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Aziraphale tapped the blunt edge of his straight razor against the little bowl of water, droplets dripping into the pool from the blade. He laid it aside on top of the dresser, now satisfied with its cleanliness, and set about lathering the soap.
He always felt better after a fresh shave, more like himself. Something about the repetitive motion cleared the mind and dulled the senses. A relaxation, a “self-care moment” as the kids liked to say.
There was a brief shift in the air, as though someone had just walked behind him, close enough to leave a breath against his neck. “Who’s there?” He called as he turned, but met nothing more than his empty room. He shook off his unease, of course no one was there, there had been no one in his small shaving mirror save for himself. A trick of the wind, in these drafty old manors.
Aziraphale took up his razor, gliding it as smoothly as he was able against the grain of his skin. Straight razors were quite finicky, one wrong move and he could slice into the skin of his neck. One hopes, if that is to happen, that the cut is small and not enough to cause concern. But given the whims of his host, Aziraphale was starting to think that any slight wrong move would be quite a big cause for concern.
Long spindly fingers closed over his shoulder, a soft hiss in his ear. He jumped, nicking the side of his neck in the process, blood trailing down and staining his white shirt.
“Oh no, I appear to be bleeding, and directly from my neck, oh dear me.”
“Fuck, shit, Aziraphale; I’m sorry, hold on, let me just…” Crowley’s tongue, with its strange healing saliva, pressed against his neck, a warm and comforting wetness that sealed the wound just as easily as it appeared.
Which, of course, made Aziraphale petulant.
“Dear, you are supposed to ravish me.” Aziraphale leaned against the dresser, crossing his arms.
“But… you were hurt?”
“Crowley, I thought you told me you had read Dracula?” He had to admit, Crowley looked rather silly at the moment. He’d donned a billowy white shirt and a satin cape. The cape was still creased from where it had been in the plastic package, and was clearly extremely cheap. But Aziraphale always gave Crowley points for effort.
“... yes?”
“Clearly not. The point is for you to go near insane at the sight of my blood, to be near unable to control yourself, but to hold back anyway.”
Crowley stood silent for a second, mulling things over in his mind. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“The fun is after that, but it’s not a very good roleplay if you don’t play your role.” Aziraphale watched as Crowley shifted from foot to foot nervously. He was being a good sport, all things considered. Aziraphale had been harboring this particular fantasy ever since he and Crowley had started their relationship. Truth be told, considering his usual… well… personal activities while reading Bram Stoker’s classic in the past, it had probably been a fantasy for much longer than that.
It wasn’t his fault that repressed homoerotic vampires written by repressed people resonated with him, after all.
“Why do I have to be Dracula, anyway?” Crowley finally said, waving his arms about. “This cape is itchy and this shirt is ridiculous, how come you get to be Joseph–”
“– Jonathan–”
“– Whatever his name is.”
“You want to be a character who’s name you don’t even know?”
“...no.”
“Okay then, if you would please, from the top. I promise it will be worth your while.”
Crowley swallowed heavily, offering a token protest before sinking back into the shadows. Aziraphale shook his head, the lengths he had to go through for his own fantasies sometimes.
He leaned back over the dresser, gazing into the small shaving mirror. It would be easier if he were in the bathroom, but that wasn’t the point. Besides, this was closer to the bed, and that’s where he actually wanted to be at the end of things.
Once again he took razor to skin, and once again a spindly hand clasped his shoulder. He jumped, nicking the other side of his neck this time, before being spun around and pinned to the dresser.
“Oh my,” he couldn’t help but stammer. The show of strength Crowley was giving him, paired with the glow in his eyes, sent a shock down Aziraphale’s spine, and he found himself half hard already. “I… I didn’t see you… in my mirror.”
“Never mind that,” Crowley snarled at him, grabbing the mirror and smashing it on the floor.
“My shaving mirror!”
“It’s just a foul bauble of man’s vanity, you don’t need it.” Crowley leaned in, nose barely brushing under Aziraphale’s ear, breathing in deep. “You should take care how you cut yourself. Some unscrupulous character might have awful ideas.”
“You can’t remember Jonathan’s name but you remember the words from the scene?” Aziraphale stilled, pushing Crowley off of him, meeting his gaze.
“Might’ve… read a bit, in the hallway, before I came in.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“ You love me,” Crowley said, leaning back in to nuzzle at Aziraphale’s neck once again. Aziraphale found it easy to fall back into his role.
“And are you one of those? An unscrupulous character?” Aziraphale asked, quirking his eyebrow in defiance. Crowley’s eyes went wide momentarily before he tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s shirt, pinning him harder to the dresser and knocking the bowl of water to the floor.
“Do you think this is a game ? Do you think this is fun ?” He could feel Crowley’s breath against his neck as he spoke, cold but wet. Crowley’s fangs pressed against Aziraphale’s skin; Aziraphale’s heartbeat thudded in his chest. “Your heart is racing, I can hear it. I can feel it.” Crowley’s rough tongue lapped at the blood draining from Aziraphale’s open wound, he moaned at the taste of it. Aziraphale’s hips jerked almost involuntarily, rutting against Crowley, making it plain just how much fun Aziraphale thought this could be.
“Are you scared?” Crowley asked in a low whisper against Aziraphale’s ear.
“No.”
“You should be. Little bird caught in my cage. There’s no way out, you know?”
“Oh, I should hope not.”
“And you get after me for breaking character.” Crowley nibbled at his ear as he chastised him, and that just wasn’t fair. He knew how weak that made Aziraphale’s knees.
Not wanting to give Crowley the upper hand, Aziraphale worked his hand between them, grinding the heel of his palm against Crowley’s growing erection. Crowley whined low in his throat, snapping his hips, seeking out friction.
“I do believe you, yourself, should be scared. It seems I'm not so silly that I can't get a rise out of you, my good sir.”
“Why is that hot? That shouldn’t be hot,” Crowley cursed under his breath as Aziraphale worked open his buttons. Crowley’s hands fell from Aziraphale’s shirt collar to return the favor, ripping at the seams of his trousers in the most unartful way.
“My dear Dracula, I believe we could be of mutual assistance to each other, don’t you think?”
“Hate you, hate you so much that I love you,” Crowley whined against Aziraphale’s skin. Crowley was pressing him bodily to the dresser now, their erections rubbing against each other in a way that made Aziraphale’s toes curl.
“Oh, you very much don’t,” Aziraphale cooed in his ear, wrapping his hand around both of their cocks, “I think you’re – ah!”
Aziraphale’s rhythm stuttered as Crowley’s fangs sank into the side of his neck. His eyes rolled back in his head, now just as every time before. Feeling every bit of Crowley’s own soft heartbeat, tasting the iodine on his tongue. Aziraphale stroked them both faster than he would have liked as they stood there, rutting against each other like animals. No real tempo to things, no real plan, just pure and unadulterated want and desire.
His free hand landed in Crowley’s hair, gripping tight and holding him there. He could drink his fill, could drain Aziraphale dry, and he would welcome it.
He wouldn’t though, Aziraphale knew that. Just as he began to get woozy and lose speed, Crowley broke off, kissing him deeply. Crowley wrapped his hand around Aziraphale’s, helping him stroke them both until Crowley came with a broken cry. His spent cock slipped free, but he kept his hand around Aziraphale’s, stroking slow, just the way that he liked. After only a few strokes, Aziraphale was coming as well, white streaks painting both of their shirts as they sunk to the ground.
Aziraphale leaned his head against the dresser as Crowley settled in his lap, both of them breathing heavily. “Make fun of my classics again, my dear, I dare you to.”
“If this is what happens when I make fun of them, I might have to make it a hobby.”
Aziraphale chuckled and kissed the top of his head.
“So… what happens after this?”
“Well, they don’t actually ever have sex. A few days after this encounter, Jonathan finds three vampire women who try to take advantage of him, and Dracula swoops in and rescues him as though he were a true Gothic heroine and carries him back to his room.”
“And then they fuck?”
“No, they don’t ‘fuck’, Crowley.”
“Ah, shame.” Crowley looked around the room, eyes landing on their shared bed. “I could… whisk you away right now?”
“I was hoping you would ask,” Aziraphale said with a laugh as they both stood, and he let Crowley lead him to their bed and into further temptation.