Actions

Work Header

Glory

Work Text:

Even though he'd had a physical body for almost six thousand years, Crowley had never quite understood the whole sex thing. Oh, he'd tried it out like everyone else. Even did a bit of it for work. But he couldn't help but think that it was mostly just pressing bits of flesh together in increasingly damp and hurried ways. Until eventually someone's essence squirted out, usually in or on someone else, which usually signalled the end of the whole thing. Curious and all that, useful even for temptations, but not really his thing.

Crowley had mostly resigned himself to suppressing his own, far different needs, until a translucent demon with teeth like an eel had passed him a burnt, mouldering piece of paper, that held the exact vibration of what looked like a pocket dimension, at least thirteen layers of existence away from his own. He'd been accused, more than once, of being a reckless idiot, an accusation he'd never actually bothered to deny. But even he knew that sticking your bits in unknown dimensions was just asking for trouble. The simple truth of the matter was that he'd been bored enough at the time that the risk had seemed worth it.

It turned out to be one of the best things he'd ever done.

A few thousand years later, you might even call him a regular visitor. Because when you're stupid enough to fall in love with the enemy, and they can't even bring themselves to touch the corporation your essence is housed in, without looking like they'd just done something indecent - well, you need as many distractions as you can get.

Crowley checks his wards are all locked up tight, checks he's not supposed to be on any last minute assignments for Hell, then does a final check to make sure nothing is going to catch fire while he's gone. Once everything's set he stretches his body out on the bed, unhooks his glasses and sets them aside, then kicks his boots off and lets them fall to the floor. Only then does he carefully unfold his true self from his corporation, set it on a tether, and then start slowly sliding his way through dimensions.

The out of the way dimension he'd been given the coordinates to was understood to be anonymous only. You left your signifiers, tones of self, and the manifested pieces of whatever name you held either locked away, or in your home dimension. While you were here you were just the naked essence of yourself, hungry and curious and touch-starved, ready to be tangled up, enfolded, consumed, or vibrated against by a like-minded individual you didn't know, and never had to share space with again.

Which was exactly how Crowley liked it. He's pretty sure that the other demon who'd given him directions had been hoping to hook up here. Crowley's still not sure whether they had done or not.

You never knew what you were going to find here either. Could be another Fallen, could be an elder demon, could be a minor deity, a luminescence, or some unnameable eldritch thing from beyond time, could even be an angel - though Crowley tended to avoid those now, because it felt too much like rubbing it in, and not in a fun way. Some of the things that showed up here were outside even his ability to identify or describe.

Sure, sometimes the power disparity was obvious and terrifying, Crowley still remembers being gently swallowed by some unimaginably vast eldritch abomination, that had been roaming its own universe for nine billion years. He remembers twisting and coiling through its strange, chaotic labyrinthine core. Touching its ancient mind had been like being slowly compressed, and stretched, and driven slowly mad. But in a way that had also felt not entirely unlike a riotously good orgasm. He'd sincerely hoped that the other entity had gotten something out of it too.

Another time he'd reluctantly passed on a joining with a twitching mass of hooks and teeth, that sang to him in a voice so exquisitely beautiful that it had made his whole essence want to tear itself to pieces.

There's an unspoken rule here, not to cause permanent damage, or screaming, unknowable madness, or to leave any of yourself braided/bound/controlled or otherwise connected to the other - that kind of stuff was for long term relationships. Crowley's not sure who enforces the rule, but he has it on good authority that it is enforced.

The churning combination of frigid dark matter, hot gases and open space that makes up the dimension is fairly empty tonight. There are a couple of luminescences a few light years away, making a spiral of ecstasy together that's bright enough that Crowley can feel the vibrations of it. There's an eldritch abomination that seems to be sleeping - and those things are normally almost impossible to wake without a few blood sacrifices and a worldwide flood, so it's really not worth it. There's also - a bright, swirling mass of holy fire and grace, comprised of twelve interlocking wheels, rotating so fast that the core is simply burning, spinning light, and an infinity of open eyes that go on for a billion miles.

An angel.

Crowley wavers, uncertain. He'd enfolded with an angel a few times, at the beginning. But the wounds had still been fresh, and it had felt a bit too much like punishment rather than pleasure, too much of a reminder of everything he'd lost. Then later, after Aziraphale had agreed to the Arrangement, it had felt...disloyal to consider it. Not that it had mattered, the angel clearly felt no loyalty to him in turn, their fight had proved that. Aziraphale had made his opinions quite clear. He doesn't care who Crowley fraternises with. He doesn't care what Crowley does. He won't even admit that they're friends. If Aziraphale is willing to wound him so deeply, why shouldn't Crowley look elsewhere for attention?

Decision made, Crowley drifts closers, lets the outer edge of his aura carefully nudge the angel's. To see if he's receptive to a bit of anonymous mingling, maybe a bit of enfolding if he's feeling adventurous.

The burning wheels reverse direction abruptly, which gives the impression of startled confusion.

The angel doesn't seem to understand.

Crowley unwinds a thread of essence and sends it outwards, runs its freezing length through the outer ring of the angels' true form, where it's hot and crackling with ethereal energy. In a way that tingles pleasantly. Crowley had almost forgotten what that felt like. The angel's light flickers rapidly where Crowley had touched, as if the intimate suggestion had shocked them. But they don't pull away, don't flare at him, or lash out.

First-timer then, probably not sure what to do.

Crowley gently unlocks the mass of snakes that protect his core, lets a few uncoil and edge outwards, spreading his essence open a few hundred thousand miles wider, in a way that he hopes feels like a gentle offer. Hey, it's fine, just a little essence mingling, it's nothing to worry about.

The angel still feels nervous, tentative, as if they'd never done this before. But they drift a little closer, shine a little brighter. Uncertain but willing. Curious and hungry. They definitely like his serpentine nature. Something about it appeals to them. Crowley keeps his own wings tucked away. No reason to put all his cards on the table. He knows from this particular non-euclidean angle he can pass as a minor serpent deity. Some beings are into that. It's probably more appealing to an angel than a big glaring sign that he's one of the Fallen.

Crowley reaches out again for the very edges of the angel, where those sparking whips of angelic grace float and quiver against the backdrop of dark matter. He threads his own cold tendrils around them, soothing and quietly reassuring. He doesn't mean any harm, doesn't want to touch on any old grudges. They're all here to have a little fun. A bit of sensation. A bit of metaphysical twisting and thrusting, until their atoms fly apart and their energies spill together.

There's a subtle brightening of the light inside the angel, the wheels slowing dramatically, fire burning a little less hot - a tentative invitation to slip into that holy maelstrom. The thought isn't unappealing. It's been a long time since Crowley's thrashed in exquisite ecstasy while an angel stares him down with a million eyes, rotates around him and scours his outer essence with holy grace.

Yes, Crowley decides, suddenly wanting exactly that. Even if he can't have it from the angel he really wants it from. This anonymous angel will do.

They tentatively nudge against each other, gently at first, and then more intently. It's always a bit awkward at the start, if you belong on different planes of existence. Working out what exactly you're made of, which of you is more powerful, and if there are any parts that need to be kept separate. Whether you're going to damage each other's essences, drive each other mad, or completely destroy both of you, with an unexpected anti-matter explosion.

But they're all majestic, powerful, immortal entities, and compatibility is usually just a matter of enthusiasm, caution, creativity and the right level of vibration.

The angel stills briefly when Crowley's wings are finally exposed, the stretch of them still gently burning, the eyes cored out completely. He can't tell if the angel's disappointed that Crowley isn't a serpent deity after all. But that's an impossible ruse to keep up when you're mingling essences.

Eventually the angel seems to accept him, shivering and opening up completely with what feels like a sigh, wheels briefly slowing enough that Crowley can slip between, slither inside him, sink into the stinging glory of the angel. They swirl around each other for a moment, getting used to each other's mass and gravitational pull. Maybe later they'll dispense with matter entirely, to explore each other as pure energy, occult and ethereal roiling together, dancing on the edge of an explosion. The angel is clearly new to mingling with another, spending a few days curiously touching Crowley's essence with careful exploratory tendrils, rather than trying to prise him open, or pulling him in deep for the main event.

Crowley doesn't object, it's been a while since he'd started slowly.

The angel's wheels burn up close, and it's an exquisite pain as he slides himself over them, feeling the heat all the way through. The angel is brave enough to let Crowley's snakes twine around them as they spin. Crowley can feel the throb of angelic grace every time he squeezes down, every time the angel's flame burns high and hot. He can feel the sweetly agonising prickle of his essence, the pure, heavenly glory of him. The crushing strength between each wheel as he tangles around them, and between them, feeling his insides ring with it. They explore each other for a while, lingering in places that are particularly sensitive, pressing at places that cause cracking notes of pleasure to thrum outwards.

Until the tease becomes too much, and the angel is no longer so shy, pushing his feathers into Crowley's mantle and stretching him open, exposing the naked core of him. His own wings spread out in ecstasy, dragging roughly through the fire that licks on those rotating wheels.

The angel clearly likes it, pressing into the sensation hard enough that Crowley can feel his edges compressing and folding deliciously. The angel's a little too holy to be comfortable, but he sings a cacophony of praise that soothes the sting. Crowley lets it happen, lets the angel wrap wings around his whole shape and squeeze down tight. The bright, burning feathers give a shudder of bliss at Crowley's long hiss of pleasure.

Crowley slides through four states of matter, the angel copying him every time to keep him contained, to press him in deeper. Until Crowley is all the way inside him, writhing and twisting under his ethereal feathers, and the angel makes a high, ringing noise of ecstasy. It's so sweet and so loud, that it vibrates through Crowley as well, making his snakes flex and shudder, until they're biting down gently into the angel's true form, leaving Crowley throbbing and shivering in pained bliss. He can't help but imagine that this is how it would feel with Aziraphale, if the angel only let Crowley in, if he let Crowley touch him. The way he's wanted to for so long.

Like this.

Just like this.

He knows it will never happen. But in a place where no one knows who they're mingling with, there are no rules against pretending your partner is someone else. Crowley lets a thought coalesce. His angelic partner will think nothing of it. It won't matter here, no one will know, no one will care.

ANGEL

The angel jolts, startled, and then flares like a supernova, expanding in glorious burning light. The angel's tidal wave of pleasure crashes over Crowley, leaving him helpless to do anything but follow him, his ouroboros mass unravelling in pure sensation. They both spill open across a huge expanse of the dimension, until they're a smear of light and dark, heat and cold, snakes and holy fire. Shivering and sparking and ringing in ecstasy.

It goes on for months. In this space where there's no time. They vibrate against each other every few hours, sending little quantum fluctuations crackling back and forth, like the slow caress of lovers coming down from orgasm. Until their patch of space cools, darkens and settles again.

Crowley floats in the sweetness of it for a while. Even when it's over the angel seems reluctant to disentangle from him. Crowley almost feels guilty, they clearly don't have much, or any, experience with this. It's a bit sad that his anonymous partner's first experience with mingling with another was such a brief, casual thing. That it was with a demon thinking of someone else. They don't seem like a bad angel, they probably deserved better.

The angel's wheels are crooked and still, messily interlocked, like a bunch of dropped rings, the fire of them smouldering gently. Their many eyes are soft and unfocused, as if looking somewhere else entirely, and Crowley can't help the twinge of pain, of guilt, at how familiar that distracted contentment is. But at least the angel had a good time.

Crowley begins the task of slowly gathering himself together again, and the angel politely voices his thanks for the experience, the high, ringing notes of it given in the first language Crowley spoke, still softly painful to hear, after all this time. But in that moment of communication, the angel lets the hidden core of himself slip, just a fraction, just a touch, barely enough for an impression.

-The rustling, fluttering passage of air over the pages of a book, the smooth, sweet texture of a crepe beneath the richness of cream, the lingering scent of tea, and the faintest wriggle of pleasure -

Crowley's slow-moving tendrils of deeply satisfied essence stiffen in startled horror, then retract abruptly, snapping and tearing him out of their joining so fast that light is, for a fractured moment in time, left behind.

His angelic partner flails in surprised alarm, confused and abandoned, they reach into the darkness, into the space where Crowley had been -

-

- Crowley's suddenly back in his body, in his rooms, breathing hard and shaking, not just from the abrupt re-entry into his corporation.

"Fuck."