He loves it.

"Right," he says, drawing in a deep breath. He shuffles forward a little. Is this quite right? Perhaps a little more. Hang on, Crowley's knee is in the way. Carefully, he attempts to re-position himself, but it's a little difficult when Crowley's legs are wrapping around him and trying to pull him in, and Crowley isn't being careful at all.

"Just give me a moment!" he exclaims, finally, and Crowley lets out a long-suffering sigh and stills.

"Right," Aziraphale says again. This seems much more workable, now. With only a little hesitation, he takes himself in hand, his organ slick and warm beneath his fingers, and guides himself towards the entry to Crowley's body.

"Are you quite sure--?" he begins.

"Angel!" This time it's a growl, and there might be actual frustration in it, so Aziraphale nods.

"Well, then," he says softly. With the hand not currently holding himself, he grasps one of Crowley's hips. He leans in, and slowly, not breathing, he pushes in.


"Ah," says Crowley, sounding much happier.

Ah, indeed. Oh, Crowley feels quite marvelous inside. Much different than he did around Aziraphale's fingers. Crowley was right about the nerve endings. There are so many of them lighting up for him now, all of them telling him a lovely, lovely story about something warm and tight and velvety and completely, wonderfully new.

He slides in further, all the way, until he's as far inside Crowley's body as he can be like this, and he closes his eyes and savors. It's like his first-ever bite of cheesecake, as utterly blissful as that, only better, because Crowley wasn't there to enjoy that with him, and he'd had to experience it alone.

He opens his eyes to see Crowley looking at him with the same expression he often uses to watch Aziraphale eat.

"Take your time," he says. He sounds as if he means it.

"Thank you," Aziraphale says. And he means it, too.

He closes his eyes again, focuses again on the sensations. The feeling of being inside Crowley, of Crowley's legs wrapped around him, Crowley's body beneath him, the rise and fall of Crowley's breath.

He feels deeply satisfied, just with this, but of course there's much more still to do. He imagines if he were human, he'd be feeling the instinct, now, to thrust in and out. He doesn't. But it sounds as if it might be fun, anyway. For both of them, hopefully. He opens his eyes.

"I think I shall start moving now," he declares.

"Yes, good, fine by me," says Crowley. His voice sounds a little strained, but in a good way.

Aziraphale braces himself against the bed with one hand, rests the other on Crowley's hip and begins to... to...

To have sex with him. To move inside him, to pull out a little, slow and steady, to push in again. And again. And again.

Adding this, this feeling of movement and friction and doing to all that tightness and warmth, it's... It's...

"Oh, Crowley, this feels exquisite."

"Glad you're enjoying it, angel," Crowley pants out beneath him.

"Oh, I am. Are you? I – oh, goodness!" This as he pushes in again, inexplicably surprised by a sensation he must have experienced half a dozen times by now.

Crowley's hands knead at his hips, encouraging him back in when he begins to withdraw, encouraging him deeper when he returns. "Yeah," he says. "Feels good. Feels like you."

Aziraphale hasn't quite figured out what to do with whatever the fluttery feeling happening in his heart at this declaration might be when Crowley, responding to a particularly sharp and angled little thrust, lets out a loud, groaning gasp.

Aziraphale stills. "Are you--?"

"Fuck's sake, angel, don't stop! Do that again!"

Aziraphale does it again, and Crowley gasps again, and, oh, it's a good sound. Oh, he is so pleased. How often does he get to make Crowley this happy?

He does it again. And again. And...

One of Crowley's hands begins to twitch and stutter against Aziraphale's backside, against his hip, as if it's desperate to get somewhere but can't quite bear to lose contact with Aziraphale's skin to get there. It finds its destination soon, however, grasping frantically at Aziraphale's hand where it clutches Crowley's hip.

Crowley grabs his hand, tears it away. Aziraphale shifts his weight a little, leaning harder on his other hand, and his thrusting falters. Was he holding Crowley's hip too hard? Was he hurting him, somehow? He becomes aware, suddenly of the fact that the fingers of that hand are still slippery with oil. Perhaps that was uncomfortable?

Ah. No, he realizes, as Crowley shoves Aziraphale's hand between their bodies and guides Aziraphale's fingers to wrap around his warm and straining flesh.

"Please," says Crowley.

"Of course." His breath, he notes with interest, sounds a little ragged. "Oh, yes, of course."

It isn't as easy as it sounds, though, coordinating his movements within Crowley's body and the slide of Crowley's body through his hand. He's very much afraid he ends up awkwardly out of sync.

He mutters an apology, which Crowley dismisses with a tolerant scoffing "Phssst!" noise that makes him feel quite a bit better about it. And after a few minutes, he finds the rhythm. It's like dancing really, all the carefully harmonizing steps of the gavotte. He was the first angel to do that, too.

"That's it," Crowley hisses, sounding happy. Sounding almost proud of him. "That's it. Aaaah."

Aaaah. Oh, yes. Oh, yes. It's a pleasure like dancing, the joy of finding this rhythm, making this pattern with their bodies. Like food, like wine, only more, because he's feeling it with all of his body, all of his senses. The grip and slide and squeeze of Crowley, the softness and hardness of him, the motion. The warmth of him, the sharp, angular reality of his body as Aziraphale presses down against him. The knead of his fingers, the press of his palms. The sharp smell of his sweat. The noises he's making, the aaaah.

The noises the two of them are making, together, in concert, in harmony. Doing this together, making this together, making something, making love. Crowley blissful beneath him, because of him. Oh, if only they could have done this sooner.

It's like every good thing they've ever done together, every meal, every drink, every laugh, every shared smile, all at once.

It swells inside Aziraphale's soul like the music of a new favorite symphony, filling him with beauty, building to... to a crescendo...

Oh. Here we are. He feels it. A rushing, a tightening. A thrust, a deeper thrust. A fizzing in his mind, a feeling like light. A bursting, a pulsing. A feeling of a deep, and deeply physical, joy.

He throws back his head, closes his eyes, lost for a moment in the deliciousness of it, until the wave of it crests and washes away and leaves him feeling warm and joyous and terribly, wonderfully grateful.

He opens his eyes again and realizes with a start that would be guilty if he were capable of feeling anything remotely negative right now that he may be repaying that gratitude poorly, because the movement of his hips has degenerated into a twitch, and the rhythm of his hand has become erratic, uncoordinated, chaotic.

Fortunately, Crowley has always enjoyed chaos, and he appears to be enjoying this, too, a great deal. Aziraphale gives him more of it, his entire focus now on Crowley's pleasure. When Crowley cries out a little at a certain sliding squeeze of Aziraphale's hand, at a little swirl of Aziraphale's hips that makes his softening cock twitch again inside him, Aziraphale repeats the action, with creative variations, until he makes the sound again. With variations.

Until Crowley's body shudders beneath him, Crowley's fingers clutch at Aziraphale's back as if it's the only thing saving him from falling, Crowley's head rolls and undulates, serpentine, against his pillow.

Aziraphale had, perhaps, wondered what Crowley might do in such a moment. He had, vaguely, imagined obscenities and blasphemies spilling forth in uncontrolled torrents from his lips. But instead he looks into Aziraphale's eyes with a glittering golden gaze of almost frightening intensity and, piercingly clear, says only, "yes."

Then he lets out a long and jagged breath. His cock jerks in Aziraphale's hand, and his body collapses like a sigh, relaxing beneath Aziraphale into a loose, bony pile of limbs. His grip on Aziraphale's body becomes a caress, becomes an embrace. Aziraphale sinks into him, slides out of him. Rolls onto his side and gathers Crowley up in his arms, tangling their forms together, heedless of the mess Crowley has made across them.

"Oh, Crowley," he says, when he feels he can speak again. "Oh, thank you. That was... That was even better than I'd hoped. It was magnificent. You were magnificent."

Crowley looks at him with hazy, satisfied eyes. "'M glad to hear it," he says. He smiles. There's nothing demonic in that smile. Nothing angelic, either.

"Did you enjoy it as much as I did? I know there were a few moments there where, well, I'm sure it was quite obvious I hadn't done that before. But it came out well, didn't it?"

Crowley slides a hand up Aziraphale's body and rests it on his cheek. Aziraphale finds himself rubbing his face against Crowley's fingers. "You're a natural, angel," he says.

"Oh, good. You certainly seemed as if you were enjoying it. Those noises you made."

Crowley gives him a look of affectionate amusement. "Well. Now you know what you sound like when someone serves you a chocolate mousse."

"If it's anything like that at all, then, yes, I can finally understand why you stare at me so often while I eat!"

They laugh, together. Crowley's laugh is low and lovely. There's something about it, something almost unfamiliar. Aziraphale wonders if, perhaps, the word for the sound is "carefree."

Well, maybe. He probably shouldn't flatter himself. Still. He feels rather carefree, himself, at the moment.

"Well," he says, "I'm glad you liked it. Now that I think about it, I suppose it might have been terribly selfish, asking you for that. But now all I can think is that I'd like to try it the other way round next time! I want to know what it was like for you, because it looked positively delicious."

"I'll pencil it on my calendar," Crowley says. "Next week, perhaps? Saturday, 10 PM, appointment for angel buggery." He grins, that familiar, cheeky Crowley grin. "Although, really, my schedule's wide open these days. I could fit you in anytime. Or vice versa."

"Oh," says Aziraphale. He feels awash in hopeful warmth. "Do you really mean it? I keep... Well, I don't know why I keep simply assuming we'll do this again. It's terribly presumptuous of me, and I--"

Crowley rests a finger over Aziraphale's lips. "Shut up, angel."

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows.

Crowley removes his finger, trailing it gently down Aziraphale's cheek. "Any time you want," he says. "Never mind my calendar."

"Oh, really?" Aziraphale can't stop smiling now. Can't stop smiling wider, and wider. "More than once, even? I mean, perhaps Saturday and Sunday? For instance? If we wanted?"

"Sunday?" Crowley flashes that cheeky grin again. "You really don't care what Heaven thinks, do you?"

"No," says Aziraphale firmly. "No, I do not."

"Any time, then, angel." Crowley's smile softens into something less cheeky. Something almost... tentative. "This can be something we do," he says. "If you want?"

Aziraphale throws his arms around Crowley. Which is rather difficult, really, as his arms are mostly already around Crowley, but he does his best, and he's quite sure the intent gets through.

"That's a yes, then?" says Crowley, an affected lightness in his tone.

"Yes." Aziraphale cuddles up against him. Lacking a pillow – he isn't sure what happened to the one beneath Crowley's hips, and Crowley is still hogging the other one – he rests his head on Crowley's' chest. Marvelously, Crowley doesn't object. He only raises a hand, lazily, to snap them clean of sweat and stickiness – so very thoughtful of him – then lowers it again to drape his arm companionably around Aziraphale's back.

They lie there in comfortable silence for a few seconds. How much more easily this has come, Aziraphale thinks, than their old arrangement did. How odd, when you think about it. When that was, at heart, a business arrangement, even if it was one with the delightful side effect of bringing them into contact more often, and this... This is...

Aziraphale feels his face light up as the realization hits him. "Oh, Crowley," he says. "I just realized."

"Hmm?" says Crowley.

He raises his head to look into Crowley's face. "Crowley... We're lovers."

Crowley's eyes grow wide. His lips part, but nothing comes out. For once, Aziraphale has rendered him speechless.

"You're my lover!" he says, delighted. "I have a lover. Oooh! I am a lover! Imagine that."

"Don't have to imagine it, do I?" Crowley says. "I was there."

"Yes, you were. You were there, being my lover."

"Satan, you're going to be insufferable now, aren't you?" Crowley smiles. But it's an easy, happy smile. As if he's already used to the idea.

"My demon lover," says Aziraphale, and kisses his cheek. Kisses rather more of it than he intended to, really, because he still can't stop grinning.

"My completely, utterly ridiculous angel," says Crowley, gathering him in close again.

It sounds, to Aziraphale, as if they both mean entirely same thing.