Chapter Text
The third time Crowley jumps up from the couch to pace a restless circuit around the inner perimeter of the bookshop, Aziraphale snaps his book shut, takes off his glasses, and says in his most put-upon tone, "My dear, you're driving me to distraction. Why don't you let me get you off so you can settle already."
Crowley, predictably, freezes in the middle of his loping stride, looking as much like a deer in headlights as is possible for a retired agent of hell.[1] It's more the feel of the thing: a tensely strung body caught mid-motion and vacillating between potential survival states.
His mouth drops open and several emphatic vowels are expelled with prejudice.
Aziraphale rolls his eyes. "Oh do let's not be precious about this. I've a mind to indulge you, and you're in need of some indulgence." He sets his book on the side table and pats the cushion next to him invitingly. "Be a dear and bring me your cock or quim or whatever it is you have today that's misbehaving, and I'll give it a thorough petting."
He watches Crowley's face closely, seeing whether the tone, the phrasing is landing the way he hopes it will. Sometimes Crowley likes for it to seem like he's being tempted into indulging a particularly self-rewarding request Aziraphale's beseeched of him. But sometimes, especially when he's been putting off the fractious needs of his corporation, resisting the itch, he responds better to a firmer approach, as it were.
Even now, he's rubbing an absent hand over the top of his thigh, the other coming up to grasp the back of his neck. It's been like this off and on for the past several days: restless movement, squirming suddenly in his seat, distracted touches to erogenous zones as he seeks to snuff out the maddening urge slinking under his skin.[2]
Crowley finally tips his head back to look at the ceiling, face flaming as he admits, "I was just going to head back to my flat. Have a wank."
"If you'd prefer," Aziraphale agrees. "But I'm offering, and I like to think I'm a much more satisfying option."
Crowley tips his head to the side to level him with an unimpressed look. "You know you are, you bastard."
He does, and so he lets an appropriately bastard-like smirk twitch up his lips.
Crowley groans and rubs both hands over his face briskly. "Yeah, all right. If you're up for it, I'm not going to say no." He saunters back over to the couch, coming to a stop just to the left of where Aziraphale is sitting and knocking his knee companionably against Aziraphale's. "What are you up for, then. Or were you being terrifyingly literal earlier."
"Oh quite," he assures him, bringing his nearer hand up and wrapping it around the back of Crowley's knee so he can rub his thumb over the wonderfully knobbly front. "Go put on something nice for petting. I'll get anything else we might need."
Crowley bobs his head. "Here?"
"Unless you'd like to go up to the bed. Or back to yours. Anywhere I can lay you across my lap," he offers with a slight squeeze.
Crowley's face pinks up adorably. "Here's fine."
Aziraphale beams at him and stands. "Then I'll just go freshen up and gather some supplies. I'll meet you back here in two shakes of a lamb's tail."
"You set a mood," Crowley says incredulously, "and then you just stomp all over it."
He decides this is a rhetorical complaint and simply leans over to peck his disgruntled demon on the cheek and then heads toward the stairs to his efficiency flat.
Aziraphale takes his time upstairs, going about removing his jacket and bowtie and rolling up his sleeves the human way. He and Crowley both have found a little bit of ritual goes a long way toward helping them switch to a more carnally inclined mindset.
After a thoughtful touch to the hard buttons of his waistcoat, he swaps it out for a cashmere sweater vest. If Crowley starts writhing—which he has every expectation of ensuring he does—he wants to be sure it's against nothing but softness. Following that thought, he pulls out a soft cotton throw to lay down over the cushions. He adds a hand towel for cleanup, a few options of lubricant and lightly scented massage oils, and a bottle of water for after to his pile, and he judges himself ready.
He makes his way back down the stairs and finds Crowley waiting by the couch, hip jutted out to one side and arms folded across his chest. He's lost his glasses, revealing eyes full yellow in agitation. He's also lost a significant amount of clothing. The main attraction is a thigh-length, loose-knit black summer sweater doen in intricate knots and gaping holes—the kind meant to be worn over a camisole or vest, though he's obviously wearing neither. The only other article of clothing is a pair of red satin knickers with lace trim—a pair Aziraphale is delighted to realize he bought for him—clearly visible beneath the peekaboo pattern of the sweater. By the bulge in the front, Aziraphale sees he's chosen to manifest a cock, which looks half hard already with anticipation.
"Darling," he says warmly as he approaches, "you look just lovely."
Crowley shifts his weight and unfolds an arm so he can point vaguely toward his head. "Grew it out a bit," he says. "Thought you could, uh, start there."
"I do love playing with your hair," Aziraphale agrees, and then notices the extra fullness of Crowley's chest. "Oh! And breasts too. My dear, you do indulge me," he compliments, feeling a bit of anticipation himself now. Petting Crowley all over is no hardship, and something he quite likes to do even without any carnal end in mind, but it is so nice when Crowley makes the effort to provide a variety of textures for him to experience.
He quickly deposits the bottles and water on the side table and spreads the soft throw out on the couch, ignoring Crowley's scoff at the tartan pattern. When he turns back, Crowley is still shifting from foot to foot, arms tangled and tense across his chest. Aziraphale pauses and decides to take stock.
"My dear, you're looking tense," he says quietly, placing a hand on Crowley's upper arm and squeezing softly. "Is there something else you'd like for us to do to prepare? Or, would you prefer to take yourself home after all?" He smiles. "We could do something completely different, if you'd like. Just say the word! Unless words are too much right now, in which case I suppose we can make do with pantomime. That was one of yours, wasn't it?" He's teetering precariously between comforting patter and nervous babble, but at least Crowley's shoulders are softening, his mouth quirking up on a corner.
"Just charades," he corrects, and finally he unwinds his arms and settles his hands on Aziraphale's hips. "You're really all right with this? I don't want a pity fuck."
Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. He could point out that this is hardly the first time they've done something like this, and that it usually follows this same pattern where Aziraphale notices a certain twitchiness and makes an offer. But he thinks that right now Crowley might take it as proof that Aziraphale is reconciled to fulfilling a perceived obligation. So instead, he says, "Crowley, have I ever been shy about telling you no if I truly don't want to do something?"
Crowley pulls a face and then concedes the point with an expressive roll of his eyebrows.
"Perhaps I was laying it on a bit thick earlier," Aziraphale offers, bringing his other hand up and stepping closer so he can curve his palms around Crowley's back and cup his bony shoulder blades. "I thought you'd prefer if I was a bit stern about it this time. Something about your mood. Perhaps I read it wrong?"
Crowley stares at him for a moment before taking a deep breath and blowing it out. "No, it was pretty hot. I just got into my head a bit while you were upstairs, that's all."
"Then you'd still like for me to take care of you?" he confirms and runs his hands up and down the delightfully knobbly weave of the sweater, feeling tantalizing bits of warm skin poking through here and there. "I must admit, I'm looking forward to getting my hands all over you. You present quite the sensual feast, darling."
Crowley maintains unnaturally steady eye contact as his face blushes bright red, and Aziraphale grins at him.
"Shall we?" he asks, and Crowley gives a decisive nod. "Excellent!"
He settles on the left side of the couch and directs Crowley to lay on his back with his head and shoulders in Aziraphale's lap. He fusses over the position, eventually crossing his left calf over his right knee so Crowley's head is comfortably elevated. He also miracles a second soft throw to drape over Crowley's lower legs so he doesn't get too chilly. Then, he must make sure that Crowley's chin-length hair is properly swept back and up so it falls in a tidy spill over his leg so there's no danger of unwanted tugging. Crowley bears it all patiently, relaxing further and smirking more obviously the longer Aziraphale tutts and frets.
"Any century now, Angel," he drawls as Aziraphale repositions the side table so the oils and lubricant and towel are in easier reach.
Aziraphale squints down at him and then lets his teeth glint in a small smile. "My dear, I'm about to play your body like a violin. You wouldn't begrudge a musician proper set up, would you?"
Crowley chokes on air but still manages to get out, "It's ‘like a fiddle,' you posh bastard."
"Don't sell yourself short, my dear. Either way, there's about to be an awful lot of fingering," he retorts, grinning fit to burst.
Crowley groans, pressing both hands over his flaming face. "You are going to discorporate me. Bloody hell. Who introduced you to puns?"
"The entirety of human history," he says dryly, and then, softer, "Are you ready? Shall we begin?"
He gets a jerky nod. Crowley drops his hands from his face, letting his left arm hang free and curling his right up to grasp loosely at Aziraphale's sweater vest. Though he keeps his eyes closed, he takes a deep breath and visibly relaxes, tipping his chin up in invitation.
Assured Crowley's in the right mindset, Aziraphale begins by starting to run his near hand through Crowley's soft hair in a slow, steady rhythm.
His right hand he slips up under the bottom of the sweater, which has ridden up the demon's thighs quite a bit anyway, and rests it low on Crowley's belly, just above where the lace of the red knickers begins. For several minutes, he just leaves it there, still and heavy, while he focuses on running his fingertips through silky red strands, pausing occasionally to scratch lightly at Crowley's scalp or run soft fingertips over his brow and temples.
The pattern to Crowley's arousal, he's discovered during evenings like this one, is a mix of gently escalating and varied touches to his most sensitive erogenous zones and a healthy dollop of anticipation. The clever thing's brain is always whirling away in a maelstrom of ideas and possibilities, with a tendency to snag on and orbit around things that vex him: a forgotten word, a puzzle, the perfect argument. Much like the causality model Crowley so favors employing in his work, often all Aziraphale has to do is present a possibility, a sweet threat, and Crowley's beautifully fractal thought processes will do half his work for him.
He watches, and waits, enjoying the warmth and weight and sumptuous picture his lover makes laid out so gorgeously on his lap. The signal isn't glaring, just a small twitch of the leg combined with a light press up into the next pass of his fingers through Crowley's hair. He's seeking more, restless for it. Well, Aziraphale is happy to provide.
Casually, he slips his pinky finger underneath the barrier of lace, just grazing the topmost curls of Crowley's pubic hair. Crowley sucks in a startled breath through his nose and arches his hips.
Aziraphale presses him back down. "Hold still, there's a love," he tutts.
When he flexes his fingers against the lovely soft skin of Crowley's belly, the demon vibrates like a tuning fork but holds otherwise still. As a reward, or perhaps punishment, he removes his hand from underneath the sweater and instead begins dragging his palm up and down the length of Crowley's torso in firm sweeps that run between his breasts and twitch all the wonderfully knobbly edges of the holes in the sweater in his hand's wake. Now that he's sure Crowley is beginning to get worked up, he predicts the change is both infuriating and sensitizing.
"You bastard," Crowley breathes out, sounding pleased and pissed by turns. He turns his face into Aziraphale's belly and gropes around with his left hand until he can grasp onto his shin like an anchor.
"You love it," Aziraphale says cheerfully, running his fingers briefly up the column of Crowley's throat, forcing his head back, before lightly tickling with his fingernails on the way back down, snagging on skin here and there as his fingers trip in and out of the holes of the sweater. Crowley hisses like a teakettle and undulates in his lap, but he doesn't protest the assertion.
Judging him to be relatively warmed up, on the next sweep up with his hands, he veers suddenly and rubs a heavy palm over the swell of Crowley's left breast, just barely feeling the hard tip of his nipple graze his palm where it pokes through a convenient hole.
"Hah—" Crowley punches out, and he releases his death grip on Aziraphale's sweater to reach back and snag Aziraphale's other hand out from his hair and plants it unequivocally on his other breast in command.
"Oh, well, if you insist," he demures, and begins a kneading rhythm with both hands, taking care to bunch the fabric of the sweater when he does so the thick edges of the holes snag and tug teasingly against Crowley's nipples with nearly every flex of his hand. The soft texture of the sweater and the warm silkiness of Crowley's skin feel quite lovely, and the sweet palmfuls of breast are shockingly satisfying to manipulate and press.
He keeps at it until Crowley's sighs begin to deepen and edge into guttural moans and his legs twitch and shift despite his efforts to be still. Letting out his own satisfied hum at how well things seem to be progressing, he shoves his right hand up under the sweater, running his hand slowly but firmly over warm skin and the bumpy outline of ribs until he can grasp Crowley's bare breast fully in his hand. He tucks the nipple between the crease of his first and second finger so he can tug up on it without relinquishing his grip and resumes the same rolling, kneading pattern as his other hand has been maintaining over the sweater on his other breast. Crowley arches his back just delightfully, a moan getting caught in the back of his throat at the warring sensations.
"Oh, that's just lovely," Aziraphale sighs. "You did such an excellent job with these," he praises, giving a particularly firm tug on both nipples simultaneously as he squeezes with his palms, relishing in the contrasting textures in each hand. "They fit so beautifully in my hands, and you're so wonderfully soft, my dear. I think I could play with them for hours."
Crowley keens, his free hand going up to clutch harshly at his own hair.
"You're quite sensitive," Aziraphale remarks conversationally, lifting his hands and brushing just his palms lightly over each nipple, one bare and one still getting an additional tease by the sweater. "Do you think you could come just from me doing this?"
"Satan's sake, Aziraphale," Crowley wheezes.
Aziraphale grins, taking his cue. He moves his right hand back down and runs light fingertips over the satiny fabric stretched taut over Crowley's right hip. Though he's mostly been keeping his eyes trained on Crowley's face to read his reactions, now he spares some time to admire the way the demon's cock is straining against the unforgiving press of the satin.
"Are we ready to move forward?" he asks lightly, tugging at the lacey hem so the fabric pulls and shifts over Crowley's cock.
"Yes!" Crowley whines, shifting restlessly in his lap. "You absolute sadist, yes, touch me!"
"Of course, darling," Aziraphale says and indulges them both by dragging his fingertips over the firm, silky hotness of Crowley's satin-trapped cock. The texture is just delightful, and he spends a full minute tracing the lovely shape Crowley's erection makes, framed by the shockingly red fabric. Crowley bucks up regularly, chasing the sensation, but Aziraphale reads the movement each time and moves with it to keep the touch light and teasing.
When Crowley starts begging, he brings his other arm down and gently pins him by the hip to still him. Once he's as subdued as he can be for a writhing, aroused demon, Aziraphale lifts the top edge of the knickers just enough to let the head of Crowley's erect cock escape, and then gently releases them.
"There, is that a bit better?" he asks, knowing full well the seam of the hem and the lace trim have to be driving the sensitive underside of his cockhead wild with sensation.
Crowley wordlessly groans, fighting against the hold Aziraphale still has on his hip to try and rub against the fabric. Aziraphale holds him down easily.
"How are you feeling now, love?" he asks, idly running his fingernails in barely-there skritches up and down each of Crowley's soft inner thighs, watching with delight at the bunch and strain of his whipcord muscles as they twitch under his hands.
"Good," Crowley chokes out.
"Shall I keep you in suspense much longer, or are you ready to reach a crescendo, so to speak?"
"I'm going to murder you," Crowley promises, sounding too frantic to be believable.
"Before or after I make you come?" he asks conversationally, moving his hand up and petting more firmly up and down the length of him and paying a bit of extra attention to the velvety texture of the exposed tip.
"After, obviously, you bastard," Crowley nearly wails, and brings his own shaking hand down to start shoving ineffectually at the knickers.
"Oh, dear heart," he croons. "My apologies, I'm getting a bit carried away, aren't I? Here, let me help."
When they've collectively shoved the knickers down as far as his knees, Crowley kicks his feet up and viciously dislodges the extra blanket in his effort to kick off the knickers. Aziraphale helps where he can, repressing the urge to laugh as he's not sure Crowley has the same appreciation for the awkward absurdity in his current frame of mind. To make up for it, he shoves the sweater up around Crowley's armpits so he has unimpeded access to his breasts. Clearly, his demon is ready to release any and all brakes, which has him feeling just a little bit smug.
When Crowley settles again, Aziraphale doesn't hesitate to bring his right hand up to grasp his cock firmly and tug once, twice to provide him some immediate relief. Crowley moans and turns his face back into Aziraphale's belly, reaching up to grasp Aziraphale by the back of his neck as another anchor point.
"There we are," Aziraphale says softly, pausing only to get a pump of lubricant and miracle it warm in his palm before setting up a steady rhythm. "Let's get you taken care of, sweetheart."
He alternates palming and tugging on each of Crowley's nipples in turn with his other hand, sometimes moving in concert with the steady rub over Crowley's hot, lovely cock and sometimes in counterpoint to keep him from settling too firmly in any one sensation. He watches Crowley's face closely, tracking every grimace and twitch and exhalation, and imagines himself coaxing vibrating ecstasy from his love like a musician might pull a trembling melody from a set of singing cups or a dulcimer.
"That's it, love," he praises when he can see Crowley breath begin to hitch, his thighs begin to tremble. "Oh, how lovely you look like this. So flushed and sweet."
He adds a rubbing swirl of his thumb to the sensitive crease on the back of his cockhead with every upward stroke, and provides just a touch more bite to the pinches he's giving Crowley's nipples. It's a race against the inevitable slide into overstimulation, but he thinks the swell of Crowley's orgasm will reach a breaking point first.
"Aziraphale," Crowley gasps, wild and a touch lost. His hands are gripping desperately at Aziraphale's neck and leg as he begins a final, slow arch up of his spine, breath bellowing in and out of his lungs.
"Yes, darling, let it happen, I have you," he says, pitching his voice low and soothing, and Crowley sobs and comes hot and shuddering.
Aziraphale keeps up the stroking of his hands until the jerking pulses of Crowley's hips start to stutter and his gasps gain an unsteady wobble, which he takes as his sign to slow and gentle his movements, letting his palms rest warm and grounding to help still the vibrations now that it's all over.
Crowley lays twitching and breathing deeply for almost a full minute before he turns and curls up toward Aziraphale's body. Aziraphale presses a forestalling hand to his hip and reaches for the towel.
"Just a tick," he says reassuringly and miracles the cloth warm and damp to perform a brief but thorough wipedown.
Once clean, he unceremoniously hooks his hands under Crowley's armpits and hauls him up into his lap, draping his upper body over his chest. Crowley limply curls his arms in and hunches his back slightly so he can smush his face into the side of Aziraphale's neck. He plucks with one hand at Aziraphale's sweater vest with a disapproving grunt.
Obligingly, Aziraphale snaps himself down to a pair of soft cotton pants and Crowley into a similar pair of his own. Crowley makes a pleased sounding grumble and snakes his arms around Aziraphale's torso to hug him more closely.
Another snap retrieves the spare throw from the floor, which Aziraphale takes pleasure in tucking firmly around the both of them to ward off a chill.
"How was that, dear," he asks once he has them settled to his satisfaction. He keeps one arm looped around Crowley's hips, spreading his palm over his lower back, but the other he slides up so he can bury his hand back into Crowley's hair and begin the gentle process of finger combing it back to silky smoothness.
"S'good," Crowley grunts and backs up the sentiment with a constrictor-like squeeze of his arms.
"Any notes?" he prods.
"Stop fishing for compliments."
Aziraphale huffs and shifts to see if it's possible to settle Crowley's deadweight body against him more completely without having to change positions entirely. "Seeking to improve one's technique is not fishing for compliments."
"Your fingering was great. Top notch," Crowley says, deadpan, his breath puffing warmly into the hollow of Aziraphale's throat. "Now please, I'm begging you, let me enjoy the afterglow."
"Oh," Aziraphale says, chagrined, "quite right. My apologies." To prove his contrition, he sets about rubbing slow, grounding presses of his hands over Crowley's back and hip with one hand and resuming his mindless hair petting with the other. Crowley hums his approval, nuzzling briefly into the side of Aziraphale's neck before settling into contented stillness again.
Eventually, Aziraphale stops his petting and threads his hands together over Crowley's back. The demon has shown no inclination to move yet, so Aziraphale shifts his hips forward so he can rest his head on the back of the couch and settle in more comfortably for a long cuddle.
"Did you have fun?" Crowley asks muzzily, sometime later. "Cause I had fun."
"Oh, I quite enjoyed myself," Aziraphale replies, turning to press a fond kiss to the crown of Crowley's head. "I may joke about playing you like an instrument, but I don't think it's an entirely inappropriate comparison. If I do just this or just that, you make such gratifying noises, darling. And it's been quite satisfying learning what you like and how you like it. I daresay I feel proficient enough I could start improvising if I wanted to," he says smugly.
"If you start comparing making me come to playing jazz, I swear to someone, Angel..." Crowley menaces, and Aziraphale giggles.
"But dearest," he protests, his giggling rapidly turning into wheezing gasps of laughter, "haven't you been trying to get me to like—" he snorts, "to like bebop for almost a century now?"
Crowley's groan quickly darkens into a growl, and he rears up so he can place a quelling hand over Aziraphale's face. "Nope, enough. You just had your hand on my dick. I can't take this. New rule: No puns within half an hour of dick touching. Or any other bits touching," he hastily amends.
Aziraphale, who can feel a few tears escaping he's giggling so hard, calms himself just enough to press a chaste kiss to the center of Crowley's palm. "I make no promises," he says, muffled.
Crowley squawks in outrage, but later makes him a cup of cocoa by hand, so he presumes all is forgiven.
1 Which is not so very much alike physically, though the glasses lend a certain comical verisimilitude. [return to text]
2 Aziraphale is intimately familiar with the symptoms, though he experiences them much less frequently and, so long as he’s observant, can usually sublimate them quite neatly into a luxurious bath or sensuous bit of dining. [return to text]