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It was a nice life.
It was a logical outcome, as immortality usually took care of most issues regarding mortality – such as the fear of holy judgement, or the lack of one – and, if you added the inhuman nature of angels and demons, it became quite difficult to find an argument against eternity.
Eternity on Earth, that was. Goodbye Armageddon, hello alcoholic breakfasts at the Ritz.
“Are you collecting records now?” Crowley asked during a particularly hot summer evening. Not that demons – or angels, for that matter – produced sweat, but Crowley could still feel the hot air sticking to his clothes as he closed the door of the bookshop. The bookshop that was too old to have a proper AC system, yet had one miraculously attached to a wall and somehow managed to stay working.
“If you must know, this was a transaction,” Aziraphale hummed softly, organizing the small pile of classical music records that Crowley couldn’t help to judge. Were humans truly buying records these days? They didn’t even buy books anymore. “Maggie, the lady of the store at the corner, paid her rent with these little boys.”
“... Those things are hardly worth the money she owes you,” Crowley huffed, sarcastic as he took off sunglasses, relieved to finally be free of human creatures looking in confusion at his hidden eyes, “Then again, you are an angel.”
“I’m afraid this might have been rather selfish,” Aziraphale confessed, his cheeks taking that pink shade they always did when the principality considered his kindness was overpowered by his enjoyment of the act. “You see, these are limited edition, and I couldn’t resist.”
“Being hedonistic again, angel? Tsk,” Crowley laughed, letting himself fall over his preferred padded red chair at the bookshop. The chair knew him, and welcomed the demon with its usual comfortable seat and perfect armrests. Crowley was beginning to consider miracle-ing takeout, if only to stay in the very nice chair under the very nice cold air.
Besides, the view was exquisite. Aziraphale, lacking the lust demons and humans possessed, had never quite developed what humans called decency. Sure, the angel rarely showed any skin besides his head and hands, but boy, he seemed unable to understand that having his plump arse squeezed into beige trousers was unholy and tempting to those around him. Those people being Crowley, and Crowley’s crotch, and Crowley’s brain as well.
Crowley adored it when the angel took off his coat, when he leaned down all smiley and humming, organizing books (or records, like now), oblivious to the fact that he was giving his demon friend a marvelous sight with every jump his cute arse did.
Let it be said that the lust this demon felt for the angel was not a new predicament. Not at all! Crowley could be honest enough (to himself, at least) and admit he had been imagining sinking his teeth in Aziraphale’s porcelain skin ever since they met at the Garden of Eden. And could they blame him? He had been a snake, hungry and hissing, and Aziraphale had been at the wall, soft rounds and naive words that showed pity even to a demon from Hell.
Thing was... That angels didn’t lust. It was part of the whole deal, Crowley would know, he used to be an angel. Lust, greed and jealousy were, mostly, demon things. Or human things, ever since Eve bit the apple that one day. Angels weren’t emotionless, but their tempers tended, at worst, to fury and arrogance.
Some angels, like the archangels, had a rather intense bias towards anger and annoyance. Lust? Not so much.
The cherry on top was that Aziraphale was not the same kind of angel Crowley had been. Which was probably why they got along so well, but it also meant it was quite difficult to tell if Aziraphale was easier or harder to tempt into sex than, let’s say, your usual archangel. Aziraphale was, after all, part of the second wave of angels in Heaven.
Softer, nicer angels that the Almighty had birthed after the demons fell. Crowley remembered being in Hell, slacking around and waiting for Lord Beelzebub to come up with any ideas on what to do until humans were put on Earth to torture. The place had been – well, Hell. Fire, terrible drinks, and a boredom that was driving everyone crazy. And they had discovered nasty emotions too. Some demons had resorted to fight among themselves just because they could. Satan – no longer Lucifer and no longer a holy figure of beauty – had been nowhere to be seen. The beginning of six thousands years of delegated tasks and horrendous bureaucracy.
The most interesting thing that happened between those days in Hell and the day Crowley went up to offer Eve and Adam an apple, was hearing the news regarding a second wave of angels: God had not liked to have over half of their angels become demons, so They had decided to even the numbers by creating a considerate number of new angels. Different angels. Made to obey, to be gentle, never asking questions and so terribly nice that the archangels and dominions couldn’t help to purse their lips in disgust.
Aziraphale had been among those new seventy-seven angels. And perhaps he was the softest of them. Not that God had a preference for Aziraphale; it seemed God merely wished to find out how sweet an angel could be before becoming useless to the cause. He had, let’s say, been an attempt to pour extra sugar into a recipe and see if it still tasted good.
Crowley had always found hilarious that the softest of angels had been the one to be sent to Earth. A principality, meant to watch over Earth as a whole, his mission the opposite to Crowley’s.
Crowley had been (allegedly, because one could never trust a demon) given Earth as reward for tempting Eve. Aziraphale seemed, however, to be in a sort of exile. Something something ‘oh you’re terribly endearing and lenient and you don’t fit the whole holier-than-thou vibe of Heaven so why don’t you go watch the Eastern Gate?'
Who had thought Aziraphale could be sent there and not become maternal towards humanity? It had taken days for him to become weak to the people (and they had just been two!) and lie to God about what had happened to his sword. Crowley had adored him immediately. A blonde mess of sweetness and teary eyes that kept going ‘Dear boy! I had been so afraid of doing the bad thing!’
Cute. Terribly so. Painfully even.
And Crowley, who had just discovered things like anger, greed and lust, had wanted to devour that cute little angel like a snake eats a mouse.
Anyway. Currently, Crowley is watching Aziraphale organize the records. His ass bouncing softly here and there when he stretches. He is also babbling, although Crowley had found out through the years that sometimes Aziraphale merely wants to pour his thoughts as if he were watering a plant, and he doesn’t really mind if the demon zooms out for a bit.
“Poor Maggie!” is the phrase that wakes Crowley up to the present, making him blink and then stretch on the chair. How long was he lost un memories of Aziraphale crying over dead doves? “She’s in love with this woman, Nina, but it’s... Oh, dear boy, it’s so sad to watch.”
“Why don’t you just miracle their romance?” Crowley suggests lazily, shoes over the small old table that Aziraphale keeps saying it’s not for laying one’s feet, “If you feel so bad for them, I mean.”
“Don’t be silly!” the angel huffs, too adorable for a creature of six thousand years of age, “We cannot toy with human emotions like that.”
“But you would be making them a favor, yes? Humans love to be in love. I’ve seen it in movies.”
“It’s not – you cannot force someone to love anyone,” Aziraphale hums, finally done with the records organization and sitting down in the chair in front of Crowley’s. Now his arse is not in sight, but his thighs, rubbing against each other due to the way Aziraphale sits (like some lady wearing a skirt rather than a man who wears pants); Crowley takes it, allowing himself to undress the angel with his eyes. “We shouldn’t, anyway. Could get me – us, in trouble.”
“Really?”
“Well, we’re supposed to be doing our own thing?” Aziraphale shrugs, miracling himself a cup of hot cocoa, “That was the deal. We would let humanity be without our influence and up and down would leave us alone.”
“I still think they’re too busy crashing out at the failure of Armageddon,” Crowley smirks, slightly amused at the idea of all those demons that had tortured him with paperwork now looking at computers in black and wondering why they had rebelled in the first place. “Back to business, angel. Where do you want to have dinner?”
“Oh,” Aziraphale’s cheeks take a light shade of pink, and his eyes shine in that expectation they have been taking for years whenever food is mentioned. Again, cute. “There’s a new restaurant just a few streets away!”
Maybe Crowley is pushing it.
He and Aziraphale had always been – clingier than expected. After the fall, Hell had believed, for a while, that angels and demons couldn’t touch each other. It had turned out to be nothing but a ridiculous assumption; angels and demons could touch each other just fine.
The main issue was that angels, by default, weren’t very clingy creatures. Demons were, made to lust and anger and all.
Aziraphale had been as willing to be touched as any other angel at the beginning, which meant the most Crowley had gotten out of him was standing under his wing under the rain. Luckily, Aziraphale grew out of it slowly, slightly; a behavior taught by heaven that got broken by humanity.
Aziraphale carried human babies. Kissed the forehead of lost children. Offered his arm to old ladies to cross the streets. He had allowed, many times, Crowley’s hands on his body.
Nevertheless, holding hands from time to time or patting the angel’s back was hardly comparable with the desire Crowley had to push his cock inside Aziraphale’s cunt.
(Because he knew Aziraphale had a dick and a cunt. That was how angels were made, nor men or women by human standards, ethereal and beautiful in a way demons were no longer. When they fell, demons discovered binarism, and Crowley had settled for what would later be called man if only because he thought it looked good.
The pleasure was discovered one day later, by almost every demon, perhaps with exceptions like Hastur and Ligur, who were always a bit behind the others).
But yes. Dicks, pussies and masturbation aside, Crowley thinks he might be pushing the unsaid and undiscussed limits of Aziraphale’s personal space. An accidental rub of their knees was one thing, a hand of the angel’s thigh? That was shameless.
But Aziraphale had just blushed, and kept eating his strawberry desert. He’s eating it as usual, a bit too much of tongue and moans – creatures like them aren’t supposed to eat. And the angel has never mastered looking human enough. He makes the very same face he did back at the Eden, when Crowley spied on him for a few hours and watched the angel eat a pear in a way that could only be described as holily sinful –, and between bites and licks, he replies to Crowley’s chitchat.
“You know, I have a bottle of wine at my place,” Crowley hums as he sips from his coffee, right hand still sinking on the soft flesh of Aziraphale’s thigh. Maybe it’s the snake inside of him, salivating and hissing in hunger at the proximity of the delicious meal that would be the angel. Or maybe Crowley has spent too much time among humans, time enough to forget about Hell, Heaven and whatever was stopping him from taking his angel to his bed.
The world not ending kind of made him snap too. There was no longer anything keeping them from enjoying their company, and technically none of them worked for their bosses anymore. What was the worst that could happen if Crowley tempted Aziraphale into a bit of sin?
The angel would forgive Crowley anyway. He was made for it. The softest of the second wave of angels, birthed specifically to forgive, to love Earth, to be generous to the point even other angels rolled his eyes at him. And wasn’t that exactly the charm of Aziraphale?
Other angels would have thrown holy water at Crowley themselves if he had asked them for help. Instead, the demon had Aziraphale, a principality that cried and threw an adorable tantrum for one hundred and five years before gifting the thermos to Crowley with the saddest eyes the demon has ever seen. Aziraphale, where other angels would have rejoiced at the idea of a demon killing himself, had been worried and in agony, hurt so deep he had left Crowley’s car almost whimpering and running away.
Aziraphale always forgave Crowley. That was just how things were. A naïve angel trying to save a demon. It was good that he had not know Crowley nor Heaven before the rebellion and the fall; if they had met before, perhaps Aziraphale would not be so convinced that Crowley is anything but a selfish creature who, more than caring for humanity, cares for his comfortable life and the ongoing chances of fucking Aziraphale on his Bentley.
“Oh, I – I shouldn't,” Aziraphale whispers, licking the spoon clean. It’s amazing how humans have never noticed that Aziraphale’s teeth are inhumanly white. “I’m supposed to attend a meeting of the shop owners organization…”
“Why do you even go to those things?” Crowley giggles, although it comes out a bit sarcastic. His fingers go up, just half an inch, just enough to be up on Aziraphale’s full, fleshy thigh. And thanks to human kind for dark glasses, as they allow Crowley to look down and watch Aziraphale’s bulge trapped in the trousers. Sure, flaccid and asleep… For now. “You called them… What was it? A group of unkind, screaming people?”
Aziraphale pouts, leaving the spoon over the empty plate. “And they are. Quite so, I’m afraid. Did I tell you that one time that I bought pastries and…?”
“And they said it was a serious meeting and not a lunch? Yeah,” Cowley bites his tongue, annoyed at the memory of his angel in 1999 all sad and bothered that the humans had not even tried the sweets. They were lucky Crowley wasn’t allowed to hurt humans unless he had a permit. “Reason enough to not go, angel.”
For once, Aziraphale seems to think the suggestion through, and then a smile with the tiniest of malice comes to his lips. He is yet to say anything about Crowley’s fingers rubbing his thigh over the cotton clothes. “A drink sounds lovely, Crowley. I believe Maggie will be able to fill me in about the discussion on Christmas’ lights if needed.”
During the ride to his flat, Crowley’s hand never leaves Aziraphale’s leg.
“I can’t – Dear boy, I’m too drunk for this,” Aziraphale complains adorably, laughing as he fails to remember a card trick Crowley asked him to perform. Does Crowley like magic tricks? Not really, but Aziraphale does, and he always brights up when doing them. Crowley thought it would be appropriate foreplay.
Except the angel is quite drunk. He’s falling over Crowley, comfortable and lazily, cheeks red and finally lacking his usual heavenly-made boundaries regarding fraternizing with the enemy. He even took off Crowley’s glasses off moments ago, murmuring that “We don’t even need these. And I like your eyes.”
Honestly, Crowley might as well just get up, go to his restroom (which isn’t really one because it only has a bathtub and a sink) and jerk off. He’s already hard, hand holding his angel by the waist, sharp tongue licking his fangs inside his mouth.
“A shame,” Crowley murmurs, using the chance of Aziraphale putting the cards away to, rather rudely, put his lips over the angel’s throat.
He tastes like cinnamon rolls, rain and everything nice.
Aziraphale freezes, but he doesn’t try to sneak away from the demon’s embrace.
“… Crowley?” he asks, almost to himself.
“Yes?”
“I just – hm, could you let go?” the angel questions, cute as he turns around his round face to watch Crowley. Blue eyes are crystalline in almost-tears and wine; “I’m not feeling well.”
“Angel, is that true?” Crowley hisses, not like a cat, but like a snake. It’s mostly something he says because he knows Aziraphale prefers civilized conversations; it doesn’t stop the demon from pushing the angel over the couch (and very easily, should be added. Never a warrior, this soft angel of the Eden), lips once again mouthing at the skin between Aziraphale’s jaw and clavicle.
Aziraphale shakes, but his hands find Crowley’s shoulders and cling to them. He’s not pushing Crowley away; he’s not even trying to get away from him. He could pull a miracle and be back at his bookshop. And he doesn’t do it.
“We shouldn’t,” the angel whimpers when Crowley’s mouth finds his, stealing a quick, chaste peck. Not a proper kiss, not yet. “Crowley, please.”
“Come on, Aziraphale. I know you know why human men invite pretty ladies to their places,” Crowley murmurs in his ear, snapping his fingers to get the angel’s vest and shirt unbuttoned, his zip pulled down, his bow-tie rid of. “Or, er, why people invite other people, I guess.”
“But that’s not – we’re not supposed to,” the angel shakes again, half closing his eyes and looking away from Crowley, still clinging to the demon, “I think I want to go back to my bookshop.”
“Your bookshop isn’t going anywhere,” Crowley takes off his glasses, throwing them away – he has drawers full of the model for a reason –; he refuses to not watch the angel’s exposed beauty every second he can. “Have you never been curious?”
“No,” Aziraphale murmurs, teary like a madonna, and yet he’s lying. The smell of heavenly slick makes it to Crowley’s nose, sticky and tempting like an oasis in the desert. Crowley has never been that much into human food, but he enjoys the wine, and he knows he will enjoy Aziraphale’s wetness more than any drink men could make. It might only be surpassed by the angel’s very ichor (his blood).
“Don’t be shy, angel,” Crowley hisses on his ear, licking the skin around, fangs almost sinking into the flesh, “I saw you at Eden, Aziraphale. Watching Eve getting fucked by Adam. I saw you closing your legs and going red like the apples you like so much.”
“That was not – ”
“No?”
Aziraphale hiccups, but his hands cling to the demon’s neck, pulling the fallen angel closer, their bodies separated only by the ridiculous physics of electromagnetic repulsion. Aziraphale is warm, like a lovely cup of tea, and Crowley’s burning, hellfire on his insides burning holes on the unholy matter of his organs.
“This is wrong,” Aziraphale says, and he looks as scared and sad as that time he cried that he didn’t even like Crowley. “Dear boy, we...”
“It’ssss okay,” Crowley argues, snake-tongue licking Aziraphale’s lips. A reptile about to devour a fleshy mouse, “We’re on our side, aren’t we?”
“Crowley.”
“Let me sssssee, Aziraphale,” long, inhuman fingers push the angel’s clothes to the side. Another cry echoes in the unlived flat.
As expected, Crowley finds a couple of handful breasts. He never quite understood why the almighty had given them those, considering that angels didn’t breed. Maybe it had been but a draft for humankind and mammals. Crowley had gotten rid of them as soon as he could back in Hell; other demons had enlarged them. To each their own.
Aziraphale’s breasts are cute. Petite, like the french would say, but fat and fleshy enough to allow Crowley’s fingers to torture them slowly. Red, irritated nipples show on the tip, and Crowley remembers the strawberries over whipped cream of the angel’s pastry hours ago.
“... Don’t look, please,” Aziraphale pulls Crowley’s neck again, making the demon fall over him, head unable to turn and admire the flesh his fingers are touching. “It’s - Please, no.”
“What kind of apple did you eat?” Crowley hums, giving this small mercy to his angel. After all, there’s a great pleasure in watching his face go red in pleasure, mouth breathing needy moans and gasps. “Don’t be ashamed, angel. Thessse are beautiful.”
He gets no answer, so he kisses Aziraphale. For real this time, deeper, just a taste of tongue and teeth.
The angel tastes of sugar, cream, and ambrosia. Crowley wonders if his own taste, always ashy and salty by nature, is what makes the angel gasp in complain.
It’s fine. Aziraphale will forgive him. If this even needs forgiving, given how wet the angel is, a dark spot already appearing on his trousers, hips jerking when a hand goes down rubs exactly in the place God made to be filled.
There should be more romanticism, perhaps. Kisses, tongue, and hands massaging everywhere. And Crowley had imagined it... Before. But ever since watching Aziraphale dressed like a british lady in 1791 Crowley has been losing his patience. Besides, it’s hard to be romantic and less of a demon when, after pulling down the beige trousers, Crowley finds a cute little dick hard for him and, behind it, a wet cunt shining in slick.
There’s probably some flower allegory to be made. Or a poem to be murmured.
Crowley gives a teasing jerk to the angel’s dick. It’s an adorable fat pinkish bundle of muscles, and it lacks the usual balls under it. A cute set, one whose purpose demons have never been able to understands besides ‘Well, God probably wants some sort of temptation to happen!’; Crowley thinks there might have been an idea on angels being able to reproduce. Probably discarded when half of the angels asked too many questions and wondered why God was in charge.
(Although Aziraphale is a second-wave born. Does he have an ethereal equivalent of a womb? Could his little lovely fat dick get a human pregnant? Could a human man get Aziraphale pregnant?
Would demon seed leave Aziraphale pregnant? Demons could reproduce, after all. The antichrist one of the many cases).
“Ow. That burns,” Aziraphale complains in Crowley’s neck, still hiccupping and whimpering, shaking as one of Crowley’s fingers pushes inside of his virgin hole.
“It will feel better,” Crowley lies, another kiss to his angel’s face. He’s hard and painful inside of his pants, but something tells him he better not go that far tonight. Not when he feels a ring ripping inside of Aziraphale's wet, hot walls.
“... That will leave a stain,” is what Aziraphale whispers when golden ichor falls over his underwear, his trousers, the couch, over Crowley’s single middle finger, in and out in a poor mockery of what his cock would do to the angel’s pussy.
“It’sss okay. It only happens once.”
“I would think so.”
“Does it burn much?”
“Tolerable,” Aziraphale murmurs, his blue eyes finally looking at Crowley’s, “Does this – aren't you supposed to...?”
Ah. How is Crowley to explain that fingering Aziraphale is almost as good as fucking him on his cock? Maybe better, because he gets to watch that pretty cunt bleeding on his fingers. Pornographic, humans would say.
“Nah. This is good,” Crowley growls, maybe too honest, maybe too close to coming inside of his tight jeans. “You?”
“Weird,” is said between another whimper, another shake of Aziraphale’s soft round body that makes Crowley remember the Rape of the daughters of Leucippus and how when seeing the painting for the first time, he had imagined his angel at the center of it. Defiled.
Aziraphale does not come. Or maybe he does, but quiet and subtly enough that Crowley never watches him go crazy in pleasure nor does he seem to get wetter nor do his wall clench on Crowley’s finger.
So Crowley surrenders to bad first times after thirty minutes, kisses Aziraphale’s cheeks, gets up, and goes to jerk of his bathroom.
Dear Hell, it is the best orgasm Crowley has had.
When Crowley goes back to the living room, Aziraphale is still there. He has fixed his clothes, and he looks – messy. But he lets Crowley feed him sweets and take him home anyway.
Crowley had considered that Aziraphale would exile him from the bookshop. It was an easy thing to do, one that the angel had threatened once. He also kept inviting Crowley over and over again.
Like Ellen inviting the vampire into her bed, perhaps.
It has been a month since their little rendezvous at Crowley’s place. The demon can still taste Aziraphale’s slick on his finger. He dreams of his androgynous tits feeding demon spawns.
Today, Crowley sits at his favorite side of Aziraphale’s couch. The angel has convinced him of watching some movie apparently inspired by the greatest novel of all time; what do balls and arranged marriages have to do with art? Crowley has no idea.
All he knows is that Aziraphale pauses the movie, anxious as he has been since Crowley came back from jerking off to the taste of the angel’s slick and blood. A bit like fluffy cat getting used to a new owner.
“I believe I'd like to try again,” Aziraphale says, firm and honest.
Crowley raises an eyebrow, arms crossed as he watches the face of Mr. Darcy frozen in the old TV.
“Do you?”
“Yes. Just, ah, different.”
“How so?”
“I think,” the angel says, blush coming to his cheeks, blue eyes as decided as before, “I’d like you to take me – like Adam had Eve.”.
Sweet, little hedonistic angel. Always forgiving. Always weak to pleasure. Someone should tell the Almighty that their second born angels were the perfect meal for old hungry demons.
Crowley has been yearning Aziraphale for six thousand years.
“Of course, angel. Anything you want.”