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There's a reason it's always best to sober yourself up before reaching the point of no return. The point of no return being the impending period of unconsciousness, during which the body completes its time travel into the future, without pausing inbetween, bringing all the pain, confusion and unwelcome feeling of nausea with it.

Crowley experiences all of those things in the two minutes it takes him to remember that he's a powerful occult being, and he doesn't have to put up with it if he doesn't want to. It takes him another few minutes to remember how to be a powerful occult being, when he's clearly been pummelled half to death by his own traitorous bloodstream. He doesn't even technically need a bloodstream. How dare it!

He rolls out of the warm space his naked body had left on the floor, and then immediately regrets it. He regrets it with every square centimetre of his skin, which is now pressed against freezing stone.

Though something else quickly becomes apparent, from his new and uncomfortable position. He somehow now has a dick. Crowley's pretty sure he didn't have a dick yesterday, and genitalia don't tend to manifest themselves unexpectedly. He knows it's new, because he was wearing the slightly less charcoal than actual charcoal, charcoal trousers yesterday. Which don't sit right at all if he forces them to contain genitals, so he was going without. He was fashionably sexless, rocking smooth couture. And now he's wearing a dick. It's just laying there, as if it belongs, no explanation, no justification for itself.

Also one sock.

What the fuck did he do last night?

He levers himself upright - although, 'upright' might be a bit too generous. He ends up in a sort of slumped-over curve of spine and arms, trying to make his freezing, numb legs obey his command to get up. But he does at least discover that he's in the middle of the hall. The one sock he's wearing remains the only piece of clothing within viewing distance. He could summon the others, but he feels like he should probably find out where they ended up first. Because you don't put away an entire outfit with occult powers and leave one sock behind. The abandoned sock suggests that he'd actually taken the time to physically remove his clothes last night, like a person. He doesn't normally take his clothes off like a person. It stretches them out, makes the fit weird, holds unpleasant shedding connotations that he's not entirely comfortable with.

Solving this mystery is, for the moment, more important than acquiring coffee or clothing. So he takes his naked body - sock notwithstanding - through the flat, in a curious hunt for answers.

The first answer is in his office. Because there's a naked person on his sofa.

They're sprawled mostly facing the back, one arm curled over their head, and the first thing Crowley's brain does is make appreciative comments on the solid shoulders, strong slope of back, and plushly rounded curve of an arse that are all displayed in appealing shades of soft, yet muscular nudity. The second thing his brain does is make a strangled noise of absolute horror inside his skull. Because he's smart enough to overlay clothing on that oddly familiar line of body, and come to a conclusion that makes the rest of him miss a step like he's still three sheets to the wind, and promptly slam his hip into the edge of the desk.

Ow, motherfucker, ow.

Aziraphale is naked on his sofa. Aziraphale is naked on his sofa, which Crowley's fairly sure he didn't even own yesterday, but is now apparently absolutely necessary for Aziraphale to be naked on.

To be naked on.

Sweet tap dancing fucking Satan.

He hasn't seen Aziraphale naked since bathing in public was the done thing. Which effectively makes it the first time in almost two thousand years they've been naked in a room together. Two thousand years since being naked in a room together went out of fashion, and became something far more suggestive and intimate - and Crowley is not, in any way, prepared for this. Why are they both naked? There is no sensible reason for them to be naked.

Unless -

Did they...? Did Crowley somehow encourage this? Is this his fault? Did he tempt the angel into nudity - into more than nudity?

His brain wants to both sensibly back away from the most obvious explanation, and to throw it in his face screaming at the possibility. He tries to do both at the same time. He thinks this is what it feels like to have a stroke.

Did they have sex?

He forces himself to seriously consider the possibility that they may have had sex, while Crowley was too drunk to remember it. Which sounds like exactly the sort of fucking gift the universe would give to him. Because him being too drunk to remember it means he was also probably too drunk to be in any way able to cope with...with the enormity of Aziraphale touching him. At least not without confessing something stupid, or saying something obscene, or, really, just completely losing it at the first overly affectionate press of thigh, like some sort of easily excitable dog.

He's making noises, he must be because he can hear them. He's incapable of not making noises, he's a broken, noise-making machine.

The body on the couch gives a quiet, indignant huff - probably in response to the sounds coming out of Crowley - and then goes very still, before rolling sideways with a groan of confused misery, and then blinking at least one eye at the ceiling. Immediately, Crowley can no longer think over the sheer quantity of nudity - and also the quality of nudity. Because Aziraphale is soft and luscious and beautiful, and Crowley feels like a dirty voyeur for appreciating him. But he doesn't know if he can make himself stop.

"Oh." Aziraphale seems to absorb a lot of things all at once, his hangover and then subsequent lack of hangover, his position on Crowley's new sofa, his state of undress. Very quickly after that, Crowley himself, and his obvious state of undress - and Crowley has no idea why he's still naked, save one single, solitary sock. This is no longer a situation that calls for nudity, but Crowley's being asked to deal with a lot right now, and so the black robe he snatches out of empty space is, admittedly, something of an afterthought. "Oh," Aziraphale says again, in a completely different tone, and somehow Crowley can hear at least half of what's going through his head.

There's an awkward shifting on the sofa, as the angel pulls himself into a seated position. Crowley immediately finds himself in possession of a blanket, which he manages to lean forward far enough to gesture with, until Aziraphale makes an awkward noise of thanks and covers himself. The deep red of it is shocking against his pale hair and skin, but Crowley hadn't had time to think of trying to give him something Aziraphale-appropriate. No matter what he sometimes might despairingly think, his brain does not think in tartan, especially not when it's dealing with some sort of lingering metaphysical hangover.

There's probably a good way to start this conversation, to gently ease into it, find out what horrible mistakes Crowley may have made, so he can rectify them, and/or grovel in apology, possibly leave the country for a few years.

"So, yes, morning," he offers. "I woke up naked, face-down in the hallway, and I have no memory of last night, you?" That's not exactly gentle, granted, but it's certainly getting the theme of the morning across.

Aziraphale opens his mouth, as if to provide enlightenment, though enlightenment doesn't seem to be forthcoming. Why is enlightenment not forthcoming?

"You were going to help me search online for that unpublished manuscript," Aziraphale says slowly, and then stops, as if that's the only part he's certain of. "We started drinking, I remember you showing me your plants - they were very beautiful, terrified certainly, but beautiful nonetheless." Aziraphale frowns. "Though I'm certain I told you that already. We had a long discussion about how pine trees were evil, though I don't quite remember how that ended. You had a selection of liqueurs..." Aziraphale frowns harder, mouth working helplessly. "We were drinking quite a lot."

They're always drinking quite a lot. Crowley doesn't think they're allowed to use that as an excuse for anything any more.

"Yes, that was -" He checks his watch, because even thinking about non-linear time is just too much to deal with right now. "Roughly fifteen hours ago."

"Really?" Aziraphale looks appropriately horrified by that information. "No, I'm sorry, it's all rather hazy after that, I'm afraid. We really should have sobered up, this is very unsettling."

Aziraphale has been letting the blanket slowly slide off of one bare shoulder while he talks. Which is possibly the most erotic thing Crowley has ever been forced to witness, and the angel hasn't even noticed. This is as close to decent as someone can get, while draped artistically in a blanket, but it's also unbearable. It's just a pointed reminder that Aziraphale is still naked underneath. He's still naked underneath, and Crowley honestly doesn't know why they didn't both just get dressed like they're perfectly capable of. This is not a conversation they should be having while Aziraphale is in any way visibly naked.

"Are you say you remember nothing either?" The angel offers, shaking Crowley out of what, he suspects, is a train of thought that is threatening to become inappropriate.

Crowley shakes his head helplessly. "Not a thing. It's a complete blank."

"Yes," Aziraphale agrees. Which solves nothing, there's no explanation at all for why they would have woken up naked and dishevelled in the same place. Crowley is forced to admit that it leaves them with very few alternatives other than to wonder whether they'd accidentally had sex and then forgotten it.

Fuck.

How do you ask someone if you'd had sex with them? How do you subtly suggest that maybe they should check to see if there's any evidence that they'd left their essences in or around each other. Crowley's brain short-circuits thinking about it, wheels spinning with no traction to be found. He should probably, at the very least, get rid of his dick before it does something untoward. Assuming it hasn't done anything untoward already.

"Did we?" Aziraphale suddenly asks, in a quiet, uncertain sort of voice. It manages not to be accusing, though Crowley worries that maybe it should be.

"Did we?" he shoots back, as if they're playing some sort of game with utter humiliation as the consolation prize.

Aziraphale manages a vaguely embarrassed frown, only Aziraphale could have an embarrassed frown.

"I - " He clearly doesn't want to say 'I don't know,' but it's quite obviously right there, on the tip of his tongue. He's probably refraining because it would be terribly rude to admit you didn't know if you'd had sex with someone or not, especially if that someone was your best friend. To confess that they'd been unmemorable in your drunken stupor. Is that what Crowley is? Is he unmemorable? Of all the devastating accusations this one seems especially loud, for all that it's going completely unspoken. Six thousand years and he turns out to be unmemorable. Is this the definition of irony? Or is it worse than that, something sadly tragic, he can be a cautionary tale for future generations.

"No," Aziraphale says at last, as if he's quite certain of it. "I would remember. If we'd -"

"Had sex," Crowley snaps, because one of them should be the six thousand year old adult here and fucking say it.

"Yes, thank you." Aziraphale's voice is perfectly fine now, like he can sense Crowley careening off the road and is trying to locate the wheel so he can take over.

"But, I mean, would you?" Crowley wonders desperately. "This clearly isn't the same as normal drunk, we've been falling over drunk before, we've been drunk for days before. There are more than a few nights that exist in my memory as barely more than confusing spills of conversation and wobbly scenery. Do you remember that time I couldn't remember what a toucan was, and you described it, and I didn't believe you. I kept saying 'no, that's a banana.' Then I miracled you up a banana, and you wouldn't stop laughing. And there was that time in Paris, we were drinking for, what was it, four days straight nearly, and you ended up in that fountain and you couldn't get out, and I laughed so hard I nearly threw up. Never done that before or since, and we remembered all of that too. And that Italian tavern, with the horses -"

"Crowley, focus, please." Aziraphale settles the blanket more firmly around himself, his beautiful, enticing, scandalously bare shoulder slipping back under the material, and Crowley refuses to react in any way to it. "Is there any evidence that we - er?"

"Had sex," Crowley says again, because it's the principle of the thing now.

Aziraphale sighs, like he's conceding, albeit grudgingly.

"Yes, is there any sign that we had sex?" The heavily implied 'with each other,' is the bit Crowley is stuck on, if he's being honest. Though hearing it out of the angel's mouth makes it somehow far more real, far more of a possibility.

Crowley doesn't feel like he's been fucked, but he normally sorts himself out afterwards anyway. Though the thought of Aziraphale being the one to leave that ache inside him, to leave him slick and messy with his satisfied desires - Crowley's not sure he would have just snapped that away. That he wouldn't have kept it, left himself sore and messy, indulged in the memory of Aziraphale using him for his pleasure. But, no, there's nothing obvious there, so it was either miracled away by one of them, or...unknown other? The probability of him being able to perform reliable miracles while drunk enough to erase all of the last fifteen hours is another matter entirely. His mouth tastes like burnt sugar and death, but he's probably been asleep long enough that the taste of anything else would have likely gone anyway. He doesn't really want to say any of that in front of Aziraphale though.

"Ugh, I haven't found anything," he admits, grudgingly. "Well, ok, I had a dick when I woke up, and I wasn't wearing one yesterday. I don't usually bring it out on a whim. And you obviously -" Crowley gestures and then realises that might be rude. "Obviously, not that I was looking, I was more just sort of eyeline with your -"

"Yes," Aziraphale agrees quickly, before he can finish.

"And I couldn't help but get a look, when you rolled over -" He makes more gestures, which probably aren't doing anything other than making them both uncomfortable.

"Quite." It's not so much embarrassment from Aziraphale now, it's more a sort of pique, as if Crowley is being a terribly ungracious host.

"Did you...already have it?" Crowley forcibly stops himself from pointing, which is unnecessary at this point, since everyone knows what he's talking about. But, honestly, he's grasping for a polite way to ask his best friend - and also secretly the love of his life - about his genital situation. He can be forgiven if he's not up to being Sherlock fucking Holmes. "Yesterday."

Aziraphale frowns and nods. "Yes, nothing unexpected in that department. Though I'm aware that's unhelpful."

"And there isn't any..." Crowley finds that he can't say it, he can't make it a thing that he suggests. Thankfully, Aziraphale takes pity on him, and understands exactly what he's trying not to say.

"We could have simply miracled away any resulting evidence of a - ah - a sexual nature."

"While drunk enough to forget everything else?" Crowley points out, dubiously. "I did think about that, and I don't think I could have managed it." Not while also drunk enough to forget getting naked, possibly also in the vicinity of a naked Aziraphale. No one should be able to forget that, it would be a crime. Rather than this - which is just a vexing mystery.

"I'm assuming that I took my clothes off for a reason," Aziraphale reasons. "One usually does." He seems to be floundering for a timeline of events. Which Crowley finds himself strangely annoyed by. This from the man who's read every fucking Agatha Christie novel ever published! You'd think he'd be better at this.

"Maybe I took your clothes off," Crowley says, because if there's no evidence then one of them has to at least suggest something in the way of theories. Though that seems more like an accusation of guilt, now that he comes to think about it. Oh God, what if he did? Did he take Aziraphale's clothes off in a fit of desperate, drunken madness? That's proper demon behaviour that is, and he doesn't like the thought at all. Did Aziraphale even want him to?

"Did you?" Aziraphale asks, as if he's reading his mind, though he sounds more curious than either accusing or upset about it.

Crowley throws both hands up. "I don't know, that's the point isn't it. Though it's not as if you would have let me."

"I might have done." Aziraphale somehow manages to sound like Crowley has insulted him. Still, the suggestion behind it leaves Crowley helpless to do anything but make unhelpful throat noises in the angel's direction. He might have done? He might have done? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Is that supposed to help? The knowledge that there now definitely exists some alternate universe where Aziraphale has let Crowley take his clothes off. Well, congratulations for that universe's Crowley, he hopes he's fucking proud of himself. Bastard.

"We've been drunk before and we've never...you know," Crowley says, and fiercely resists the urge to make unhelpful hand gestures again. But if there's the faintest, desperate, 'why didn't we?' in his voice then no one is going to call him on it. Six thousand years and not one drunken kiss, not one slide of shaky hands, or press of an unsteady frame against another. Not a single, sweaty tangle of fingers, while under the influence of every alcoholic beverage this world has conjured up. They've been drunk together hundreds of times, and it's suddenly fucking unbearable.

But Crowley doesn't say any of that, he just pulls a face and waves a hand again.

"Y'know." When in doubt just repeat the thing you said a few minutes ago.

"Quite," Aziraphale agrees, because he's fluent enough by now in Crowley's half sentences and weird facial expressions. He should probably worry about that more, about what he might be giving away without realising it. "Though it's understandable, what with the possibility that we were both being observed." Insinuating that if Heaven and Hell hadn't been watching, if no one had been watching, Aziraphale might have - Crowley genuinely can't breathe for as long as it takes him to process that thought. So it's a good job he doesn't have to - only he suddenly realises that he does, because you can't talk if you're not willing to at least inhale.

"So, if they hadn't been watching, you would've...?" Crowley can't add any more than that, the words all just lodge in his throat, and then stay there. He's shocked that he managed to spit out that much of it. That he was reckless enough to drag the thing they don't talk about into the light. To even suggest the idea they could ever have given in to - to something and undressed each other, touched each other. It feels, in some way, terrifying monumental, and Crowley has no idea how to take it back, how to un-ask half a question. He's convinced he already put too much into it, enough for anyone with half a brain to pick out how much he'd wanted it.

"I might have done," Aziraphale says again, voice suddenly quiet and strangely tense. "We've had moments where we were both unbelievably reckless. Where it wouldn't have taken much to do something exceedingly unwise."

He might have done?

Crowley's brain is stuck there, and quite unwilling to go on, to consider much of what Aziraphale says afterwards. Because Crowley has spent years convincing himself that Aziraphale's fondness for him was a habit of long familiarity, a cautious thing, something to be treated gently. He'd only occasionally let himself hope that it could possibly - if Crowley was patient enough, if he was good enough - blossom into something more.

And now suddenly the angel admits that he might possibly, under the right circumstances, have taken his clothes off for him. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do with that.

Crowley has to sit down, lest he forget how legs work, but the sofa is taken, so he just sort of sinks where he is, into the space in front of Aziraphale. He has one arm flung over his knee, the other hand on the floor next to the angel's ridiculous bare feet, that for the life of him he can't remember seeing since the very first time, since the garden. Has he seen Aziraphale's feet since the garden? He must have done, they both wore sandals for thousands of years. They're very lovely feet, it's utterly unfair how much of Aziraphale is just stupidly beautiful. Crowley refuses to accept that this might be because he's biased, Aziraphale is beautiful, it's an immutable law of the universe.

Though it does remind him, quite abruptly, that Aziraphale is at this moment in time quite naked under the blanket Crowley provided for him, and that he's still made no attempt to miracle himself clothes.

"Then why have we never?" Crowley asks the curve of Aziraphale's bare knee, it's a thought that slips out, treacherously. He's not sure he has the will to look any higher, not for this. "Why did we never, not even once -"

"You know why?" Aziraphale says quietly, as if it's obvious, as if Crowley has asked so much more than that. His hand reaches out and catches Crowley's chin, tips his head up until they're looking at each other. Which is only fair, Crowley supposes. This is something too long in the making for him to be a coward for it.

"Tell me anyway." Because Crowley needs to hear it, after all this time he needs to know why, why neither of them have ever reached out, if they'd both wanted.

"Because if we had we'd likely never have been able to stop," Aziraphale says, all in one breath.

Crowley's entirely being feels suddenly made of water, all words and tension sliding out of him, like someone poked a hole in him. Because, God, Satan, Someone, he'd known that was true for him, it's always been true for him. But the suggestion that it might have been true for Aziraphale as well, that Aziraphale might have wanted him back, and hidden it out of necessity, to protect them both -

Aziraphale is still talking.

"And it seemed unbearably reckless and deeply unfair for either of us to start anything, to acknowledge anything, that it would be almost impossible to...put back in the box, as it were. And we couldn't, Crowley, you know we couldn't."

"Back in the box," Crowley says numbly.

"Are you going to kiss me?" Aziraphale asks, a hint of frustration in his voice, but it's layered over something that feels more like hurt. "Because I've been waiting, and when you didn't, after Armageddon, I thought perhaps you didn't want to any more -"

Crowley makes a complicated, protesting noise, deep in his throat, at the suggestion that his feelings for him could ever have changed. At how much it hurts him that Aziraphale had wanted to be kissed and he hadn't known.

He rises up on his knees, leans helplessly into Aziraphale's body, both hands lifting to touch the warmth of his face, fingertips sliding into his hair. He presses in close and kisses him, like he's always wanted to but never dared, it's a perfect moment of warmth and pressure. Crowley still half expects to find himself pushed away, to find his desire unwelcome, for all that the angel had asked him to. But then Aziraphale opens his mouth to him, and they both tilt, just a little. The kiss suddenly becomes something entirely different, something open and wet, they're kissing like lovers, deep and messy, neither of them caring for form or politeness.

Crowley barely notices when Aziraphale's hand slips down, until it's tugging at the belt round his waist, drawing the ties apart until the robe is no longer held shut, sides falling scandalously open. Crowley's still naked underneath, save his stupid sock, and he makes a strangled, eager noise into Aziraphale's mouth, surprised but approving. Because if Aziraphale wants him naked, then he will be naked.

He'd dared to wonder, more than once, if Aziraphale would be a demanding lover, he can be so very demanding, his angel, and the possibility that he may find out is a touch overwhelming. Aziraphale pushes the whole thing off Crowley's shoulders, arms sliding out of the blanket with the movement, and suddenly Crowley isn't the only one of them who's exposed. The angel is far too close to him to be this naked, how is he supposed to - how is he supposed to -

He's tugged up onto the sofa to join him, knees digging in between the cushions, and the abandoned blanket is pooled behind Aziraphale when Crowley pushes him down, still kissing him like he has no intention of stopping, and Aziraphale gives a gasping moan of approval and curls an arm round Crowley's waist, takes his weight.

It's too much, it's far too much. Crowley wants absolutely all of this, even if it kills him.

He finds his mouth sliding from Aziraphale's to the warm slope of his throat, the curve of a shoulder, the soft expanse of his chest, where the hair grows just as pale, and there are small tightening nipples that he can't help but drag his tongue over, to the gasping delight of his angel. He's murmuring nonsense into Aziraphale's skin, leaving it warm and damp under his mouth, trying to taste every inch of it - distracted back up to his mouth every time the angel says his name. Aziraphale's open thighs are solid and strong where they grip him, the hard line of his cock pressed against Crowley's, in a way that's shocking and perfect and suddenly very real. It's all so much so very fast, but Aziraphale's hands are sliding on his bare back, fingers pressing, encouraging noises falling out of his mouth between kisses. It occurs to Crowley that Aziraphale has no intention of asking him to stop.

"Have you done this before?" Crowley asks. "Have you -" He doesn't want to go too fast, doesn't want to ask for too much, doesn't want to take more than Aziraphale is happy to give.

Aziraphale's fingers tangle in his hair. "Yes, does that - does that matter?" He looks uncertain, as though he's worried that it might. But how could Crowley ever fault anyone for wanting Aziraphale, for seeing how unique and amazing he is? The angel, more than anyone he's ever known, deserves to be adored, and desired and pleased within an inch of his immortal life.

Crowley sinks to find his mouth again, all softness and flaring warmth, and still unexpectedly eager to kiss him back.

"No, just - just wondered if I should do it right, if I should, y'know - slow down."

"Don't you dare," Aziraphale tells him, and somehow manages to get one of those solid thighs out of the back cushions and hooked at Crowley's waist, dragging him up in a way that shoves their erections together and leaves him hissing and pressing his whole body into Aziraphale's soft curves. His mouth is warm and he's surprisingly determined to have it against Crowley's as much as possible - not that he has any complaints about that. It's all very unexpected, and fucking blissful, and Crowley's already nudging his cock against the fine hair on Aziraphale's thigh.

"Ok, yeah," he manages to croak out. "Ok, what do want, angel? Anything you want."

Aziraphale gives a shaky noise of pleasure. Which isn't an answer - it's lovely and very affecting, but not an answer, and Crowley is going slowly mad, because he needs, beyond everything else, to please Aziraphale.

"Tell me." Crowley dips his head again, finds the enticing, stretched curve of Aziraphale's throat, hands tight of the gentle give of his waist, pulling himself in, pressing them together impossibly tighter. "Tell me what you want, angel. Do you want to come like this? Do you want my hand? Do you want my mouth? Me in you, you in me?" He bites gently at Aziraphale's neck, a moan cracking out of him when the angel tips his head back and lets him. "Anything, anything you want." He's meant that for more years than he can remember.

Aziraphale's fingers dig in, fingertips bruising the bones of his hips as Crowley presses down and in, crushes them together, feels every warm curve of the angel's body filling his hollow spaces. His cock is leaving tacky lines of need on Aziraphale's skin, his balls a heavy, impatient ache.

"Crowley, please, will you just pick one," Aziraphale says breathlessly, as if he's just as desperate.

Oh, how's that for a demand.

Crowley pushes Aziraphale's thighs open and up. He wonders if he should admit how many times he's wanted to get between them in the last six thousand years. How many times he's thought about feeling their solid weight crushing tight on his hips, or the sides of his head, or flung decadently over his shoulders. While he uses his mouth to taste every part of the angel that might make him moan Crowley's name.

Next time. If there is a next time. God, he hopes there's a next time.

He slithers his way down between Aziraphale's legs, makes a space for himself.

Aziraphale's cock is stiff and flushed red, jutting from a patch of coarse, white hair. It's nicely thick, and wetness is already gathering at the exposed head, trailing thinly down the underside. Crowley can't resist leaning in and licking it away with a flick of tongue. Aziraphale gives a gasping breath that turns into his name, fingers grasping and tightening on the curve of Crowley's shoulder. It's too much of a plea, and Crowley can't deny him, opening his mouth and taking Aziraphale's cock inside in a slow, sucking pull. It fits perfectly, which is a wonderfully ridiculous thought, that he's never going to share. He curls his tongue around the musky warmth of it, the taste somehow both human and not. He sucks gently as he draws back, learning the weight and the stretch of it. Aziraphale's low, shaken noises and greedy, twitching pushes tell Crowley that the angel likes slow, indulgent slides, gradually deepening into hard pulls, with quick twisting moments of tongue at the head.

Aziraphale's hand moves to pet his hair, fingers curling in it, as if they want to tighten, before slowly peeling opening again. Crowley slides back far enough to let Aziraphale's cock slip free, the tip resting against the line of his lower lip, spreading spit and pre-come.

"You can pull on it, if you want," Crowley tells him, tongue gliding around the wet head of Aziraphale's dick. "As hard as you like, I don't mind if you want to be a bit demanding." That's an understatement, but he doesn't exactly want to open the sex-closet and let all his skeletons fall out the first time he gets Aziraphale's dick in his mouth. He's pretty fucking invested in there being a next time here.

"Noted," Aziraphale says shakily, watching him like he's never seen anything so indecent, and has decided he's going to keep him. There's a short pause, and then the angel's fingers are tangling again, encouraging Crowley's mouth back down his cock.

Crowley makes a garbled noise of approval and complies. Aziraphale seems happy to participate a bit more, hips nudging his cock gently into Crowley's throat every time he slides down, fingers pulling every time he draws back, daring to clench sharply on wet, aggressive sucks. Until the whole thing is messy and rhythmic and very close to perfect. Crowley stops breathing just to enjoy it. His miraculously slick hand is pushed down his body, moving on his dick in short, squeezing jerks that nudge him closer and closer to the edge - until he feels Aziraphale's foot hook into his elbow, and push his arm down, causing his fingers to slip and stutter away. He whines complaint, hips suddenly moving into nothing.

"No, I want you to come in me," Aziraphale says breathlessly.

Crowley is so shocked he lets Aziraphale's foot pin his arm to the cushions, and he's suddenly groaning desperate encouragement, around the greedy thrust of Aziraphale's cock, the angel's fingers gone almost painfully tight in his hair. Crowley sucks as best as he can, but the angel is the one who's driving now. Aziraphale's the one who pushes in deep, drags Crowley's wet mouth to the base, with a moan of pleasure, cock twitching and then spilling down his throat in long pulses. Crowley takes a long, indulgent moment to keep the angel inside him, to feel him slowly soften on his tongue, before he's pulling back. His skin is prickling and sensitive, cock an abandoned throb of need above his aching balls.

Aziraphale draws his thigh up and to the side, in obvious invitation. And he makes such an inviting picture that way, with his heavy balls and soft, plump cock, both wet from Crowley's mouth. A trail of saliva makes its way down, to the slick pucker of Aziraphale's anus, soft and open, where the bastard has prepared himself already. Crowley can't help the weak noise he makes, not quite sure how they managed to get here, too aroused to question it.

"You realise I'm not going to last long," he says hoarsely. It's half apology and half compliment, both of them desperate. "You've fucking ruined me, angel."

Aziraphale smiles, like he can't think of anything he wants more, tugging sharply at Crowley's stupidly sensitive hair.

Crowley grasps the slippery, length of his cock, and presses the head against the wet hole Aziraphale has offered up to him. He eases in with a nudge of pressure, and lets his hips push him deeper, lets himself sink into the angel's hot, clenching body, that's somehow still soft and pliant from orgasm. He wants to say something, wants to tell Aziraphale how good he feels, how long he's wanted this, how fucking beautiful he is. But he can't, it's too much, it's too much just to be inside him - to have joined them together, in one greedy movement. Aziraphale is already giving soft, punched-out exhales of pleasure, as Crowley draws out and then pushes back in.

"Crowley." Strong hands grasp his waist, urge him into a messy rhythm.

"I'm not joking, I'm so fucking close, Aziraphale." He feels wound exquisitely tight, straining at the edges, full to the fucking brim. The angel is the only thing grounding him, stroking his waist, and the flexing plane of his stomach, gripping at the curve of a shoulder when Crowley's pace picks up.

"I would very much like to feel that," Aziraphale decides, which is far too polite for someone currently getting fucked. It's not in any way fair. It encourages Crowley to push in a touch harder, to press Aziraphale's wide, heavy thighs apart and go exquisitely deep, every sliding thrust pushing him closer and closer to orgasm. He can already feel it, can feel it tugging at his spine, and tightening in his balls. He has to drive in, has to thrust inside in, movements quick and hard. And Aziraphale encourages it all, with wet sounds, and tugs of his thighs, and his stupid, beautiful, half-drunk expression.

Crowley shudders to a stop, pleasure carving him straight down the middle, and he's making choked breathless sounds of bliss, cock spilling helplessly inside the angel. His shaky hands draw Aziraphale's legs in tight, leaning in to press his panting mouth against soft lips. Aziraphale kisses him back, murmuring his name like he's pleased, so pleased with Crowley's desire. The angel's not quite flexible enough to kiss for long, but Crowley takes the strain, makes it work.

They end up a mess in the sofa cushions, and it's a long moment of skin and kisses, and the wet trail of semen from Aziraphale's body, before Crowley lazily lifts a hand and reluctantly snaps it all away. Aziraphale doesn't let him go far, smiling at him and petting his hair, as if Crowley is the one who's given him something amazing - when it's the other way round, surely?

"Was that alright?" Crowley asks, still half afraid he'd moved too fast, that Aziraphale deserved better, deserved more than this messy thing after a drunken night they can't remember. "Did you like it?"

Aziraphale gives a quick, amused laugh, as if he's said something that's obviously ridiculous.

"It was perfect, my love."

Crowley stares at him, not sure he'd heard that correctly. "You love me?" It comes out quiet and thin. The pleasant warmth from his orgasm is still thrumming through him, leaving him unprepared for the shape of it.

Aziraphale frowns, confused. "Of course I love you, I've loved you for -" He stops, as if something on Crowley's face surprises him, and then his expression is somehow apologetic and deeply pained. "Oh, oh Crowley, did you think that I didn't?"

"Knew you were fond of me," Crowley manages to grate out, with what little air remains in his chest.

Aziraphale reaches up and grasps his head in both hands, pulls him in until he can kiss the shocked line of his mouth.

"So much more than fond," Aziraphale reassures him. "So very much more."

Crowley sighs into his mouth, and convinces the angel to kiss him again - though he needs almost no convincing. He wonders, half dizzy with the thought, if this is a thing that they're going to do now. If Aziraphale wants all of the same things as him, if they can sleep together, and kiss, and hold hands, and all the other stupid things he'd sometimes imagined they might do one day.

The sofa isn't built to take two men, or so much enthusiasm from them, and it chooses that moment to give a creak of complaint, but Crowley can't bring himself to care, let it collapse beneath them, he'll miracle it back together. Though their jostling does dislodge something from the cushions. They discover it when Aziraphale makes a disgruntled noise, after his knee hits it. Crowley reaches down, lifts it out of the way. It's a deep, red bottle, label a shiny silver, heavily embossed with red fruits.

"What's that?" Aziraphale asks.

"Pomegranate liqueur," Crowley offers with a frown of confusion.

"I don't believe I've that before," Aziraphale admits, with a little hum of surprise.

"Me neither." Crowley tilts the empty bottle curiously.

They both raise their eyebrows at the same time.

"Probably best not to try it again," Crowley decides.

"Probably for the best," Aziraphale agrees, before coaxing Crowley to roll back over and kiss him again.