Work Text:
“I’ll never understand humans,” Crowley weaves a bit as he pours the last of the wine into his glass, “but at least they got alcohol right.”
“S’right,” Aziraphale nods from where he’s sprawled on the sofa. It’s getting harder to follow Crowley’s rambling conversation, they’ve had so much wine tonight. He can’t quite recall the occasion for opening so many bottles — maybe some holiday or other. Whatever the reason, he and Crowley are tucked safely away in the back of the bookshop having one of their philosophical discussions that seems to have swerved into the mysteries of humankind. “Didn’t think I’d like wine. But I do.”
“Alcohol is excellent.” Crowley drops into the nearest chair, managing not to spill a single drop. “Food, though… not my scene.”
“Oh, it’s marvelous,” Aziraphale assures him.
“You can thank me for tempting you into that.”
“Tempting is a strong word,” Aziraphale protests. “You merely suggested it.”
Crowley smirks and Aziraphale blushes, remembering how ravenously (obscenely, really) he devoured his first taste of ox.
Crowley rounds back to his original subject. “Humans need to eat and drink to survive. Fair enough. But so many other things they do are absurd. I mean… why sports?”
Aziraphale ponders some more. “Why be-bop?”
Crowley groans, throwing his head back. “Not that again.”
“But why?” Aziraphale shudders.
“Wait, wait,” Crowley holds up his glass. “I have a question for you.” He stabs a finger at Aziraphale.
“Mmm?”
“What is the point,” he asks, “of you wearing actual human clothing? Why not just miracle something?” He waves one hand in a miracle-ish gesture. “It would be so much easier.”
Aziraphale purses his lips and thinks. “I like clothes,” he finally answers with a little pout. “They’re pretty.”
“Pffft.”
“But they are!” Aziraphale protests, smoothing his hands protectively over his velvet waistcoat. “The fabrics, the — the textures and colors.” He points back accusingly at Crowley. “You appreciate a fashionably fine cut. I know you do.”
Crowley shrugs. “But why wear real clothes?”
“I appreciate the handiwork,” Aziraphale says resolutely. “The quality of the details. The way they feel.”
“Seems like a bother to me.”
“My dear fellow, you don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Not convinced.”
Indignant, Aziraphale sits up straight. “Then I will convince you.” He hoists himself to his feet, wavering for a moment. He wills himself to sober up by several degrees. “Come with me.”
Crowley raises a skeptical eyebrow, but pushes himself up from his chair and saunters after Aziraphale, who is soon clambering up the spiral staircase.
Aziraphale opens the door to his bedroom and leads the way to a large wardrobe. He pulls open the double doors with a flourish, then beams at the bounty of clothes he’s collected over the centuries. It’s practically a textile museum of silks, velvet, brocade, linen, fine wool.
“Now,” he rustles among the rich fabrics for a few moments, selecting a few items. He tugs them free then turns to Crowley. “Put these on.”
Crowley eyes the light blue top coat, brocade waistcoat with brass buttons, and ivory colored silk shirt Aziraphale is holding out. “Wrong size. And color.”
Aziraphale gives him an impatient frown. “Fine.” He motions with his fingers and the items shift to black with red accents and resize to accommodate Crowley’s lean proportions.
Dubious, Crowley plucks the pieces from Aziraphale’s hands and holds them at arm’s length. “Hmm.”
“Go ahead. Try them on. Real clothing.”
Aziraphale politely turns around to give Crowley privacy.
Crowley sighs, knowing that Aziraphale won’t stop badgering him about this until he does as asked. He drapes the clothes over a nearby chair, and with a small upward flick of his wrist, his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt vanish, leaving his corporeal form naked from the waist up. He picks up the shirt Aziraphale had given him, trying to figure out which way is the front. He has to admit that it feels quite soft and silky to the touch.
Aziraphale waits with his hands behind his back, staring at his feet, then glances up. His eyes are immediately caught by the reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on the opposite wall. In the glass, he can see Crowley, shirtless, his back to the mirror.
Aziraphale sucks in his breath, slightly shocked. He has never seen Crowley without clothes. Yes, he’s seen his bare feet and ankles back in the days of sandals and robes, and he’s seen his lovely neck and bare forearms, but never his back and torso… never this much skin… He’s as finely muscled as a marble statue, as beautiful as a Michelangelo. His shoulder blades are reminiscent of delicate wings; his narrow waist tapers to his sharp hips and impossibly long legs sheathed in black jeans.
He can’t tear his gaze away, watching as Crowley slips the simple shirt over his head and tucks in the ends. He slips on the waistcoat then reaches for the top coat and shrugs it on, his arms gliding through the satin-lined sleeves. Aziraphale quickly returns his gaze to the floor, his cheeks pink from more than the wine as he hears Crowley turning towards him.
“Well?” Aziraphale’s voice comes out pitched higher than normal. “What do you think?” He dares to glance at Crowley again, who is fussing with the many buttons on the waistcoat. For a brief moment, Aziraphale stretches his fingers out, wanting to offer his help. But he restrains himself.
Crowley soon has slid all the buttons into place and smooths his hands down his sides, savoring the soft nap of the velvet coat. He crosses the room to the mirror, Aziraphale trailing after him. He runs his fingertips over the details — the smooth satin lapels, the raised texture of the embroidered thread, the high collar at his throat. Crowley straightens his posture, turns slightly this way, then that, admiring the slim cut that accentuates his waist, the elegant sweep of the coat tails.
The human-made clothes cling warmly against his skin, almost like a light embrace. There is a certain pleasant weight to them, a subtle swish and rustle of fabric, a faint scent of cologne that is uniquely Aziraphale’s, all elements that clothing conjured out of the ether lack.
“They’re… nice,” Crowley admits.
“Just nice?” Aziraphale presses, standing next to Crowley and admiring the demon's reflection in the mirror.
“I can see why there might be a certain appeal to them,” Crowley acknowledges gruffly, adjusting a cuff with a little extra flair.
Aziraphale smiles smugly. “I know several excellent tailors, should you ever desire something bespoke that’s more modern.” He pauses a moment, still staring at Crowley’s reflection. “You look very handsome.” Aziraphale instantly blushes again. He hadn’t meant to say what he was thinking out loud.
Crowley meets Aziraphale’s gaze in the mirror. “Thanks,” he mumbles, turning away. The way Aziraphale looked at him stirs up confusing feelings that he’s better off ignoring. He’s never quite sure where they stand — fellow outcasts, friends, or something more.
Sometimes he thinks he catches fleeting glances from Aziraphale that look hot with desire or sick with longing. Or maybe he’s projecting his own feelings onto him.
Sometimes he replays their conversations in his head, finding meaning that may or may not have been intended. Surely there’s something I could do for you in return. What the hell had that meant?
Crowley would gladly take their relationship further, would cross that line into the physical, the metaphysical, whatever intimate relations between two occult beings are called. But they never act on it, this game of innuendo and uncertainty.
In a fit of frustration, Crowley begins plucking at the buttons on the waistcoat to undo them.
“Oh — be gentle, please,” Aziraphale interjects, rushing to place his hands over Crowley’s fingers, stilling them. “The fabric can be quite delicate.”
Crowley stops, startled by Aziraphale’s admonishment and direct touch.
“It’s just that I’ve had these clothes for so long, I’m very particular about them,” Aziraphale apologizes. “Here, let me help you out of the coat first.”
He steps behind Crowley and gently lifts the coat at the shoulders, sliding it down and off Crowley’s arms. He carefully drapes the coat over a nearby chair.
Aziraphale turns back to face Crowley and is struck by how the black waistcoat skims his body and slender waist. The shirt sleeves flow down his arms, ending in generous cuffs that highlight his long, pale fingers. He looks dashing, like a matador or a highwayman. Sexy. A bit dangerous.
Aziraphale briefly squeezes his eyes shut. Oh, Lord, lead me not into temptation.
He opens his eyes and they look at each other, a familiar tension filling the room. They’ve been dancing around this forbidden, unspoken attraction for 6,000 years, with barely a graze of a hand to show for it.
Seeing the expression in Aziraphale’s eyes, Crowley senses that there might be an opportunity to finally do something about the situation. He detects a shift, a certain crack in Aziraphale’s imperfect moral armor, one reminiscent of the nights long ago when he tempted him into taking his first bite of food, his first sip of wine.
The compulsion to suggest an idea, to simply offer a little taste of forbidden fruit seizes Crowley. He is, after all, a demon with occasional urges to lead the willing down a dark grey path.
Crowley’s yellow eyes are gleaming in that knowing, half-lidded way that Aziraphale finds particularly unnerving, and, he has to admit, a little exciting. It’s like he can read his mind and sense his weaknesses. And right now, that weakness is a six-foot-tall red-haired demon.
Heat prickles the back of Aziraphale’s neck and he runs a finger under his collar. “Is it warm in here, or...?”
“You could take off your jacket,” Crowley suggests silkily.
Aziraphale hesitates. There would be no harm in that, surely? “Yes. Very sensible.” He fumbles out of his top coat and tosses it rather carelessly onto the chair. Still feeling warm, he rolls up his shirt sleeves, Crowley watching him intently.
“Might as well take off your tie,” Crowley adds. “Be more comfortable.”
“Um, all right.” Aziraphale gratefully strips off his bow tie and undoes his top shirt button, hoping to cool his flushed face and neck. “That’s better.”
It is, a little, but Crowley is still gazing at him in that serpentine manner. Aziraphale tries to regain his footing. “I’ll take the waistcoat, now, if you would be so kind.”
Crowley tilts his head ever so slightly. “Perhaps,” he suggests, lifting his hands away from his sides, “you should undo the buttons, since they’re so delicate.”
Aziraphale’s eyes widen. His words have come back to bite him like a wily serpent. But if that’s how Crowley wants to behave, fine. He can rise above this.
“Of course. Happy to help.” Aziraphale steps closer, then loses courage when faced with Crowley's chest. The demon remains standing patiently, his arms lifted elegantly out of the way.
Azirphale takes a deep breath. He can do this. “Silly things, aren’t they?” he laughs nervously. “Human buttons, I mean. I’ll, um, just…” He lightly grasps the top button.
Crowley breathes in as Aziraphale inclines his head, his white blond curls nearly grazing his chin. The angel’s scent — one he knows so well — is warm and divine. Crowley glances down, watching as the angel carefully pushes each button on the waistcoat through its hole. Seven buttons, seven holes.
“There,” Aziraphale finally says, the waistcoat falling open with a faint swish.
Crowley slowly peels off the waistcoat. He holds it out to Aziraphale, their fingers brushing as he takes it. The lights in the wall sconces flicker and dim, the current disrupted by a sudden surge of celestial energy.
Aziraphale places the waistcoat atop the other clothing and turns back around.
‘Your — your shirt collar,” he vaguely indicates Crowley’s throat. “It can be tricky.”
Crowley holds his gaze, then silently tips his chin up, inviting Aziraphale to undo the small buttons at his neck.
Aziraphale clears his throat, then moves closer. “They’re rather tight,” he murmurs, his fingers working the buttons undone. He soon reveals a vee of skin at Crowley’s long neck, the tendons standing out like cords, his slender collarbones exposed.
Aziraphale licks his lips. He feels his mouth moving and hears himself say, “I’ll have the shirt, please.” His tone manages to be soft but firm.
The corner of Crowley’s mouth lifts slightly. He tugs the fabric at his waist and slips the shirt up his back and over his head with a shimmering hiss of silk across his skin. He tosses the shirt onto the chair and stands in the room, one hip cocked, his torso bare.
“What now, angel?” Crowley asks, his voice low.
“I think...” Aziraphale can’t think, his mind useless, his eyes too busy consuming the half nude vision in front of him. He wants very, very badly to run his hands over Crowley’s skin.
Crowley can see the desire in Aziraphale’s expression, causing his demonic instincts to uncoil further. “Go on,” he entices. “Don’t you ever wonder why humans touch each other?”
Aziraphale has wondered, quite a lot. Throwing caution to the wind, he reaches out a trembling hand and places the pads of his fingers on Crowley’s chest. Oh, he’s warm. And so… firm. He lets his fingers trail down, gliding over the coarse dark hair on his sternum, stopping just above a taut nipple. Oh, dear Lord…
Crowley leans closer to Aziraphale’s ear and drops in another slow suggestion. “Undo your waistcoat with your other hand.”
As if in a trance, Aziraphale’s hand goes to his top button, slowly thumbs it open, then the next, and the next, and the next, until the worn velvet sides fall open.
“Take it off.”
Aziraphale obeys, sliding off the satin and velvet garment, letting it drop to the floor. He’s doing this all of his own free will, but finds it easier to listen to the seductive suggestions. Emboldened, he places both hands on Crowley’s chest, running his palms down his pectorals, fanning over his ribs, his thumbs sweeping up over his nipples.
Crowley inhales with a hiss. “Angel,” his voice carries a note of surprised admiration. His hands snake around Aziraphale’s waist and slide up his back, testing his reaction. “Aren’t you… curious?”
Aziraphale can barely form a reply. “About what…?”
Crowley dips his mouth tantalizingly close to Aziraphale’s. “Carnal knowledge.“
Another flush of heat rushes up to Aziraphale’s face — and lower, to his belly and groin.
“I’m sure if we both made an Effort, we could … investigate.” Crowley trails his fingertips across the nape of Aziraphale’s neck, then down to the buttons of his shirt, where he pauses.
“You’re — you’re seducing me,” Aziraphale gasps, not quite as shocked as he sounds.
“And you undressed me.” He flicks open a button on Aziraphale’s shirt.
“But I —” Aziraphale has no argument to defend himself, so he doesn’t try.
Crowley fingers the next button on Aziraphale’s pale blue shirt and lets it fall open.
Aziraphale exhales, unable to speak.
Crowley pauses, watching him. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
Oh God. Aziraphale closes his eyes again. He’s imagined this, fantasized about exploring every inch of Crowley’s corporeal form, of being caressed and desired in return. He’s had 6,000 years to think about it in 6 million different scenarios. Is it a sin to be curious? To wish to know and be known, intimately? Are they not allowed, in their immortal lives, a few moments of Earthly pleasure? For this is pleasurable — the wine, the clothes, this unexpectedly sultry game of dressing and undressing and touching — and he wants to play more. “Don’t stop,” he whispers.
Crowley dispenses with the rest of the buttons and draws Aziraphale closer, pressing the warm skin of their chests together. Aziraphale is looking up at him, all trusting blue eyes and soft, parted lips. They’ve waited so very long for this moment.
Now.
Their lips meet, tenuous but with an electric undercurrent. Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s lashes fluttering against his cheek as he brushes his mouth across the angel’s lips again.
“Oh...” Aziraphale breathes out in delighted discovery. “Oh my...”
Crowley deepens the kiss, skimming one palm along Aziraphale’s jaw, angling his head, seeking more heat and sensitive skin, every sense magnified. His corporeal form seems to know what to do; after all, lust is entwined with his demonic nature.
But Aziraphale is an equally intuitive learner. He trails his lips up Crowley’s gorgeous neck, tasting the skin he’s coveted for so long. He runs his hands up Crowley’s back, then clings to his shoulders as they hungrily find each other’s mouths again and again.
Crowley slides his tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth, probing, teasing, eliciting an angelic moan and fingers curling deep into his hair. Eventually, in a haze of mouths and tongues and hands, they drift towards the bed, where any remaining articles of clothing are impatiently and awkwardly tugged and pulled and kicked away, punctuated by Aziraphale’s giggles and Crowley’s muttered curses.
They finally fall onto the soft duvet, a tangle of arms and elbows and spread knees, Aziraphale on his back, pinned beneath Crowley.
Aziraphale gazes up at him as they both catch their breath. He’s very aware of their naked and aroused state, the weight of their cocks nudging together. He’s pleasured himself only intermittently over the centuries, so he knows how it all functions, but he wasn’t prepared for how good it feels with someone else. He shifts his hips experimentally, rubbing against Crowley in a certain way that produces more waves of pleasure.
Crowley smiles and sees another opportunity. Rising to his knees, he settles himself atop Aziraphale's plush lap and gathers their cocks into his miraculously slicked hand. He begins to slowly stroke them from root to tip, watching Aziraphale’s face shift from surprise to voluptuous eagerness.
“That feels — mmfhh — good,” Aziraphale murmurs, his fingers skimming down Crowley’s thighs.
Crowley increases the pace of his strokes, experimenting with the pressure and placement of his hand, his thumb gliding over each dewy slit, his fingers toying with the flared edges of the ruddy heads. Each stroke sends a thrilling pulse through his core that spreads through his body like liquid heat. He drinks in Aziraphale's darkening eyes, the flush of his cheeks, the way he's biting his lower lip in a failing attempt to contain his moans.
“Oh, God,” Aziraphale pants, overwhelmed by everything new that’s happening — so much hot skin and throbbing cocks and tender bellies and sharp hipbones. Crowley gazes hungrily down at him, his sinuous body and sulfurous eyes alight with desire.
"Oh — God," Aziraphale cries out again as Crowley twists his palm up their cocks in some glorious motion that sends sparks through his veins. He grabs at Crowley’s sleek buttocks, anchoring himself to anything within reach as a delicious tension rapidly mounts in his body.
Aziraphale whimpers, his hips lifting and bucking in time with Crowley’s pumping fist, until he knows he’s going to climax. “I’m — oh fuck— yes—” White stars burst behind his eyes as he moans, clutching at Crowley's hips.
Seeing Aziraphale disintegrate into a writhing, swearing mess easily pushes Crowley over the edge. “Azir — nnngkk —” his head tips back as he comes, eyes closing as he falls into a spiraling bliss, barely conscious of the double pulses of sticky warmth dribbling over his hand or the brief unfurling of two pairs of dazzling wings, one set white, one black.
(If anyone had been watching the bedroom window from the street below, they may have noticed a bright glow briefly illuminating the room, two momentary bursts of light like twin meteors passing in the night. But no one saw the light, nor the shadowy outline of magnificent wings dancing across the drawn curtains. If they had seen it, the impression was so fleeting that no one would have believed it.)
Crowley collapses onto Aziraphale, gasping into the crook of his shoulder. They lie entwined for several minutes, catching their breath and regaining their senses, any traces of wings receding.
“That was… so much better than I imagined,” Crowley finally says, sliding off to nuzzle against Aziraphale's side. Their skin is warm and glowing, all thoughts of clothing far removed from their minds.
“Mmm,” Aziraphale agrees, lazily drawing circles on Crowley’s back. He turns his head to look into Crowley’s eyes. “Let’s do it again.”
Crowley blinks. “What, right now?”
Aziraphale traces a teasing finger over the serpent tattoo on Crowley’s cheek. “Five minutes’ rest, then we start again. We have so much to explore, don't you think?"
(As it happens, later that night there were multiple reports of strange flickering lights and fluttering shadows in the bookshop on Whickber Street, all of which were — and still are — attributed to powerful electrical surges that occur in old buildings on a frequent basis. The bookshop owner says with a mysterious little smile that he has no idea what might be causing the disturbances.)