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Aziraphale wasn't one to sleep regularly, but he was quite comfortable here, with his head nestled on Crowley's chest as the demon snored softly. Listening to the birds chirp and watching the morning sun turn the sky blue, he was happy, and content.
There was a hint of cloud, however, and over the next half hour he watched the sunlight dim to a diffuse grey. A smattering of drizzle collected on the window.
He really ought to get a wiggle on before the rain grew any stronger.
Carefully he eased himself up in order to slide out of Crowley's grasp without disturbing him, but the demon's arms tightened around him.
A sleepy yellow eye cracked open. “Where do you think you're going?”
“To run some errands, check with Mrs. Forsythe to see if she needs anything...”
“What about my needs, eh?” His hand slid lower to stroke Aziraphale's bare thigh.
“I believe you had plenty of your needs met last night, you old devil,” he said primly. “I'm going to pick up a few things, and as long as we're talking about needs, need I remind you about the importance of maintaining ties to the community?”
“Nooo,” Crowley groaned. “Too early for lectures.” With a final tender squeeze and a hearfelt sigh, Crowley released him.
Aziraphale leaned over to plant a kiss on his mouth. “I'll be back before you know it, darling. You just stay here in bed where it's warm, and I'll make us some lunch when I get back.”
“Not fair you're both a night owl and a morning person,” Crowley muttered, but without any heat and his eyes were fond. Aziraphale might just have put a little extra sway in his hips as he went to shower.
- - - - -
It wasn't much of a rain at all, really, more of a pleasant, refreshing mist, and Aziraphale had his trusty black umbrella which had served him well for over a century (“Thing's a fucking death trap,” Crowley complained with his usual dramatics, waving his hand with the pinched fingers around. Which was silly, one just needed to know how to unfold it properly. Crowley acted as if the umbrella had a personal vendetta against him).
Aziraphale loved these invigorating morning walks into the village, greeting chance-met neighbors, chatting with the lovely woman who ran the bakery, stopping by the coffee shop for Crowley's espresso (Crowley probably wouldn't be up before noon, but no matter).
A magazine lying on the ground under the bench by the bus stop had him clucking his tongue at people's carelessness, and he went to pick up.
The cover brought him up short. A man wearing little more than fishnet stockings and a corset smiled back at him.
Cautiously, as one might examine a strange package which might contain a bomb, he thumbed through the slightly damp pages. It was a catalogue that had escaped most of the moisture falling from the sky, and it showcased different garments for both men and women, with some of them helpfully labelled 'unisex.' The cover photo was, amazingly, rather tame compared to some of the other items, and he felt a blush work its way across his cheeks.
He glanced around at the empty street. It would have been a simple matter to drop the catalogue into the nearest bin, but instead, some impulse caused him to fold it in half and slip it into the inner pocket of his jacket before walking briskly home.
- - - - -
Later on, the same impulse also compelled him to hide it behind his shelf of misprinted Bibles. Crowley hadn't slumbered on in bed after all, and was repotting something in the greenhouse.
He set about making a little lunch, wondering why on earth he didn't want Crowley to see it. They'd witnessed every fantastic, ridiculous, outrageous thing that humans could possibly adorn themselves with throughout the centuries, and soft, frilly undergarments were nothing new.
Aziraphale was perfectly aware there were some men who wore lingerie, just as some women did. Undoubtedly Crowley knew as well. Perhaps if Aziraphale or Crowley were currently feminine-presenting the idea of lingerie might have occurred earlier, but perhaps not. It wasn't like he needed to seduce Crowley into bed. The seducing part of their long dance and been well and truly done, most satisfactorily, too, he thought with a smile.
He tended to get set in his ways and also to become overly invested in the norms and mores of the current set of human cultural expectations. Even now, in this era which was so much more open than, say, the Victorian era (as hypocritical as Victorians could be, they knew how to set firm rules), many people still retained strong prejudices against men wearing these sorts of garments.
The reason for his embarrassment didn't occur to him until sometime after he and Crowley shared lunch, and chatted, and Crowley sauntered upstairs for a nap, squeezing Aziraphale's backside on the way in that cheeky manner of his, whispering in his ear that the angel could join him, if he liked.
Multiple reasons, really, none of them entirely logical, he reflected as he washed the dishes. He could miracle them clean, and sometimes did if he was in a hurry, but these simple acts often helped him sort out his thoughts.
There was the funny swooping sensation in his stomach indicating he might like something of which Heaven almost certainly would disapprove. No longer a genuine concern, frankly, but the old habit of checking for signs that he was a bad angel who shouldn't concern himself with base matters reigned strongly at times, not to mention looking over his shoulder for an unexpected visit from his superiors. It was deeply ingrained, and needed to be dealt with whenever it arose, however illogical it might be. This was one of those times.
Another consideration. What would Crowley think? They rarely talked about sex, unless it was in the heat of the moment when it was mainly along the lines of yes and more and please, and ...
Aziraphale wanted to sort out his own thoughts and feelings. Mull it over, as it were.
Aziraphale folded the drying towel and carefully hung it up, lost in thought. Surely everything was all right in the intimacy department, wasn't it?
He huffed and shook his head. His anxieties frequently rose up whenever he contemplated something new, and these unproductive thoughts were simply more of the same old worries about not being adequate. They'd made love just last night, after all.
Rain spattered against the window with a scattershot noise. It was simply pouring, having turned into the sort of rainy afternoon that was perfect for settling down in the parlor with a warm drink and a good book.
He glanced toward the stairs.
Alternatively...
In a mingled burst of anxiety, pique at his own dithering, and sudden need for the reassurance of Crowley's touch, he went upstairs.
Crowley sprawled on the bed, stripped to the waist, lazily running a finger over his phone and with a magazine open carelessly on his lap.
Aziraphale smiled at the sight, and then he froze. He couldn't quite see the entire headline of the article open on Crowley's lap, but the phrase “Vanilla Sex” was writ large.
Something unpleasant wormed its way under his breastbone. He'd seen that phrase before, here and there in passing, and suspected from context that humans considered it derogatory. Something to be avoided.
Crowley's eyebrows went up briefly at Aziraphale hovering in the doorway, before his face took on a pleased smirk. “Couldn't resist, eh?” he said. With a sweep of his arms, he shoved his reading material onto the nightstand before rolling onto his side and propping his chin in one hand.
For some reason, that expression of mild surprise, as fleeting as it was, bothered Aziraphale. Was he really so set in his ways, so unwilling to be spontaneous that even agreeing to this playful little tryst surprised Crowley?
“Yes, I...I mean.” Aziraphale realized he was fiddling with his ring and pulled himself together. “Rather thought I would join you, yes,” he said, willing his voice steady.
Crowley's smirk widened. He patted the space beside him on the mattress in such a blatantly lascivious manner that Aziraphale couldn't help but chuckle, his tension dissipating, and he delivered himself into his demon's arms.
- - - - -
It was as glorious as always, Aziraphale thought dreamily later, as he snuggled against Crowley with their legs tangled together, breathing in his warm scent and listening to his slow, steady breathing, while the rain drummed against the roof.
His growing fears that he wasn't exciting enough were laid to rest, at least for the time being. Crowley certainly hadn't given signs of dissatisfaction about Aziraphale climbing into bed with him on this rainy afternoon, if the eagerness with which he'd embraced him was any indication.
Surely there was no need for any...any props, or things of that nature.
Most irritatingly, the vision of that wretched magazine headline floated into his mind, preventing him from drifting off into a pleasant nap.
'Vanilla sex,' indeed. Was it possible that Crowley was keeping quiet about being more...adventurous, out of consideration for Aziraphale's feelings?
Crowley never made any remark about wanting Aziraphale to put on more layers. If anything, he liked to make a show of complaining that Aziraphale wore too many clothes, mainly to show his eagerness to divest Aziraphale of them.
Then again, there were other things featured in the catalogue, some robes and nightgowns. Things that could be worn on their own rather than secreted away under his usual clothes.
Aziraphale certainly would never prance about the house in nothing but underwear, but perhaps a nice satin robe...
Snuggling deeper into Crowley's shoulder, he resolved to take another look at the catalogue later.
- - - - -
So. Another week or two of deciding which nightgown to purchase, then setting up a post office box without Crowley knowing, a devious action which caused an additional bout of internal hand-wringing.
The package arrived a mere week later in the post office box, and Aziraphale's heart almost pounded its way out of his chest when he brought it home. He thanked God above that Crowley was busy in the greenhouse again, 'winterizing' or whatever it was, enabling him to hide the box behind the Bibles.
He shook his head at his own cowardice. It was fine, perfectly fine, merely a few items of clothing legally purchased, and he would show Crowley, he promised himself.
Soon. Quite soon. When the right time came.
It would be a surprise, he decided. Yes, a surprise. Like a present. Nothing wrong with hiding a present, bringing it out at the right time, and so on and so forth.
- - - -
For two agonizing days Aziraphale itched to tear into the package, but Crowley was spending more time in the house, having gotten most of the garden put to bed for the winter, and Aziraphale didn't dare steal away.
The best he could do was ignore its existence until Crowley went off on some lengthy errand or other, and then Aziraphale could try on his new purchases. To see if they fit, and to see if he could work up the courage to show them off.
Fortunately, he didn't have to wait much longer.
One evening after supper, Crowley exclaimed, “Oh, you've got to be kidding me. Angel, look,” he said, holding out his phone.
Aziraphale put a finger in his book to mark his place and peered at the screen. “The Keymasters,” he read aloud. “Who are they?”
“The worst band in existence. Want to go? A little jaunt to spice up the evening?”
He clucked his tongue. “Oh, Crowley, you're going to make fun of them, aren't you?”
Crowley drew himself up and placed a hand over his chest as if reciting a pledge. “I shall be the height of discretion. Come on, angel, we can snicker at them from back of the pub.”
“You can snicker at them, maybe,” Aziraphale said primly. “I've just settled in for the night.”
He wriggled a little more firmly into his armchair for emphasis. “Besides, I really don't see the point of going to a concert that you know you won't enjoy, purely for the express purpose of mockery. I'm sure they're trying their best.”
“Their worst, you mean,” Crowley said cheerfully, and headed for the stairs. “And as a matter of fact, I will absolutely enjoy it.”
He came back down shortly afterwards, reeking of cologne. “To annoy everyone within range,” he said, grinning, and leaned over to embrace Aziraphale's shoulders and press his cheek against his head.
“Well, it's working. It's definitely annoying me,” Aziraphale said, trying not to cough. “Honestly, dear, did you bathe in it?”
“I'll get rid of it before I come back to drag you upstairs, promise,” Crowley said, kissing his temple. He rocked the both of them back and forth gently. “Last chance for a night of adventure,” he said in a sing-songy voice.
Aziraphale fought back some inappropriate giggling. He was annoyed, yes, and not tickled by this nonsense. Besides, if he ever was going to seize the bull by the horns, as it were, it was imperative to be alone in the cottage, so as to have the element of surprise. Not to mention the option of chickening out if he changed his mind.
Besides, Crowley occasionally liked to take the Bentley out once in a while for what he called 'a proper run' without, as he put it, 'someone shrieking at me to slow down every two seconds.'
Though his sigh was not without some regret, all the same. As unangelic as it was to admit it, it was amusing to watch Crowley engage in some low-key demonic antics. “I'll go along next time, darling, when it's a real concert.”
“To any concert I like?” Crowley was almost purring.
“I suppose so.”
“It's a deal, then.”
Aziraphale, half distracted by thinking about his hidden package realized his misstep too late. “Oh, that is, I...”
Crowley planted a kiss on him, stopping further protests. “Too late, angel. It's a deal. Any concert, my pick.”
He strode toward the door, tossing a careless wave over his shoulder. “Ciao, angel, back by midnight.”
- - - - -
Aziraphale waited a full half hour, on the off chance Crowley might come back for something he'd forgotten.
Then he set down his glass, bookmarked the page, and, tugging his waistcoat firmly into place, he went upstairs.
He hadn't dared to even open the package before, and sudden doubts assailed him. What if he didn't like it?
Aziraphale realized he was very much hoping he'd like it.
With a scissors he carefully cut through the plastic covering his purchase, and lifted it up for inspection, holding the shoulder straps with his fingertips.
The cream-colored nightgown hung in soft folds, catching the light from the lamp, and he let out a little gasp at how pretty it was. He'd had some slight reservations because it didn't come in tartan-- not a single tartan pattern in the entire catalogue, just imagine, he had half a mind to write them a letter, surely they'd appreciate suggestions-- but this was perfectly lovely.
Crowley regularly called him pretty and gorgeous and beautiful, and with a low growl or a devilish smirk that never failed to send warmth blooming throughout Aziraphale's being. Aziraphale was perfectly happy with the way he looked, but he wasn't glamorous. Not like Crowley.
Crowley, who could sling on an old tank top and torn jeans and mess about in the garden, and look good doing it, with his nonchalance and swagger, well, Aziraphale was honored to be on his arm wherever they went.
With this pretty nightgown on his person, Aziraphale thought that perhaps he might actually feel glamorous, too.
There were small pads in the bodice, included for humans who wanted a bit more help in the bosom area, he supposed. He removed them. With a few adjustments to the shoulder straps, he found that the nightgown did indeed fit perfectly well, the hem falling to mid-thigh, just like on the man in the photo.
The robe was longer, falling to his ankles, satin with a floral print, lavender-colored begonias on a cream background, with hints of green leaves. The matching underpants, designed for males, or male-shaped beings as the case may be, cupped his scrotum quite comfortably.
He walked across the bedroom, his plan was to go stand in front of the full-length mirror, but the swish of the robe around his calves was so silky that he simply had to walk back and forth a few times. Goriously decadent, really.
It was ages since he'd last worn any kind of clothing that flowed.
He stopped in front of the mirror at last, and his mouth dropped open. The gown draped loose folds over his substantial belly most becomingly. The bodice dipped into a vee shape on his chest, and he trailled his fingertips down his slight cleavage to the tiny bow centered between his pectorals. He shrugged the robe off so it hung from his elbows.
Aziraphale sighed happily. It was impossible to resist the urge to turn back and forth, sweeping this way and that to see how he looked from different angles, which side might be most pleasing.
He checked the time. Crowley wouldn't be home for hours yet, so he practiced going up and down the stairs a few times, tried out a few increasingly silly opening lines in his head.
Then there was nothing to do but wait. He settled into his armchair again, turning on the electric fireplace (there were to be no flames in this house, and Crowley had overseen the rewiring himself), and helped himself to some white wine while he read.
He received some texting messages from Crowley, gleefully keeping him informed about his evening, assuring him of the awfulness of the music and the dirty looks that he, Crowley, was getting.
Aziraphale, with a sudden unease, typed back: I do not like to tell you how to comport yourself, my dear, but I would consider it a favor if, for my sake, you do not engage in any fisticuffs.
The answer came back easily enough. Not even if they really really deserve it?
Aziraphale sighed. Crowley was in a playful mood. No.
Spoilsport. Then however will I work off my extra energy? Followed by a little face, one of those 'emojis', that looked very much like a smirk.
As much as he enjoyed arguing with Crowley, Aziraphale didn't currently feel like trading quips the rest of the evening about ethical uses of force. His nerves were slowly growing tighter with anxiety and he was impatient for Crowley to come home.
He typed: I'm sure we can think of some other more productive way to burn off some of your excess energy.
It took a few minutes of searching, but he at last settled on simply using the same smirk-y emoji, and, greatly daring, the kiss emoji. He stared at the message for several more moments, then touched the send circle.
There were several moments of anxious waiting for a reply, and Aziraphale imagined Crowley staring at his phone in the darkened pub, perhaps surprised by the flirtatious tone, or perhaps pleased.
Back in a flash, angel.
Aziraphale abruptly set the phone aside. What had he done?
- - - - - -
Barely half an hour later, the distinctive sound of the Bentley coming up the drive rumbled through the cottage, making Azirphale's unnecessary heart leap into frantic thumping.
He closed his robe and hastily tied it with the sash.
It was too late to miracle some other clothing on, Crowley would notice the use of ethereal power. Aziraphale's unnecessary heart was pounding away in his chest and he couldn't think up a suitably casual excuse for a miracle.
Crowley walked in, tossing the Bentley's keys he carried around for show onto the little table by the door, and a white paper bag under his arm. “You won't believe this, angel, but I found that peasant rye you used to like to eat with that rotten cheese from...”
He looked up, and stopped short, his eyebrows rising to meet his hairline.
Aziraphale was similarly frozen, the moment stretching between them in time, his thoughts stampeding around, and such was his anxiety that he couldn't spend more than a passing thought to wonder where Crowley found the rye bread that every bakery in the country had discontinued.
Words at last flooded out. “I simply thought it'd be nice to...to try it out, as it were. Like stopping by a new restaurant we haven't been to before, oh, hullo, what's this? A new place to eat, maybe we should try it out. Touch of variety, as it were. Just for fun.” He gulped, and shut his mouth with a click of his teeth to stop.
Only the tattered remnants of his pride kept him from fleeing upstairs.
He was hardly putting on a very convincing presence. Enough of this. It was just clothing. He'd fought in the War, for Heaven's sake. Walked into Hell for Crowley. Now was not the time to dither and stammer and muck about.
He took a deep breath and pulled his shoulders back, putting his hands on his hips in what was hopefully an inviting pose.
Crowley opened his mouth to speak, and stopped. “Wait. I haven't missed an important anniversary or something, have I?”
Aziraphale tutted. “For goodness sake, Crowley, no, you haven't. And what do you mean, an important anniversary, they're all important. I just...just thought.” He waved his hands, letting them flutter briefly up and down his front before clasping them together to hold them still. “Thought it might be nice. A little variation.”
He sniffed. “What do you think?” Perhaps a bit too demandingly.
Crowley came closer, and Aziraphale could see his eyes moving behind his sunglasses, darting up and down as they catalogued every inch. With each step his approach turned into something like a prowl and one corner of his mouth slowly quirked up into a half smile. He lowered his sunglasses to look over the top of them and there was no mistaking the gleam in his yellow eyes.
He tossed the sunglasses aside to skitter across the coffee table. They fell off on the other side, but Crowley didn't spare them a glance as he stepped closer. He snapped his fingers to send the precious rye bread to the kitchen, and his nostrils flared. “I think...”
He made a slow peramble around Aziraphale, tantalizingly close, not close enough to touch but enough so that Aziraphale could feel the heat of his body, and Aziraphale felt goosebumps shiver up the back of his neck, but he resisted the urge to turn to see what Crowley was doing.
Firm hands settled on Aziraphale's hips, and he swayed back into Crowley's chest.
“I think,” Crowley said, his tongue flicking briefly against his ear, “I think you're all wrapped up like a present for me.”
Aziraphale closed his eyes in bliss at the feel of Crowley's strong sure hands running up the sides of the satiny gown.
Crowley clearly was relishing the feel of the satin, things were heating up nicely, quite a lot faster than Aziraphale had hoped for. Indeed he hadn't really gotten around to thinking about what might come after his big reveal, most of his energies having gone into gathering up the courage to try on the blessed thing and show Crowley.
For once he had no interest in derailing it with a discussion about logistics. Or nomenclature. Or whatever it was. His higher brain functions could just jolly well take a little holiday, thank you very much. “A present for both of us, I should say,” he stammered. “So you like it?” he asked shyly,
He felt Crowley smile against his cheek. “We'd better continue this conversation upstairs, angel.”
- - - -
This was something they'd done countless times, Crowley undressing him. And yet, there was something irresistably salacious about the way Crowley slid his hands under the robe to push it off Aziraphale's shoulders in a leisurely, reverent way, leaving it to be caught on Aziraphale's elbows halfway down so Crowley could pause in the act to run his heated gaze over Aziraphale, then kiss him, then proceed to slip the robe off entirely, then run his gaze over him again, as if committing each stage of undress to memory.
Aziraphale slipped his arms around Crowley's shoulders to run his fingers up his neck into his lovely hair. Crowley's hands snaked around his waist and down his hips to pull him close.
“Angel, when I saw you standing there, I had such thoughts,” Crowley growled. “Could've bent you over the couch. Lifted the hem of this lovely little nightie and taken you right there.”
Aziraphale shivered pleasantly. “Perhaps next time,” he quavered, and swallowed, then trembled as Crowley's questing fingers found the edge of his new underpants.
“Hello, so there's more,” Crowley said.
He stepped back to lift the edge of the nightgown and hummed appreciatively. Aziraphale felt his cheeks grow impossibly hotter.
Crowley cupped Aziraphale's groin and the growing hardness there, giving him a few brief strokes. “Very nice. Turn around for me, angel?”
Blushing and smiling so hard his cheeks hurt, Aziraphale made a little half twirl and flipped up the hem of his gown. Crowley's low whistle sent a fresh warmth through him. “Absolutely gorgeous. Now there's an arse that...”
He broke off with a grunt and Aziraphale looked over his shoulder to see Crowley hopping about on one foot, struggling to get his boot off.
Aziraphale bit back a giggle. “Darling, whatever are you...”
“'S'look like, I'm trying to...” Crowley finally yanked it off with an annoyed sound and flung it aside. “Got me so bloody hard I can hardly...”
With an impatient huff, he snapped his fingers. His clothes vanished. “Finally,” he muttered, stepping forward to seize Aziraphale's buttocks and take the back of Aziraphale's neck with his mouth, with just a hint of teeth.
Aziraphale swayed back into his chest, Crowley's erection grinding insistently against his satin-clad bottom. He groped for one of Crowley's hands, bringing it around front, and gasped again at the feel of Crowley's broad palm stroking him through his underpants. Exquisite. He hadn't known how different it would feel, the glide of the fine satiny material as the demon's firm, sure hand stroked him.
“Feelsss good,” Crowley hissed in his ear. “But what's even better...”
He seized the edges of the nightgown and lifted it, and Aziraphale obligingly held his arms up to assist Crowley in stripping it off entirely.
Those demonic hands were busy at the pants next, pulling them down for Aziraphale to step out of.
Aziraphale crawled onto the bed on his hands and knees, and gave Crowley a coy look over his shoulder.
Crowley wasted no time crawling in behind him, to drape the glorious length of his body over him, his erection firmly snugging into the cleft of Aziraphale's buttocks.
Crowley smoothed his hands down his sides, over his hips, and back up again, murmuring in approval, rocking his hips.
“Feel so bloody good, angel,” he said, his breath hot against Aziraphale's neck. Aziraphale, excitement mounting, pushed back against Crowley's rutting.
Aziraphale spread his thighs wider at the insistent nudge of Crowley's hips and rocked back more firmly against Crowley's maddeningly slow hips. He ached. Crowley's touch and praise were combining to stoke his arousal to an exquisitely torturous level.
“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale said. “Now, please, dearest.”
“How do you want it, angel?” Crowley flicked his tongue against his ear. “Long and slo-o-ow?” he drawled. “Or...”
He jerked Aziraphale's hips back against him. “...hard and fast?”
“S-somewhere in between,” Aziraphale gasped.
Aziraphale groaned when Crowley slipped a lubed finger inside, lowering his head as Crowley tenderly worked him open.
“That's it, angel,” Crowley murmured. “Take you very soon.”
Then Crowley was nudging his thighs wider apart, and lining up behind him.
The stretch, slow and slick, as Crowley pressed into him, hands firm on his hips. Aziraphale held still, breathing harder, his heart pounding in anticipation.
Crowley filled him to the hilt, touching the sweet spot deep within, and Aziraphale moaned as Crowley moved, gently, setting a rhythm.
The creak and shift of the mattress, Aziraphale clenched the sheets under his hands and braced himself, arching his back when Crowley gently pressed a hand into the small of his back, obligingly, to lift his rump to his demon's rocking hips.
“Oh, that's good, love,” Crowley murmured, caressing his hip. “Just like that.”
For a time Aziraphale lost himself to sensation, to the push and the pull, the faint, obscene sounds of their bodies against each other, as Crowley gently but firmly thrust in, and in, and in again.
His unattended cock bobbed lightly, but he didn't touch himself. Instead he reached back to draw his fingertips over Crowley's thrusting hip, down over his hard thigh. God, he loved Crowley's legs, the hard muscle, their shapeliness.
He settled his weight across Aziraphale's back, and kissed him between his shoulder blades. He wrapped one lanky arm around his chest, fondling and gently pinching one nipple, giving Aziraphale a new point of concentration. It was enough to slow his rush to climax.
Crowley settled in, rocking against him with steady vigor. Aziraphale was held firm, caged in the best way, bracketed by Crowley's lithe body, his arms behind his own, thighs pressed against his, the flat planes of Crowley's chest on his back, the curly hairs grazing deliciously against Aziraphale's back.
Surrounded by love, claimed by love, his corporation thrummed with it. He rocked back ever so slightly, to match Crowley's rhythm, and pleasure built to a lovely heat, a pressure deep inside that he wanted to last and last.
“Aziraphale. So gorgeous,” Crowley panted, voice raspy. “I could fuck you like this the rest of the night.”
And proceeded to do so.
It was, perhaps, a bit of a cliche, some part of his mind thought, that time passed and the stars wheeled overhead in the glorious expanse of night, but so they did.
And as time went on, Aziraphale's inhibitions grew ever more brittle. A moan escaped his lips. Reflexively, he cut it off.
Crowley kissed his shoulder. “That's it, love,” he murmured, breath hot on his skin. “I like to hear you.”
Azirphale felt a helpless smile stretch across his face. He still struggled to truly let go, but Crowley's praise helped, coaxing him.
Aziraphale twisted, craning his neck. “Kiss me,” he begged.
Crowley did so, despite the awkwardness of the position, which didn't allow for much in the way of kisses, but the brief, sweet press of Crowley's lips, hungry and possessive, was enough to send additional sparks through Aziraphale, and he had to lower his head again, grinding back against Crowley with a groan.
“Want to lie down, angel?” Crowley asked, running his palm over the small of his back. They'd been in the same position for hours.
Aziraphale shook his head. “No, I like this, I like it,” he panted, and swallowed hard. “Like you fucking me like this.”
He could feel the vibration of Crowley's pleased chuckle thrumming through him. “Do you now,” he growled.
Aziraphale's happiness bubbled inside him and he almost didn't recognize the keening noise that came out of his own mouth, but he was distant enough from his usual propriety not to care.
Crowley ran a hot palm across Aziraphale's chest, tweaking his nipples, ran his hand over the entirety of him.
The rocking of his tireless hips grew faster, more urgent.
“Angel,” Crowley panted. It was half a question, half an endearment.
Aziraphale gave a roll of his hips, relishing the glorious feeling of that stroking deep inside. “Keep going, my love. I want you to. I want you...Ooohh,” The rest of his words were lost in a groan.
This part he loved as much as the rest, Crowley almost in a frenzy, his muscles tightening as he chased his pleasure, the knowledge that it was him, Aziraphale, bringing him to this state of ecstasy, him and no one else.
His own throbbing cock bobbing obscenely, he braced against Crowley's rutting, those strong arms and muscled chest tensing. He reached back and trailed his fingers over one of Crowley's thighs, to feel that strength, those muscles working as he thrust into him. Oh, his thigh was hard as a young oak.
Crowley's breath grew ragged, until at last he let out a cry and ground into him, forehead dropping onto Aziraphale's shoulder as he spent himself.
Panting, he lay still, collapsed against his back with one arm wrapped around his chest. Though his own cock throbbed, Aziraphale held onto the sensation of Crowley filling him, holding him. After several moments, Crowley moved, lifted his head.
“I think,” Crowley whispered in his ear, “that this...has been a bit neglected.” And a warm, lubed hand reached between Aziraphale's legs, making him gasp.
He touched Aziraphale's straining cock with a warm, lubed hand and coherent thought flew out of his head as Crowley stroked him to his own orgasm. He came with a cry, pushing back and then forward into his hand, rocking back and forth.
Crowley softened and slipped out of him, but held Aziraphale close to his chest as he shuddered through his own climax.
They eased apart and settled onto the bed at last. Aziraphale snuggled into the crook of Crowley's neck, getting his demon into his arms properly.
Crowley lifted his head. “Ugh, it's morning,” he groaned good-naturedly. “Kept me up all night, you sexy beast.”
Aziraphale beamed and made a little wiggle to get closer. “I don't recall any complaining at the time,” he said, sliding his arms around Crowley's chest and turning his face up expectantly.
Crowley pressed a kiss to his mouth. “Nah. No complaints here,” he said agreeably, and kissed him again, lightly, lingering. “Not a one.” Crowley lifted Aziraphale's hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles.
“I'm so glad you liked my new pajamas.”
“Mm. I did, at that. Don't know if they stayed on long enough for me to really appreciate 'em,” Crowley said, a wicked gleam in his eye.
“I'll have to don them again in future, I wouldn't want you to get bored.”
Crowley's eyebrow quirked a bit, his lazy, contented smile slipped, ever so slightly. “Bored?”
Aziraphale felt his cheeks heat. “Not...not that I think you're bored. I just...” He stammered to a halt. “Well, I ran across something about...about 'vanilla sex' in one of your magazines, and I simply thought a bit of variety...well, I don't want to assume...oh, I don't know.”
Goodness, talking about these sorts of things really was difficult.
Crowley was quiet as he stroked Aziraphale's arm, and Aziraphale felt soothed, some of the tension that he didn't know was even there when he uttered that thoughtless phrase about his worries that Crowley might possibly be bored leaking away and he relaxed again.
Crowley was peering down at him. He didn't seem offended or put out in any way, merely curious. “Are you bored?”
“No, absolutely not, my darling, no.” He cupped Crowley's narrow jaw and leaned up to kiss his beloved face, aghast that he might be leaving entirely the wrong impressions.
“But I was thinking, well, I tend to get set in my ways, get into routines and so forth, and I know you need spontaneity.”
“That gorgeous little nightie was spontaneous, angel. Just about discorporated me on the spot, I was so surprised.”
The contented smirk stretched across his lips again and he gave Aziraphale's plush hip a squeeze. “And here I thought you were hiding a dirty novel.”
“What?” Aziraphale gasped, bolting upright. “You knew I was...you saw the package? I can't believe you were snooping.”
“Wasn't snooping,” Crowley countered, grinning, entirely too amused in Aziraphale's opinion. “Every time you snuck off to your library lately...”
“I was hardly sneaking,” Aziraphale muttered.
“...you came back out practically reeking of guilt.” He sniffed and let his serpentine tongue flick out almost too fast to see. “Had to notice, didn't I?”
Aziraphale picked at the blanket. “Apparently I'm not as good at this as I thought.”
“Don't be so put out, angel,” Crowley said, smoothing a hand down Aziraphale's arm. “You still took me by surprise.”
“Yes, I did, didn't I?” Aziraphale shook off his chagrin and lay down again in Crowley's embrace, sighing happily.
Crowley rested his chin on his forehead. “Can't say I need spontaneity. I kind of like routines, actually.” He appeared sheepish by the admission. “Always had trouble setting them, myself.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” Aziraphale burst out. “Because this spontaneity business is simply exhausting, you have no idea, planning it out, waiting for you to arrive, oh, don't laugh Crowley, it was.”
His own laugh bubbled out of him and for a few moments they were both helplessly giddy.
Still chuckling, Crowley lifted Aziraphale's hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. “Nothing wrong with a bit of planning,” he said. “Put it on your calendar. 'Thursday next, put on a thong and rock Crowley's world.'”
Aziraphale gasped. “Oh really, now.”
“Yes, really.”
“It does rather defeat the purpose, though. Of sponteneity, I mean.”
“Eh.” Crowley shrugged, and fell quiet again, looking at the ceiling. “Wanna make a list?”
“Of what?” Aziraphale asked. “You mean, of... Oh, now, be serious.”
“I am. You like lists.”
Aziraphale giggled helplessly, pressing his face into Crowley's firm chest as he thought about writing down things like 'commit act of fellatio on Crowley in the drawing room.' Not to mention the thong business Crowley mentioned.
Once he got himself under control again, Aziraphale said, “I don't know, darling, I wouldn't be able to come up with anything terribly exciting.”
Crowley scoffed. “What sorts of things do you think would be 'exciting' enough? Having me shtup you on a hanglider?”
“Certainly not. Logistics would be a nightmare. And 'shtup' is not a real word.”
“Yeah it is."
"It most certainly isn't."
"Is too, just used it in a sentence. Go on, then. Make a list of stuff you want to try, I don't care if you think it's tame, that little nightie was plenty exciting, believe me. Pick something from the list and choose a day. Let me know, or not, if you want to surprise me. There. Easy.”
Aziraphale hummed. Planning a spontaneous romantic gesture was, paradoxically, rather appealing. It would give him something on which to focus, and take away most of the causes of his habitual anxiety.
“This just might work. Do you...” He narrowed his eyes. “You came up the thong suggestion awfully quickly. Did you make a list?”
In the half light of the soft bedroom lamp, Crowley squirmed and grimaced, and his ears appeared to be turning as red as his hair. “I might have. A bit.”
“A bit of a list,” Aziraphale repeated, trying not to smile too broadly.
“Not written down or anything,” Crowley muttered, turning cagey.
Aziraphale propped his hand on Crowley's chest and his chin on his wrist, genuinely curious, and ridiculously interested. “And all this time, you never said.” He kept his voice light to take any accusatory tone out of it. He hadn't exactly been forthright about these sorts of things either, so it wasn't as if Crowley were the only one holding back. Oh dear, they really should find time to talk a little more about it.
Crowley grimaced again, cast an apologetic look at him before his eyes darted away again. “Eh. Didn't want to go too fast, angel. Might scare you off.”
Aziraphale scoffed. “Hardly. Let's hear it, then. What other ideas have you had?”
Crowley regarded him, one eyebrow slowly rising, as if wondering how much to reveal. Aziraphale pursed his lips, challenging him.
“All right, then.” Crowley cleared his throat. “You, in your apron. And nothing else while you do your baking.”
Aziraphale huffed out a breath of laughter. “Bustle 'round the house in nothing but... oh my goodness.”
To his surprise, he found he was actually more than a bit delighted that Crowley was apparently thinking about him. Well, lusting after him, actually.
A pleased blush suffused his cheeks. Such a fantasy wasn't nearly as shocking as it might have been to him, once upon a time, and perhaps could even be indulged in. “Can I think about it?”
Crowley kissed his forehead. “Take all the time you need, angel. And we don't have to do any of it, you know.”
“Yes, darling,” Aziraphale said dutifully. “Though I am curious about your own list.”
“All right, but nothing you don't want to do, Aziraphale,” Crowley insisted, entirely serious. “If you say no right off the bat, that's fine. If you don't think you'll like it, then we don't do it."
"I know, dear, I know." They settled into the bed in easy contentment.
Crowley murmured, “No pressure, but, just, you know, for the record, that sort of thing, not that you have to, but...you think you'll keep that nightie?”
Aziraphale smiled against Crowley's skin. “Yes, dear, never fear. I've already considered a few other negligees I could add to my wardrobe.”
Crowley huffed out, “Oh thank Someone. I-I mean...”
Aziraphale couldn't help but laugh and press a kiss into his chest.