Happy Holidays, Juliet!

[goe_mod]

Title: Think of Sansevieria
Recipient: Juliet
Author: Secret!
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: Explicit (NSFW)
Warnings: Explicit kink/consensual kink, dark themes/heavy angst, smut, D/s, bondage.
Word Count: 6120

Prompt: Crowley & Aziraphale try moving in together and discover that it doesn't really work / that it's not as easy as all that. Don't mind whether they work it out somehow or whether they decide they're better off living apart (but not splitting up please if you go that way). Any rating, though I'd prefer some level of sexual relationship.

Summary: The clutter of the bookshop never bothered Crowley. If anything it was a charming footnote in the six thousand year saga of knowing Aziraphale. Except, it’s far less charming when it’s their home, and Crowley is quickly losing his hold on his anger. Words are exchanged, angels are hurt, and absolution comes in unexpected ways. NSFW.

Beta'd by the lovely Vol_Ctrl.

Think of Sansevieria

The clutter of the shop had never bothered Crowley much. It had felt comfy- cosy almost. It had been Aziraphale’s, and thusly not really something that should— or did— bother him. Their house in the South Downs, however, was not just Aziraphale’s, and Crowley was about one more mis-placed coffee cup or tea saucer away from a truly epic eruption. Aziraphale’s ability to clutter a room was not quite so quaint and cozy when it was also his living space. He’d been pushing his annoyance at the clutter to the side for weeks now. A bit of clutter seemed a small price to pay to get to finally live with Aziraphale in ways he’d been dreaming of for millennia. He probably could have continued to push his irritation to the side indefinitely, if it weren’t for the fact that the one space that was distinctly Crowley’s— his office — was once again more clutter than clean.

His office consisted of very few things normally. A wall of tidy and severe looking bookshelves that was mostly full of various items he’d curated through the time of human existence— a couple dozen books scattered about tastefully — a pleasing sideboard loaded with all of his favorite alcohol and obscenely expensive drinkware, a large and barren desk, his throne, and a few of his better-behaved and beautiful plants.

Today, however, very few of these things were true. No, today books from both his and Aziraphale’s collection were in stacks of two or three on every horizontal surface. New knicknacks had migrated onto his shelves, his desk, his sideboard. His carefully balanced aesthetic was ruined, his entire space had gone to pot. Tropical Storm Aziraphale had swept through and harshed his buzz, torpedoed his feng shui, moved his crystal wine decanter from its place of pride on the sideboard for a gaudy teacup that was half full and leaving a wet ring. What was the point of the 4 saucers littered about his office, if not to keep teacups from leaving rings on his fine furniture for Satan’s sake?

Crowley needed to calm down. He needed to miracle the mess better, he needed some kind of alcohol, and he needed a good two hours alone to deal with his immediate leap from irritation to outright anger before trying to have this conversation with Aziraphale. Unfortunately, life rarely gave Crowley his way, so before he could so much as wave up the mess, Aziraphale was calling to him from the doorway.

“Welcome back, darling. How was America?” Aziraphale beamed at him, as though all was right in the world and nary a teacup was out of place.

Crowley’s nails gouged into the desk as his hands tightened into fists. His lips flattened into a thin line as he bit back the bile rising in his throat. His immediate reaction was disproportionate to the situation. All of this could be fixed with ease— powers or no. But logic did not dictate feelings, so instead of any rational reaction to his lover greeting him after a week’s trip, Crowley was dangerously close to exploding.

“Crowley, dear?” Aziraphale inquired after Crowley hadn’t acknowledged his earlier statement. If Crowley had been the type to admit he prayed, he’d have prayed in gratitude that his back had been to the door when the angel walked through so the unattractive snarl on his face was hidden.

Crowley tried to think of the scientific names of his entire plant collection to calm himself. Epipremnum aureum, Philodendron bipinnatifidum, Syngonium podophyllum, Dieffenbachia, Sansevieria trifasciata, Maranta leuconeura, Aspidistra elatior, Calathea zebrina— Crowley felt Aziraphale’s hand brush over his shoulder, and before he could stop himself he slapped the offending appendage away, the swing of his arm bringing him face to face with Aziraphale.

Aziraphale processed having his hand slapped away and the thunderous expression on Crowley’s face rather quickly, as his own face began warring for concern and irritation. He seemed to finally settle on a wary irritation, an unattractive frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Now, really, what in the world is the matter with you?”

Aziraphale’s voice had a hard edge to it that spoke volumes to how kindly he’d taken to having his hand slapped down in such a manner, and while that might have normally banked Crowley’s anger, this time his tone caused it to flare defensively.

“What’s the matter with me, angel?” Crowley all but hissed through gritted teeth, eyes flashing dangerously without his glasses to shield them from view. He was far too gone into the rage now to compose himself like he normally would, plant names be damned. Crowley might not have ever been properly demonic, but that didn’t mean for a second he didn’t also harbor the same bone-deep rage as the rest of his lot— that it didn’t consume him like an unquenchable wildfire when it struck. He might not have ever truly given up on God, but he hadn’t forgiven her, either, and that had simmered down low in his marrow since before time had been breathed into existence.

Crowley had never showed Aziraphale his anger. Or, at least, this kind of anger. This out-of-control wildfire that he had no real control over when it hit. Previously when he felt this beast stir— his blood turning to salt to scrape every wounded molecule of him— he’d retreat to a solitary place. A condemned house torn apart brick by brick, nail by nail. A dozen pillows shredded into a fine carpet of feathers and cotton, a mattress reduced to component parts. Plaster and drywall dust beneath sharp nails, nesting like steel wool in his lungs with each ragged breath until the overwhelming desire to rend the world in two and take everything and everyone he’d ever liked, ever loved, down with him.

There was nowhere to run to now. He was trapped between his desk and Aziraphale so the only thing close enough to burn to ashes was them.The small part of him that was still him and not this ugly thing was terrified that’s exactly what he’d do. Burn them down to ashes and leave nothing worthwhile for the rest of the end of the world. The darkest hollows of him exposed, that Aziraphale would once and for all truly see him, and decide he’d be better off without.

But instead of any sane part of him wresting control, Crowley stepped into Aziraphale’s space— invasive and intimidating— and snarled, “The matter, Aziraphale,” he spat the angel’s name like acid, the building steam finally cresting into a proper explosion of volume and vitriol for— “The matter is that you can’t seem to keep the fuck out of my office! That you’ve single-handedly laid waste to it with your stupid knicknacks and your sodding tea cups.”

Aziraphale huffed indignantly, waving a hand dismissively, “Surely that’s not all that’s got you so worked up.”

Aziraphale didn’t cower under the demon’s hot gaze, nor did he take a placating step backwards. Foolishly brave till the end, he let Crowley crowd into his space like a dark menace and stood defiantly still, stocky shoulders squared in challenge. Crowley’s nostrils flared with a sharp breath in, incensed by the angel’s lack of something even resembling contrition.

“Not another word, Aziraphale,” was all Crowley could get out of gritted teeth, his jaw clenched so hard he could feel his teeth creaking under the strain. But Aziraphale wasn’t one to be bossed around, always so self-assured in his rightness— something Crowley was partially to blame for. So, instead of falling quiet and giving Crowley the breathing room he needed to do anything other than what the monster inside of him was screaming for, Aziraphale continued right on over him, tone nearly haughty.

“I’ll admit I’ve left a bit of a mess, but honestly, Crowley, this is hardly worth—”

Whatever last reserves of sanity in Crowley that were holding back the acid in the depths of him broke, that small voice snuffed out entirely, and he grabbed Aziraphale’s lapels— unconsciously sharpened nails ripping the fabric slightly— and he roughly shoved Aziraphale back against the sideboard, the disarrayed glasses clinking together dangerously. They were flush against each other, the touch searing in a way they never had before. Crowley didn’t know if it was Aziraphale who stung, or if he was burning up from the inside out and the angel’s cool body was providing such sharp contrast it hurt, or if it was his holy energy licking at all the places he touched in self-defense. It didn’t bring him back into focus any, so it hardly mattered. It was a thing happening to his corporation, his physical form, not to his essence.

“How is it,” Crowley hissed, low and dangerous and downright feral, “that I’m the one that Fell, but your heavenly self can’t be arsed to have even the slightest amount of consideration? It’s fucking beyond me. Then again, all you angels are self-righteous, callous pricks, aren't you?” He was building up steam now, a train headed over a bridge with a fatal fault, about to careen into the chasm below. His fists tightened more, shredding the lapels of the old wool jacket beneath his claws like tissue paper, leaning so far over the sideboard that if Aziraphale had been willing to give any ground, he’d all but be laid upon it. Instead, the angel’s feet were firmly on the ground, body unnaturally firm and resistant beneath him— like they were finally slotting into the enemy roles set out for them so long ago.

“And you, angel, you’re all about the means to an end without a drop of the genuine kindness you pine for in your wretched little books.” Crowley was breathing hard now, his words harsh and his lips feeling blistered just for having uttered them, but he hadn’t reached his crescendo yet. “Maybe you only love me because I’m free to be all of the ugly things you pretend you’re not.” The bridge gave way, and now all there was left was a free-fall into the abyss, screaming the whole way down.

“You wanted to kill that boy before he’d even had a chance to talk. You’re greedy and gluttonous and prideful,” Crowley was spitting out the words like they burned him, like they were foul ugly things about Aziraphale— not with the fond, light admonishment Crowley usually said these things. These were slings and arrows from Crowley’s sulfurous marrow, aimed at deep wounds barely scabbed over. “You justify every bad action you’ve ever done with the pious bullshit you’ve never even believed in. Of the two of us, you’re the one who ought to be a demon you—”

The slap of Aziraphale’s palm against his face stung like anything. All at once searing hot and biting cold, burrowing through his skin and suturing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Crowley could feel the angelic fury behind it seep into his skin where it warred with his own and suddenly the burning sensation where their bodies were touching grew present and ever insistent. It was as if Crowley had been underwater and far from himself and now he found himself hauled over the ice, the wind biting at every last inch of skin with a horrible clarity.

“Shut your mouth, demon.” Aziraphale growled, and neither were sure if he was shaking in anger, or his first real fear, or adrenaline, or worse— genuine hurt. Aziraphale was angry now though. That much was certain, for his blue eyes now telegraphed the kind of angelic wrath that had laid waste to the cities of old, and he pushed back against Crowley with effort. Crowley was coming up for air, and the parts of him that were horrified over words he had said but would never truly mean paralyzed his anger, allowing him to be pushed back.

Crowley was so stuck between his flagging rage and the terror of the consequences of his actions that he didn’t have time to register Aziraphale’s hand moving lightning fast to bury itself in his hair— yanking sharply and pulling Crowley away and down so that his body was contorted away from him. Aziraphale was now standing straight, his shoulders squared and feet rooted into the floor like an immovable monolith, looking down into Crowley’s serpentine eyes rather than up. It might have hurt, had it been any harder, but Aziraphale did not get lost in his anger the way Crowley had— didn’t have more than six millennia of festering to consume him whole.

“I will apologize for leaving your office a mess, but I will not allow you to speak to me in such a manner, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s hand tightened slightly, making sure his next words were heard, “I will not apologize for spending my time in your office missing you, wanting to feel closer to you while you were gone.”

Aziraphale’s words were also aimed to wound, but he used a brutal truth presented honestly where Crowley had lashed out with truths reduced and hardened into blades to flay open old scars. It bled out the last of the poison in Crowley, and he slumped to his knees, too hollowed out to even voice his pain as his hair tugged harshly in the angel’s grasp before the fingers loosened and his hand fell away from the demon. Crowley was panting, his breaths coming ragged and fast. His cheek stung and he felt as though every vein and capillary had been worn raw in the absence of the venom that had finally retreated back to dark corners from whence it came.

What could he say, really? How do you explain your ugliest truth after keeping it under lock and key for six thousand years? How could he possibly hope to fix the damage? Six millennia, a failed Armageddon, the entirety of heaven and hell against them, and it was Crowley who’d dealt the deepest wounds. He felt lost and bereft in a way he hadn’t felt so keenly since the fall. Only this time it wasn’t God abandoning him, it was the threat that he’d well and truly lose Aziraphale, and that was worse than all of it. All of this over what might as well have been dirty socks by the laundry bin.

Aziraphale must have seen something, though— as he often did. Must have been able to see right through him to glean some kind of understanding, because he brushed one hand against Crowley’s sharp cheek in an almost-gentle way, soft but for the residual anger still dancing along his fingertips. It wasn’t absolution, not really, but it felt like a lot more than Crowley deserved so he sighed into it like it was. His eyes went a bit unfocused from the spot on the floor he’d been staring a hole into since he’d gone to his knees.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and his voice was hard, but not unkind. Crowley’s breath hitched— he knew this tone. This wasn’t Aziraphale’s anger, or rather, that it was, but it wasn’t the anger of an end but the anger of a much different context.

“Crowley, look at me.” The soft hand at his cheek hooked under his jaw with firm fingers, tilting his head up demandingly.

Crowley didn’t want to meet his eyes. Didn’t want to know if what he found there would be something awful and deserved, but none of that really mattered. Aziraphale’s voice like this, firm and unyielding, was enchanting in ways nothing else on earth had ever been. No alcohol, no drugs, no other earthly pleasures could hold a candle to the way the world tilted on its axis when his angel spoke to him in firm demands. Aziraphale was fussy and demanding often enough, but always indirectly. Pointed comments at something he wanted, but didn’t want to do for himself— asking without saying.

Now, Aziraphale’s voice had gone deep and rich, as it only did when they were in bed, so Crowley lifted his eyes to stormy blue ones. It felt as if Aziraphale was trying to beam both righteous fury and endless love directly into Crowley’s soul, and the effect left Crowley absolutely breathless. Aziraphale’s fingers pushed his head up, fingers firm and sure, and Crowley couldn’t keep himself from swallowing like a starving man presented a feast.

“Do you deserve this?” Aziraphale asked quietly. Crowley didn’t know what answer was wanted and wasn’t sure he’d know even if he weren’t feeling wrung out— wasn’t entirely sure he could manage to say much of anything at all. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes shaking his head— no. Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s sigh, even if the sound never made it past his lips. He definitely felt the angel’s hand turn to an almost-punishing grip under his jaw.

Surprised, Crowley opened his eyes to be met with a steely glare. In any other situation, the way his heart was beating fast, eyes dilating just a bit, would be inappropriate, but Aziraphale’s tone had already made it clear what this situation was. What was better— or maybe worse, he wasn’t sure— was that Aziraphale was increasingly making it clear that he wasn’t going to make Crowley apologize. He’d make him work for it, but he wasn’t going to make Crowley say it.

Aziraphale was still waiting for an answer, more patient than he normally was. Waiting for Crowley to change his answer to the correct one, but he couldn’t say yes because he didn’t deserve this. Hadn’t deserved it the first time nor any of the times after. Hadn’t deserved lazy Sundays curled in Aziraphale’s lap until the sun went down, picnics in the backyard on sunny days, midnight walks along the shoreline— he hadn’t deserved any of it and he wasn’t going to start lying now. So instead,

“Please.” It was little more than a whisper, raw and open, but the effect on the angel was immediate.

With inhuman speed, Aziraphale stepped into his space and bent over so that his lips were ghosting over his snake tattoo, warm breath caressing his ear and sending fire rushing through his veins.

“And how,” Aziraphale whispered against his ear, “Do you think you ought to make it up, hm?” Crowley swallowed audibly, the little hairs on the back of his neck tingling and his body shuddering entirely without his input. He opened his mouth to say something— he wasn’t sure what yet, but it didn’t matter because as soon as his mouth was open, Aziraphale was pushing his thumb in and pressing down on his tongue in an obvious demand for Crowley to remain silent. His mouth watered at the intrusion, and he could feel the saliva already pooling under his tongue.

Crowley’s hands shakily made for Aziraphale’s trousers, fumbling the first button open with record speed, but the angel had other ideas. The hand on his chin tightened, pushing his tongue flat with a force that would leave red marks on a human. Aziraphale’s other hand brushed against Crowley’s shoulder and the demon felt the ghost-grip of ethereal magic tightening around his wrists, his hands drawn away and forced behind his back with speed and force. Crowley let out a strangled groan, garbled around the angel’s thumb in his mouth.

“No hands, demon.” There was a delightfully dangerous edge to Aziraphale’s voice, and Crowley could feel the absolutely wicked grin on the angel’s lips against his cheek. They’d done this a dozen times or more— Aziraphale taking charge like this — because Crowley didn’t answer to Heaven or Hell or even God, but he’d answer to Aziraphale. Craved it even, when he was feeling particularly adrift. There was something intoxicating about being put in your place, in trusting someone so much you’d lay your freedom in their palms and beg for more. Cathartic to be moored to the altar of Aziraphale after six thousand years at sea.

Usually Aziraphale had to cross his T’s and dot his I’s, breaking the scene to make sure Crowley was alright with every development, but his fussy and unsure angel seemed to be nowhere in sight. Instead, Aziraphale seemed out for his pound of flesh and confident enough to let Crowley call a halt if needed. He wouldn’t, of course. Aziraphale perhaps didn’t realize it yet, but Crowley would let the angel do anything he wanted and more without complaint, that he’d beg for more. Emboldened by his angel’s confidence, Crowley closed his lips around his thumb and sucked, undulating his tongue enough to get the point across without making any attempt to actually dislodge it.

“Foul fiend,” Aziraphale whispered huskily and withdrew his hand, straightening up to give Crowley better access to his trousers. The ethereal bindings on Crowley’s hands didn’t slacken, though, so Crowley looked up at Aziraphale questioningly. The angel looked down on him impassively and after a moment quirked an eyebrow, his mouth tugging into a slight smirk— something Crowley had told him was his ‘bastard look.’

“Go on, then.”

Aziraphale was already hard as Crowley pressed his face to the line of hidden buttons keeping him from his angel’s cock. Knowing there’d be a very disapproving look if Crowley ripped any more clothing tonight, the demon took the line of fabric between his teeth and began to work the buttons out one by one. It wasn’t an easy process and Crowley was making a mess of Aziraphale’s front, saliva from his very occupied mouth catching on the fabric as it ran down his chin. Finally, the last button pulled free and Crowley leaned forward to nuzzle at Aziraphale’s cock, inhaling the musky scent with a bone-deep want. He wanted to touch, to taste, to be used— to be forgiven.

Aziraphale, however, wanted him to work for it. Immaculately manicured fingers wound tightly in his hair, and pulled him back enough to meet blown-wide eyes. The look on the angel’s face made Crowley wary— that smirk still firmly in place, confident and smug, that seemed to imply a further trial before Crowley got to the good part.

“The rest of it, too,” Aziraphale said lightly, amused but otherwise unaffected. Crowley bristled at the tone for a moment before flicking his eyes down. The angel still had on his shoes. For someone’s sake, they’d be here all night before Crowley had Aziraphale in his mouth. Crowley let out an indignant whine and was rewarded with a vicious twist of his hair tugging his head back, drawing out a pained gasp from raw lips opened in surprise.

“Don’t complain,” Aziraphale rebuked, then primly, “I’m doing you a favor.” And then Crowley was being harshly dragged against Aziraphale’s groin, pressed so tightly he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t need to, but his body had been doing that without him for millennia and the sharp panic that rose in some vestigial corner of his mind was making it hard to grasp that fact. Instead, his lungs were burning for air, hands struggling against his bonds and— with a frankly embarrassing gasp— Crowley was pulling harsh breaths into his lungs as he was released. Apparently, appropriately punished for his slight.

With a renewed interest to see how vicious Aziraphale was going to be once the clothes were off, Crowley practically flattened himself to the ground to undo the laces of Aziraphale’s shoes with his teeth. Graciously, once the laces were pulled free, the angel toed off his shoes, leaving Crowley to wonder if he was going to have to figure out how to get his socks off, too. Crowley decided to leave that to Aziraphale to demand later and made his way back up to the top band of the trousers, leaving scorching kisses as he went.

Crowley gently mouthed at the top of Aziraphale’s trousers, pulling down one side as far as he could with his teeth before shifting to the other side, allowing himself to nuzzle into Aziraphale’s erection as he moved past it. It really shouldn’t have startled the angel, given what a brat Crowley often was in moments such as these, but it must have because he drew in a sharp breath as Crowley pressed his nose against the sensitive underside of the angel’s cock. Hidden in the fabric, Crowley let himself smirk at that— he might be the one forced into the most ridiculously laborious (and hot) apology blow job of his life, but it was nice to get one over on the angel, even so.

Crowley worked the trousers down this way, though not daring to nose at the angel each time. He could feel the tension in Aziraphale’s body, waiting for him to do so— trying to be prepared for it and moderate his response. It would hardly be any fun if the angel were expecting it, so he bided his time, aching to hear the sounds torn out of the angel. The fact that he hadn’t been stopped again with a hand in his hair was silent permission, and, if the patch of wetness growing on Aziraphale’s pants were any indication, he was enjoying it just as much as Crowley was.

Finally, the trousers were pooled around Aziraphale’s ankles and he stepped out of them, a wave of his hand banishing them to some sensible place, no doubt neatly folded and flawlessly devoid of wrinkles. Now, all that was left were his pants, and then Crowley would have his prize— a divine mouthful. This time, as Crowley worked his way up, he took his time, laving the angel’s calves and inner thighs with hot licks until he reached his groin. There, he let his tongue drag firmly up the underside of him through the thin fabric which earned him the angel’s hands twining into his hair— not punishing, but nearly pleading — and the sensation had Crowley groaning against him. The hand in his hair tightened, just slightly— unconsciously pressing Crowley closer before the angel remembered himself and withdrew his hands entirely, his fingers fidgeting at his waistcoat before apparently deciding to do away with that garment himself.

Crowley was so close now. His mouth was already watering at the prospect, so instead of teasing either of them any longer, he let his tongue run up to the top edge of the band. Impulsively, he decided maybe he wasn’t quite done with teasing, so instead of grasping the band with his teeth, he slipped his tongue underneath the band, letting it morph into something far less human and far longer. He let it dance along the edge for just a moment before dipping further in and swipe at the angel’s head lightly. Not enough pressure or contact to do much more than inspire a gut-punch sound from Aziraphale, who was not ready for his demon’s wiles.

“Oh, you wicked thing.”

Crowley could hear the cracks in Aziraphale’s composure, that it had been as much a punishment and test of patience for the angel. Crowley should have kept his self-satisfied snigger to himself, but he didn’t, and it was the last feather to tip the scale. Hands that had been busy undoing his shirt stilled. Crowley felt the angel go preternaturally still— the atoms and molecules that made up their mortal forms slowing to an impossible crawl. Oh, there’d be hell to pay and he craved it, whatever form it took.
The form it took was that of a taut thread snapped— a hand once again twining painfully into his hair and jerking him back with enough surprise Crowley’s mouth hung open. He had no time to consider this, or even the taste of pleasurepain radiating down to coil in his belly, as the angel’s other hand was pulling himself free and lining up to—

Crowley’s eyes rolled back as Aziraphale’s cock was slamming into the back of his throat, sudden, intrusive, delicious. Aziraphale didn’t withdraw, not yet, keeping Crowley trapped between his prick and harsh hands gripping through his hair. The angel waited, breathing heavily, fingers flexing in a manner that was almost certainly unconscious. He waited, barely balanced against the baser desire to consume Crowley from the inside out, until Crowley’s eyes focused on his. It was a silent question hanging over them, Aziraphale confirming it was okay to go further, that the angel hadn’t overstepped lines he’d drawn for himself, a need to be assured that the invasion had been welcome.

It was so terribly tempting to goad him to keep going without properly saying so. He could press his tongue up flush on the underside of him and hum in that way that drove the angel mad, could snap his composure in two. But he wouldn’t— the trust to take care and be cared for was a delicate balance and he wouldn’t do a thing to ruin it. Instead he nodded, just slightly, only enough for Aziraphale to understand the permission to absolutely wreck him.

Crowley was painfully hard, his too-tight jeans constricting him in a way that was just the wrong side of pain. Every movement to divest the angel of his clothes had him feeling nearly rubbed-raw against his clothing. Perhaps, in a similar situation he’d have made some sort of move for relief— a minor miracle to lessen the press of fabrics, a pointed wince for the angel to notice and deal with, even shifting minutely to find a more comfortable position. He didn’t do any of these though. This was absolution, not gratification, and what absolution came without pain? The angel, of course, would likely have very different feelings.

Crowley had, mostly, pushed the feeling to the back of his mind till now. It had been there, sure, but not something he’d actively noticed. Now, however, Aziraphale’s hands tightened in his hair again. Tangling in a delicious combination of sharp and cloyingly sweet that pooled like mulled wine just below his navel. It was the only warning before the angel withdrew and jerked back in— setting a pace that was punishing and eye-watering. Two shallow thrusts in Crowley’s mouth before brutally snapping in all the way in with bruising thrusts against the back of Crowley’s throat, stealing away the ability to catch a proper breath.

Crowley felt reduced to base parts. Aware only of the taste of the angel, the points of contact between them, and increasingly the rough drag of cotton over his own dick with every one of the angel’s thrusts. Crowley felt raw, and over sensitized, and entirely consumed by it. The angel was murmuring nonsense phrases through groans and gasps as he used Crowley, but Crowley had stopped being able to hear them properly, overtaken by pleasure. He wasn’t sure how long this lasted. How long Aziraphale had been chasing his own pleasure. It felt like the only thing that had ever existed, the only thing that would ever exist, until the angel’s rhythm stuttered and he was spilling down the back of Crowley’s throat with a wrecked moan.

The fingers twined in his hair kept pulling viciously, mindless in the throes of pleasure, keeping Crowley trapped flush against the angel’s groin and lacking for air. Crowley wasn’t sure if it was the taste, or the sound, or the way a lack of oxygen felt like divine euphoria, or even all of it together, but he was suddenly crashing head-first into his own orgasm, entirely untouched. His vision whited out behind eyes that and rolled back or closed— he couldn’t be sure— and every nerve ending lit up violently like a thousand nails dragged down every inch of him.

As he came back to himself, still pressed tightly against the angel, Crowley distantly expected to see blood seeping from every pore. His orgasm had been perhaps the most intense he’d ever had, and he felt unpleasantly pulled inside-out and raw — aching and over-sensitive. After what felt like both too long and not long enough, Aziraphale’s hand loosened in his hair. That itself was painful as nerves who’d numbed themselves suddenly remembered that they had something to say. Crowley shuddered from the force of the sensation and dimly registered Aziraphale humming apologetically as he withdrew.

Time seemed to warp a bit here, because the next that Crowley was aware, he was barely on both feet— supported only by the angel’s hands wrapped around his back— his nose pressed into Aziraphale’s neck as he hummed something else. Then, in what must have been a few minutes, he was cocooned in the blankets of their bed, ensconced tightly in the angels arms and fixated on the steady rhythm of the angel’s breathing.

Crowley felt as though he were experiencing the world through cotton, and it would be a long time before he was cognizant enough to realize he’d been very, very deep into subspace. Longer still before he uncurled himself and stretched out, cataloguing each ache with a sense of secret pride. It was, possibly, a very long time before Aziraphale stroked tender fingers over his cheeks— careful to avoid his tender scalp— and murmured softly to him, “All right, Crowley?”

That seemed like a ridiculous thing to ask a demon who’d been forgiven via blow-job for some truly terrible words. So before he could remember his hang-ups, and instead of answering the question, “I’m sorry, angel. I didn’t mean any of it, you know.”

“I know, dear boy. I should have tidied up.”

Soft lips pressed against his forehead, and this felt like proper forgiveness. Rarely what he wanted, but too often what he needed. It wasn’t right though, for it to be so easy. To be accepted without explanation. Crowley opened his mouth to try to explain, but didn’t know where to start, how to lay it out without sounding like an excuse. He closed his mouth, then opened it again, fighting to put it into words.

“You know, Crowley, I’ve seen you before. Like that, I mean.” Aziraphale shushed his immediate noise of disbelief with soft fingers over his lips. “When you heard of Catherine’s passing, I went to find you. You had left many years prior, but I knew you had loved her in the way you’ve loved every woman who made her own way. I thought you’d be upset— that you’d want to share a drink as we so often did when terrible things happened. But, by the time I caught up, you were in quite the state— tearing apart an abandoned house inch by inch and making the most dreadful sounds. Screaming at God, Hell, yourself.” The angel stroked his face tenderly, ghosting gentle fingers beneath his eyes. “I know it’s probably awful of me, it was obviously very personal, but I caught you at it a few more times over the years, too. I don’t know if God cared to watch, but I thought someone should be a witness. I should have told you after everything. I fear I’ve done you a great disservice to make you think you had to hide it still, that it would change how I felt about you.”

Crowley wasn’t crying, because he couldn’t. He was allowed rage, but not tears. So, instead he surged forwards to crush the angel’s lips and body against his. Swallowing down the complicated churn of emotions, hoping the angel would understand what he couldn’t put into words.

They’d have plenty more disagreements about wayward teacups, about the angel being damnably loud in the early morning hours, about praising his plants when the angel thought Crowley wasn’t paying attention, about the million tiny differences between them. Never again, however, would Crowley turn that well of anger on his angel again. It was still there, always would be, but they worked through it— a demon and his witness.