Chapter Text
"This is the last time this is happening," Aziraphale breathed, casting a wary glance in the direction of the door and then to the windows, using a flicker of a thought to turn the lock and pull the curtains.
Crowley rolled his eyes, his weak laugh muffled by the angel's lips on his. "Better make it count, then," he muttered when they pulled apart for a moment.
Aziraphale set his jaw and pursed his lips, an expression that was undermined by the fact that he still had Crowley pinned to the wall, their hips pressed flush together. "Don't be cocky," he snapped, his grip tightening on the demon's shoulders.
"Can't help it," Crowley murmured, an arrogant smirk plastered purposefully on his face. "I'm a demon, it's what I do."
"No need to remind me," groaned the angel, taking a small step backward.
Seizing the opportunity, Crowley snaked a hand down Aziraphale's torso and unbuttoned his slacks. "I thought that was why you did this," he whispered, cupping the front of the angel's pants and squeezing gently. "You wanna set the naughty demon on the path of right? Show me the light of Heaven?"
Aziraphale closed his eyes, letting out a low breath. There were two ways to go with a comment like that: he could put on his indignant, defensive, angelic persona, tell Crowley off for being smug and presumptuous, and leave this where it was, or he could lean into it, the way he usually did, and play along. He chose the latter, his mind steered by his straining erection. "Don't think I could," he muttered, the words coming out choked as Crowley began stroking him steadily through his briefs. "You're just – ah – too wicked."
Crowley moaned and threw his head back, hitting the wall with a heavy thud, his reaction to the words just as strong as if he had been touched. "Yesss," he hissed, "I am just too wicked, aren't I? Tempted an angel, didn't I?" He thrust his hips forward, pushing the pair of them toward the couch.
Pulling Crowley by the waist, Aziraphale turned them around so he was the one steering. "Stop talking," he growled, pressing a hand firmly into the demon's chest until he fell onto the couch on his back, then climbing on top of him.
"Okay," Crowley mumbled, "but you keep talking. Tell me…"
He cut himself off with a gasp as Aziraphale pressed a thigh insistently between his legs, pushing his knees apart. "Tell you what?" Aziraphale asked, looking down at him with an expression of impatient exasperation.
"Tell me what you think of me," Crowley said, panting, struggling to keep his voice relatively low and unaffected, lest it sound like he was begging, which he was.
Aziraphale nodded. He knew the drill. “You’re dreadful,” he murmured against Crowley’s skin as he trailed bites and kisses down the side of his neck. His hands moved to the buttons of Crowley’s shirt, working deftly as he sucked a mark into the demon’s collarbone. “A vile tempter,” he added halfheartedly upon seeing the expanse of Crowley’s chest and stomach revealed.
It was routine by now, though Aziraphale would never admit it; he tried to keep these trysts few and far between, but habits formed, and once they did it was hard to break them. It had started with one drunken, fumbling kiss in France which neither would admit to initiating, and that led to several more drunken, fumbling kisses, and it was a slippery slope from there. Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to put an end to it, so he got in the habit of enjoying a physical connection with Crowley from time to time, always denying that it could be anything deeper, always reminding himself that Crowley was a demon, at his core.
Then, after a while, he began frequently reminding Crowley of this fact. It had always been there, since the first time they met (You’re a demon, Aziraphale had said, as if Crowley didn’t know, as if he could forget. I’m not sure if it’s actually possible for you to do good.), but with each successive instance of falling into bed with him, the angel became more and more insistent about it.
“We’re enemies,” Aziraphale muttered, his teeth grazing Crowley’s hip. He kept talking as he divested the demon of the remains of his clothing – manually, no miracles for this, he liked the feel of his hands on every inch of newly revealed skin. “You’re a scourge upon humanity.”
For his part, Crowley didn’t particularly relish the incessant barrage of judgment, but something deep inside him reacted to it inexplicably. Though he had always been the first to boast about his wicked deeds, to claim that he was a bastion of sin, he knew that he was a bit soft, compared to other demons. He knew he had never quite fit in among his brethren in Hell, and he had always been quietly, secretly insecure about it. So it was reassuring, comforting even, to know that someone believed that he was very bad, indeed.
Neither of them quite knew when Aziraphale’s persistent, steadfast denial had become a form of dirty talk, nor when Crowley’s silent appreciation of it had become a very vocal and visible appreciation, but here they were, and it was simply understood between them. It was almost like a game, one where both players wanted to believe the game was truth.
Knowing it wasn’t true, Aziraphale wanted to convince himself that he and Crowley were begrudging acquaintances, that Crowley was incapable of goodness and love, being a demon. He wanted to convince himself that the sex was just a physical outlet for his distaste for Crowley. Aziraphale would never lower himself to using the term “hate fuck,” but he desperately wanted to believe that that was what this was, and so he was more than willing to affirm those feelings to Crowley in the throes of passion.
Crowley, knowing that he was in love with Aziraphale, knowing that the angel didn’t return his feelings, chose to take what he could get. It wasn’t enough, but it was physically satisfying, and the way Aziraphale talked to him was some small benefit. Sometimes, after sending another exaggerated report to Hell taking credit for something he absolutely did not do, it made him feel better to have someone who knew him, who knew the truth, assure him that he was not a failure as a demon. And if the sex felt like a punishment sometimes, well, at least he knew he deserved it.
Aziraphale sat back on his heels, looking down at Crowley with veiled admiration. He ran a hand down the taut lines of Crowley's stomach, stopping deliberately just before he reached the demon's cock. This drew a small whine from Crowley, which he ignored in favor of leaning in close to murmur into his ear, “Did you design this body to tempt me, you serpent?”
Crowley squirmed under the angel’s touch, bucking his hips up in search of something that Aziraphale refused to give him just yet. Aziraphale gripped his waist in both hands, holding him still, pressing him back down against the cushions, and shook his head. “Greedy,” he said nonchalantly. As soon as he was confident that Crowley would stay put, he loosened his hold on the demon, moving one hand down to slide a finger inside him, torturously slow.
“Get on with it, would you?” Crowley groaned, shifting his hips down.
Aziraphale scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Impatient beast,” he muttered, gently swatting Crowley’s thigh. “If you want anything from me, I’m afraid you’ll have to try and behave.”
Whining high in his throat, Crowley shook his head as the angel began scissoring two fingers inside him. “Can’t,” he said, his voice strained.
“No, of course you can’t,” Aziraphale replied. “In any case, I won’t have you making demands of me.” He dove without warning to take one of Crowley’s nipples between his lips, swirling his tongue around the bud, scraping the skin gently with his teeth.
When he pulled back to look at Crowley’s face once more, he was panting, covered in a light sheen of sweat. Aziraphale thought, deep in the recesses of his mind, that it was a rather enchanting look on Crowley, this frenzied desperation, this urgent need. Then he thought, even deeper down, that it was rather pitiful, as well, that Crowley had grown to crave the disdainful mask that he wore to avoid showing affection for the demon. He shook those thoughts out of his head, telling himself for the millionth time that he could not go down that road, choosing to refocus on the activity at hand.
As Aziraphale lined up his cock at the demon’s entrance, Crowley wrapped a lanky leg around the angel’s waist, pulling him closer, pulling him in. Aziraphale moved slowly, always so slowly, until he was buried inside the tight heat, feeling Crowley’s own hardness insistent against his stomach, and then he stopped moving entirely.
Crowley knew better than to rush this part. He’d made that mistake once, and Aziraphale had spitefully fucked him so slowly he thought he might die. And this was the good part, he didn’t fancy dying in the middle of it. What he did fancy, however, was grabbing the angel by the back of his neck and pulling him down into a clumsy, chaotic kiss, twisting his fingers into the curls that Aziraphale tried so hard to keep neat, leaving a smattering of messy, open-mouthed kisses down the angel’s cheeks and jaw.
Sometimes, if Crowley kept Aziraphale’s mouth occupied long enough, he could almost pretend that this was just them, just the two of them doing this without any pretense or excuses, without an elaborate game of denial. In this moment, as he felt Aziraphale move, his cock dragging inside Crowley as he pulled out and thrust back in, he could drown his gasps of pleasure in a kiss and pretend that Aziraphale wanted him, just like this.
Then again, if Aziraphale wanted him, that would have certain implications as to his status in Hell. So it was six of one, half a dozen of the other, really, and Crowley didn’t feel the need to waste too much energy thinking about it when he could savor the feeling of Aziraphale fucking him, instead.
Despite the fact that he didn’t necessarily need air, Aziraphale pulled away from Crowley’s kiss after a minute or two, breathing heavily, and Crowley could see he was close. “Tell me,” murmured the demon, definitely begging this time. “Tell me again.”
Taking hold of Crowley’s hips and lifting them to shift the angle ever so slightly, Aziraphale intensified his thrusts, fucking into Crowley harder and deeper. He hit that spot that made the demon scream, and he knew he shouldn’t enjoy it this much, but the way that Crowley’s mouth hung open, his back arched, his eyes closed – it was a marvelous sight to accompany the marvelous sounds he made.
“You are…” Aziraphale paused, swallowing back the impulse to tell the truth. “You are awful,” he said instead, speaking slowly, emphasizing each word with an increasingly punishing thrust. “You’re a foul, wicked fiend.”
“I am, I am,” Crowley mumbled almost inaudibly, his nails digging into Aziraphale’s shoulder blades, grounding himself. Then, nearly sobbing: “Touch me, angel.”
The angel complied, holding Crowley’s hip with one hand and moving the other to stroke the demon in time with his thrusts. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over the head of Crowley's cock and watched as the demon's face twisted in pleasure. Aziraphale was always grateful when Crowley closed his eyes, because it gave him license to drink in the sight of him without being seen in return, and Crowley was – oh, was he ever beautiful.
"Bad," Aziraphale muttered, a self-admonishment he hadn't meant to say aloud. But now that he had said it, Crowley was reacting to it, and that was more than enough to snap him back to attention and spur him on. "You're bad," he said, louder, redirecting the word onto Crowley.
Crowley nodded frantically, bucked up into his touch, spilled over Aziraphale's hand and both their stomachs. The keening moan that escaped him, combined with the delicious way that he tightened and clenched around Aziraphale's cock, made it easy for the angel to follow soon after.
A brief period of post-orgasmic bliss, silent but for the sighing, gasping breaths between them, and then Aziraphale was retreating, cleaning himself up with a miracle and putting his clothes on. It was always like this. Crowley, still lying prone, covered in come and sweat, slung a leg over the back of the sofa, exposing himself even more in a pantomime of nonchalance as he watched the angel turn to go.
"You could stay, you know," he drawled, knowing Aziraphale wouldn't take him up on it.
"No, I couldn't. This is not… you know what this isn't." Aziraphale looked back at him sadly, then quickly rearranged his features into what he hoped was a stern expression, one that would communicate to Crowley exactly how inappropriate it would be for him to stay, how out of line it was for him to ask. It wasn’t out of line, of course, as they quite often spent time together socially, but Aziraphale needed these boxes in his head. One for sex, one for friendship, one buried deep down and triple-locked for love.
Crowley gave a single jerk of his head to acknowledge the angel’s statement, pressing his lips together to restrain himself from saying anything he might regret. Or saying anything at all, really, as his shaky, ragged voice would have given him away, no matter what words he chose. He wove his fingers together, digging his nails into his skin, and stared intently at his hands; he had watched Aziraphale leave so many times before, and it was an unvarying and depressing sight, one that he certainly didn’t need right now.