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Crowley’s life wasn’t the easiest, but he had it all figured out.
(That was a lie. Crowley did not have it all figured out. He did not even know what ‘it’ was. But whatever ‘it’ was, he’d swear up and down he’d figured it out. He had not.)
Because life for a stray? Not easy. He imagined it wasn’t easy for a ‘normal’ cat, not a foot tall at the shoulder or easily mistaken for human at first glance. They didn’t have a big stomach to fill every day, could curl up in little nooks and crannies when they needed safe places to sleep. People tended to be more sympathetic to a cute, mew-ing face.
They tended to be slightly more wary of a six-foot-tall, black-wearing, grouch-faced bastard.
But he had things figured out. Sort of. Catboys don’t have surnames, but he’d given himself a first name (because his given name, if you asked him, did not suit as a first name) so he could have a middle name. Well, middle initial. Because he was Anthony Doing (the Doing was silent) Just Fine Crowley. Sometimes Anthony Just-a-J Crowley, others Anthony Just-Bugger-Off Crowley. Even after leaving London, which was getting a bit too crowded with cats for his tastes. He’d figured out who would feel sorry enough for him in his new town to leave out some food. Kept him fed, and he didn’t have to lie for it Hastur.
He’d been doing just fine, thanks much, when he’d met Aziraphale.
If it was a day that ended in -y, it rained. Or, at least, drizzled. Or the sky turned a very threatening shade of gray to remind everyone that it could make things very wet if it felt like it.
In London, it was fairly easy to get out of the rain. Duck down an alleyway, find an overhang or, if you were lucky and the weather was poor enough, one of the shelters might open its doors for the night. But in a smaller town, a village, there were no shelters, and the alleyways weren’t so protective. Crowley wasn’t entirely sure of his choice to stay in the village. But that’s where he’d had to hop off his ride, and there was no promise the next city would be any better than London had been.
He slipped through an open gate, squinting against the water running in his eyes. The woman who lived in the attached cottage, and a man he thought might be her mate, sometimes left food out for him. So, he knew for a fact they owned no dogs to cause a ruckus as he flattened himself against the wall, leaning back against it. There was just enough of an overhang to shield him from the worst of the rain.
Crowley wrung out his shirt as much as he could without taking it off, then his tail. He watched with some interest as a frog hopped across the yard, but it wasn’t worth going back into the rain to chase. Another frog (or maybe it was the same frog being indecisive) hopped back across the yard.
The door swung open, and he startled, blinking in the light. It silhouetted a heavyset figure, topped off with what looked to be curly hair and, if he wasn’t wrong, blunt-tipped cat ears.
Truthfully, Crowley expected it to go very sour, very quickly. Pet catboys, lazy and pampered as they might be, could be more territorial than any feral. Afraid of losing their easy life and free ride, if you asked him. So he pinned his ears, narrowed his eyes, and curled his lip to reveal a hint of fang in preparation for whatever the catboy would do. Run him off, get cross with him, or yowl for his human, if it followed his past experiences.
The catboy, instead, looked him up and down. Then, after giving a little, somehow prissy, sniff, he turned on his heel and went back inside.
Crowley, wondering if he should feel offended, waited for a moment, then shrugged and leaned back against the wall. Prissy housepets. Probably didn’t want to break a nail, or get his hair wet.
He didn’t even have time to look for another frog before the housecat was back, umbrella tucked under his arm and little plates in both hands. In a prim, rather humanish, voice he said, “I can’t imagine that’s keeping you very dry.” Which was true, because his legs and tail were rather long, and the overhang was decidedly not.
Shifting the plates to one hand, the housecat took out his umbrella. Then, as if Crowley were his pampered friend, not some drowned rattish thing dripping on his stoop, he opened the umbrella and held it out over him.
Crowley boggled at him. Was the housecat broken?
The housecat carefully shifted a plate back to the hand holding the umbrella, offering it to him. “Eccles cake?” He asked, wriggling it when Crowley continued to gawk.
This housecat was definitely broken.
Crowley, slowly, took the plate. Smiling, seeming genuinely happy Crowley had accepted his offering, the housecat sat next to him, so closely their knees touched. The umbrella, Crowley noted, barely covered the cat. But he was fully dry.
This housecat was definitely broken.
The housecat gave a painfully endearing pleased wiggle as he set his plate in his lap and picked up the little cake. Crowley sniffed his Eccles cake, then distractedly took a bite.
He’d not known the woman had a catboy, or he’d never have sheltered on the stoop. Cat-scent didn’t cling to her or her mate like it should have, didn’t layer the yard. And he’d never seen him, in the yard or about with his humans. Crowley was sure of that because he’d never forget such a beautiful cat.
His clothes were old-fashioned, the sort humans dressed up their cats in for shows. But they looked comfortable, threadbare in a way that spoke of years of wear, though not abuse. Creased and smooth, laying against his skin instead of stiffly starched like he’d seen before. The bastard was soft, in every way. Curly hair that looked like it would be soft as anything to touch, so pale blond it bordered on white. Soft in the face, soft at the edges—Crowley didn’t think he had a single sharp line in his body. He was soft in a housecat way, in the way a stray could never dream of. In a way that spoke of plentiful meals and good food.
Crowley wanted to see if he felt as soft as he looked. If his hair felt like the candyfloss it looked like (granted, he didn’t know what candyfloss felt like), if his clothes would be smooth and lovingly worn to the touch. If his ridiculous little tartan bow tie was a clip-on, because who wore a bowtie anymore? and would come off with a tug.
He wanted to know if, beneath those layers that covered his neck, he really was a beta. Not that it was bad if he was, or wasn’t. He just couldn’t tell for sure; he wasn’t close enough to scent him properly, and the layers helped to mute his scent. Though Crowley did think he was a beta. An alpha or an omega smelled strongly enough that it was hard, even with layers and distance, to hide your smell completely.
Crowley, as he was wont to do, wanted many things. He moved fast, clutched onto things as tightly as he could with both hands. Refused to let go and had to be dragged off, to leave claw marks on them. Choking when the housecat took a bite of his own, moaning indecently, Crowley wanted many things. Many of them at odds with each other, and most at odds with his instincts and what he’d learned in his life.
“Well,” Crowley said as he vaulted over the fence, dripping wet despite it being a decidedly less stormy day, “that went down like a lead balloon.”
Aziraphale stretched, squinting up at him, looking rather unimpressed. It was an expression Crowley had grown quickly accustomed to. “R. P. Tyler again, dear?” He asked without standing. It was a rare, sunny day, and he was taking full advantage of it.
Largely human they might be, they were still cats at heart. And a cat knew no greater pleasure than basking in an inconveniently placed patch of sunlight.
Newt had already tripped over him twice that morning.
Crowley made a few sounds that might have been attempts at words, or mimicry of a sprinkler trying to kick on. Finally, he went for “Yeahhh.” He wrung out his sodden tail, stepping over Aziraphale’s. “Bastard put his sprinklers on motion activated.”
“You were trying to steal from his garden again,” Aziraphale sniffed.
“Ahhhh,” Crowley sat down on the grass, “I was going for the pie cooling on his windowsill.” And he’d thought Aziraphale would like the pie, but that was neither here nor there. What arse grew aubergine, tomatoes, and pears in the same garden, anyway?
Aziraphale waited, closing his eyes. He nestled down in the blanket he’d thrown down to cover the dew-damp grass.
He wasn’t an animal, after all. Despite what his instincts, the fangs, the ears, tail, occasional claws, weakness for catnip, and humans might say. His plume of a tail twitched, brushing Crowley’s.
Crowley examined the indents in his pants leg, the pattern uniform and almost circular.
Aziraphale, without opening his eyes, raised his eyebrow.
“Then he set his dog on me,” Crowley admitted once he’d found no tears.
“Did he bite you?” Aziraphale finally opened his eyes, moving to sit up. Neither was a fan of R. P. Tyler’s dog (or, truthfully, dogs in general). Thing was as nasty as its master.
Crowley laughed. “No, Dog came out of nowhere and chased him off. Last I saw they were running into the woods.” Dog, the neighbor’s kid’s oddly, but only sometimes, red-eyed little terrier was the exception to their dislike. He hated R. P. Tyler’s dog as much as they did and, while Aziraphale was above going after a dog, and Crowley had learned his lesson about fighting little yappy dogs as a kit, only Adam controlled Dog.
And Adam, much like them, did not like R. P. Tyler.
At that, Aziraphale laughed, too. His tail flicked, swishing in the air. This was what Crowley liked about him—he was just that little bit of a bastard. He’d been an angel the first time they’d met, shielding him from the rain and feeding him, even telling him to “mind how you go, dear,” when he left once the storm had let up. The next time they’d met up (by complete accident, mind. Crowley had run into Aziraphale and his human on their daily walk) Aziraphale had laughed as he watched Dog chase R. P. Tyler’s yappy dog down the street, R. P. Tyler and Adam hot on their heels.
“I’m sorry I missed it,” Aziraphale said, smiling enough to dimple his cheeks and reveal his sharp canines.
Crowley looked over his shoulder to where the fence broke his eyeline, but he knew the Young’s house was. Once Adam’s parents forgot they had grounded him for letting Dog go after R. P. Tyler’s dog, it would be only easy to get them chasing each other. And Adam’s parents always forgot after only a few days.
He turned to Aziraphale, intending to say so, but the back door of the cottage opening cut him off. Crowley was on his feet and by the gate before Anathema had even stepped outside, ears pinned and tail lashing.
“Oh! Hello Crowley,” she didn’t look at all surprised to see him. Neither did Newt, close at heel. “Care to stay for lunch?”
He wanted to spend time with Aziraphale. And Anathema had fed him before. But just because Anathema had fed him didn’t mean she’d always be so kind in the future, no matter what Aziraphale said. Humans might be incredibly kind to their pets, but a beloved housepet was a far different beast than a feral stray. No matter how human they might look. A stray wasn’t socialized as a pet was, taught in manners, or carefully groomed.
Tilting his head, he looked at Aziraphale. And he knew the look that Aziraphale was giving him, had known it almost from the first time they’d met. It was his ‘Oh, please, I really want that, dear boy, but I’d never say so,’ look. His ‘Oh, those pies look quite scrummy but I could never take them off the Tyler’s windowsill, won’t you do it for me?’ look, his ‘Oh, the Tyler’s pears are ripe, won’t you pick a few for me?’ and his ‘Oh, the Them hit me with a paintball by accident, will you help me sneak my coat into the wash so Anathema doesn’t get after me for wearing it into the woods?’ look.
He sputtered for a moment, looking back over his shoulder at the gate. It would be easy to just hop over it. He didn’t really understand the point of such a small fence and gate. But Aziraphale would be disappointed, and it was a free lunch.
Aziraphale, of course, knew the look on Crowley’s face, too. So, smiling and looking quite pleased with himself, Aziraphale stood. Crowley slunk at his heel over to the table, settling next to Aziraphale at the open seat furthest from the humans. There was already a plate there, and for a moment he thought about leaving anyway on principle. Because he was not predictable, and if these humans assumed he’d eat with them enough to set him a place at the table they had another thing coming.
Aziraphale sat, a king at his throne, and Crowley followed suit. Not because the humans expected it, or because he couldn't take Aziraphale's disappointed face (he couldn't), or because the food looked good (it did). But because—well, he'd figure out a reason later. Because he couldn't think of one at that moment, especially not with Aziraphale beginning to eat, closing his eyes and humming in pleasure. Crowley dropped his elbow to the table, resting his head on his palm and picking at his food, blatantly staring.
Anathema laughed. He raised his head, glaring. What was so funny?
She shook her head. “Nothing, Crowley.” But her lips twitched when she turned back to Newt.
Crowley wasn’t sure if humans were dumb, purposefully dense, or just had painfully poor hearing. He’d never understand them. But they couldn’t understand cats’ perfectly clear language, no matter how hard either tried. And their ‘written language’ was utter gibberish, much to Aziraphale’s displeasure. He really did want to understand the appeal of books! He rather liked the ones Anathema gave him that had sketches and pictures in them.
So, Crowley tried to channel as much ‘you’re full of shit’ into his expression as he could.
“And then, then—!” Crowley tilted his head, trying to remember his point. His tail lashed, ears pinning to the side.
Aziraphale, sprawled out in a chair so he could watch Crowley pace, nodded encouragingly. He wasn’t sure what Crowley’s point was either, but he rarely was. Crowley always seemed to find his way there, in the end. Or, at least, somewhere.
“He slipped on black ice!” He finally burst out with. “Nasty stuff, that. It’s how you know winter’s really here.” Only thing better was when the humans tried to pick up a coin stuck to the sidewalk. He didn’t know how the coins stuck to the sidewalk, but he wished he did because it was funny as anything and he’d love to be able to make it happen.
Granted, it was easy to know when winter was on you when you were a stray. England’s constant drizzle grew icy, your breath plumed in the air, and humans bundled up in ridiculous jackets and started singing ridiculous songs.
Then again, that could describe humans most of the year. Odd creatures, them. Most non-cats were odd creatures, granted. Humans just happened to be a lot more.
Crowley shivered. Also speaking of, his breath plumed in front of his face with each word, and Aziraphale’s tail, he’d noticed, was considerably fluffier than usual. He’d also put on a much longer, and thicker, coat than he normally wore.
Even still, Aziraphale rubbed his arms at the brisk wind. Crowley’s ears drooped when Aziraphale made to stand. He knew what would come next. A polite dismissal, maybe a pressing of food and a warm drink into his hands before Aziraphale went inside.
“It’s really rather cold,” Aziraphale nestled down into his coat. “Would you like to come inside with me, my dear?”
Crowley blinked owlishly. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been inside before, because he had. But only a few times, and not for very long. He’d always felt like he was being watched, with Anathema or Newt or both in the house with them. Like he was a novelty or something to be cautious of. Going Inside was already strange enough—that sudden bombardment of weird human scents, artificial and strong, the noises that were so much stronger inside than leaking from cracked windows and doors. And the odd lack of Aziraphale’s scent that should have been thick in the air was disconcerting. Even a beta like him should have left some sort of mark, after spending so long in one place. But the humans burnt ‘incense’, shit that made him sneeze when he’d sniffed at it, plugged things into the wall to cover up the cattish scents, apparently. At least, that’s what Aziraphale said. To Crowley, it just felt like he took a mallet of scents to the nose. Still, it was the staring that got to him. He didn’t think they meant it, or maybe they did, he didn’t know how humans thought, but he didn’t care for it.
The humans weren’t home, though. He remembered Aziraphale saying that. They’d be gone a few days. He’d already forgotten where Aziraphale had said they’d gone but he did remember that.
And, he mused, half-grinning, while the humans are away, the cats will play. Who was he to question that?
“Y’sure?” He asked, straightening up and sticking his hands in his pockets. Well, trying to. Why did humans put such small pockets on their pants? Might as well not put any at all.
Aziraphale sniffed, dusting off his pants. “I wouldn't ask if I wasn't, would I?”
That was his bastard. Poor humans really were missing out.
Aziraphale stamped his feet on the mat and held the door open with a purr and a flick of his tail. “After you, foul fiend.”
A dumb joke, after R. P. Tyler had taken to calling Crowley ‘the devil made flesh’. Aziraphale had found (and still found) it hilarious.
Crowley shook his head, scooping up Aziraphale's ridiculous winged mug (who bought a mug, much less a winged one, for their catboy?) as he passed. He hesitated at the door—despite how much Aziraphale tried to put him at ease, going into a human’s dwelling still felt wrong—then stepped inside. Walking into the cottage was like walking into a wall of scents, even with none of the candles lit, and he sneezed violently.
How it didn't bother Aziraphale, he'd never know. He sneezed again, wrinkling his nose against the scent of—he thought that might have been mint? or myrrh? What did myrrh even smell like?
“Anathema bought new plug-ins,” Aziraphale said apologetically, closing the door. “They were supposed to be not as strong, since the ones we already have bother you. But she plugged them in right as she was leaving so didn't know how much stronger they were.” And, of course, Aziraphale knew better than to mess with any sort of electronic. Even something as simple as a scent diffuser plugged into the wall. He took the mug from Crowley, ducking into the kitchen. “I cracked the window in the living room, so it shouldn't be as strong in there, though it will be a bit colder. Wait for me in there just a moment.”
Was Aziraphale nervous? Crowley eyed him. It was a gamble whether he was rambling because he was nervous, or because he was passionate about something. And he couldn't think of why he'd be passionate about any of that. Then again, why would he be nervous?
Because they were alone together? Not hardly, they'd been alone together many times. Though, he twitched an ear as he made for the living room, only ever outside, and almost always with at least one of the humans home. Never inside and alone.
He sank onto the sofa, placed right under the window. It wasn't cracked much, but just enough he could smell the crisp air and feel a slight breeze on his skin. And it certainly helped with that awful, cloying scent.
Did Aziraphale really trust him so little that he was worried about being alone in the house with him?
“Here we are,” Aziraphale bustled into the room, two steaming mugs held in his hands. Which wasn't surprising—the kettle was one of the few electronics (the radio and TV being the other two, though Aziraphale had little interest in the latter) that cats tended to be trusted with. Not because they were dumb, or lacked common sense, but instinct could lead them to do dumb things. Prime example—Anathema’s ability to distract Aziraphale (and, as proven the last time Crowley had been inside, Crowley) with a laser pointer. And, at times, it could be hard to get them to understand what needed done.
Newt had, once, tried to teach Aziraphale to iron his own waistcoat. Anathema had still yet to forgive him.
Crowley took the mug from him, sniffing the contents. Brown, certainly not tea, and not acidic enough to be coffee—hot chocolate? Not the human sort, but the ‘cat-safe’ kind that lacked caffeine and cacao and all the things that made it taste good.
Never one to do things by halves, Aziraphale pulled a sleeve of cat-safe biscuits from a drawer in a small table Crowley couldn't figure the use of, especially when there was a larger table close by. He held one out to Crowley but Crowley, who'd not had much of an appetite the last few days, shook his head no. Truthfully, he didn't even have the appetite for the hot chocolate. But he didn't want Aziraphale to be disappointed, or to worry or fuss.
Aziraphale sat back in his chair, looking as comfortable as any king. He dunked a biscuit in his cocoa, eyes closing in bliss as he took a bite with a moan.
Suddenly lacking any appetite at all, Crowley found himself staring blatantly. His ears pricked towards Aziraphale, tail tapping slowly. He hummed an agreement to whatever it was Aziraphale said next.
“Did you know,” Aziraphale said, looking thoughtful as he opened his eyes. He was a bit startled to find Crowley staring, but he was quickly getting used to Crowley’s staring. He wasn't entirely sure if it was a ‘feral’ thing, or a ‘Crowley’ thing, but he was leaning towards the latter. “Anathema and Newton were watching a program the other day, about animals in the sea. And, well,” he frowned, “I couldn't understand all of what they were saying, of course, but they had a whole segment on whales.”
Crowley, who'd never seen a whale in his life, but knew what a whale was, nodded encouragingly. When Aziraphale paused to take another bite, purring loudly, he shivered, though he wasn't cold at all. In fact—the cottage had no central heating, and he couldn't hear the sound of any besides. But he was beginning to wonder if they'd had it put in while he wasn't around. Because, despite how cold it was outside, and the cracked window, he was beginning to feel rather warm. Sweat, even, was beginning to bead on his skin.
“Apparently, whales have a brain the size of a car engine! Can you imagine?”
Aziraphale didn't know it, but Anathema had noticed his interest in the program and ordered him picture books on whales for Christmas.
“Big brains, whales.” Crowley agreed, setting his mug down and wiping his forehead. His tail swished, more from irritation than interest, now. Hell, but it was hot. Humans had no common sense. Who kept their den this hot?
“They had a—a diagram, showing the size of their brains compared to humans and ours. It was unbelievable, you—are you alright?” Aziraphale, finally noticing Crowley's shifting, different than his usual fidgeting and slumping, frowned. He pinned his ears, setting down his own mug and snacks.
“‘m hot,” Crowley confessed, reaching up to fumble with the buttons of his jacket. It didn't fit him too well, being left out by a shelter, but it did the job. A bit too well, it seemed. He scowled, finally tugging it off and throwing it aside. He slumped, slithered really, down the couch, sprawling out in a way even more boneless than normal.
“Crowley, it's not hot at all. In fact, it's still rather cold. Oh, you're so red!” Aziraphale stood, moving to sit next to Crowley. When he pressed the back of his hand to Crowley's forehead, Crowley sighed, pressing into the touch. His ears drooped, tail going lax.
“You’re so warm.” And he felt warm. Sluggish, too, like he wanted to curl up and not move for a week. Preferably against Aziraphale, though he always wanted that, with his neck buried in his throat and their tails twined. He drew in a breath, instinctively seeking Aziraphale’s scent, but still found only the crisp of the winter air and what hadn’t been whisked away of the plug-ins. Aziraphale’s hand shifted, sliding down to cradle his cheek, and he felt so much warmer. All over, though a more intense heat was beginning to kindle in his stomach.
Oh, oh shit.
He couldn’t be—it’s too early. He’s not due for another month. But he knew that heat, settling beneath his skin. The way another’s touch was like a brand on his skin, their presence all-encompassing.
Crowley opened his eyes, certain his slit pupils had expanded to dimes, daring to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. He had a worried pout on his lips, slightly cold-chapped. Crowley barely resisted the urge to, with Aziraphale so close, finally find out if his hair was as soft as it looked. Aziraphale’s frown deepened, lines creasing his forehead as his brow furrowed. He opened his mouth to speak, then froze.
Gently, he tilted Crowley’s head back, and Crowley was all too willing to obey. Hands shaking, reaching for his neck, he wiped off what Crowley hadn’t inadvertently while struggling to remove his coat. “You’re an omega,” he said breathlessly, leaning in until his nose brushed his skin. Crowley shuddered, arching his neck back.
Crowley whined, slick trickling down his thighs (he’d never get that out of his pants) at the feeling of Aziraphale’s breath ghosting over his skin.
“You’re in heat.”
He didn’t know what to make of Aziraphale’s tone, breathless and bordering on stunned.
“Sorry.” Crowley decided on, throwing an arm up to cover his eyes. Usually, he didn’t make a habit of apologizing. But considering he was leaking slick all over Aziraphale’s couch, and probably beginning to reek over everything, he thought it was deserved. “Came early.”
Aziraphale pulled away, then took a deep, shuddering breath. One that hitched at the end. “Darling—Crowley, what—what do you want me to do?”
If Crowley hadn’t been sure Aziraphale was a beta before, he would have been, then. No alpha would have been able to remain so composed, even with his heat only just started. His tail lashed, whacking Aziraphale’s leg. He squirmed, trying to find a more comfortable position, but failed horribly. The slick soaking his pants was too uncomfortable, his pants too tight where they strained over his cock. His blood was beginning to burn. Each beat of his heart only made his mind foggier.
“Aziraphale—angel, please.” Not entirely sure what he was begging for, but certain that Aziraphale was far too far away, he begged. Flopped his arm back down to the couch and blinked owlishly at Aziraphale, who was a damn vision. Mouth opened in an ‘o’, throat working as he tasted the air, cheeks flushed a handsome pink. Plume of a tail rigid, those rounded ears perked towards Crowley in interest, pupils blown so wide there was only the faintest ring of color around them.
“I—I’m not sure you can still consent,” Despite his words, Aziraphale reached forward, taking Crowley’s hip in his hand. His thumb worked a circle, digging into the flesh where his pants rode low. Crowley groaned, the sound tapering to a purr, arching his hips into the touch. Just that touch alone made him feel like he might come apart at the seams.
“I need you,” he fumbled, struggling to prop himself up on a shaking arm, “please, angel, never needed anything as much as I need you.”
Aziraphale moaned, looking pained. And Crowley knew him, knew that look, the one when he was so close to giving into himself and needed just a bit more of a push. Though it was his own need that drove him to sling his free arm over Aziraphale’s broad shoulders, to twine his tail as much as he could around Aziraphale’s leg. Pulled closer, Aziraphale’s head lowered, his hair tickling Crowley’s nose. The warmth of Aziraphale’s breath on his skin made Crowley shudder, a helpless whine tearing from his throat. Aziraphale’s hand tensed on his hip, his tail lashed. Then he pinned his ears before shoving Crowley down onto the couch.
Breath knocked out of his lungs, Crowley went lax beneath Aziraphale. Aziraphale pressed him down with a hand on his shoulder, though Crowley certainly wasn’t intending on getting up any time soon. He couldn’t restrain the weak rutting of his hips, chasing friction that wasn’t there, as Aziraphale buried his face in his throat. Hot breaths ghosted over his skin, over and over, before a wet tongue ran over it.
“Angel!” Crowley jolted beneath him, arching his neck. Aziraphale said something he didn’t catch, kissing his neck, then nipped it with sharp teeth.
“What do you want, Crowley?” He asked, still above him aside from the slow twitch of his tail.
Crowley squirmed, basking in the barely restrained trembling he could feel. “You,” he panted, choking when Aziraphale slid his knee forward just enough to press between his legs, “you inside me. I need you to fuck me, angel. Need to—to feel you.”
The low rumble Aziraphale let out, he decided, was a sound he very much wanted to hear again.
Crowley whined loudly, a protest when Aziraphale sat back. “Get these off,” he said, voice shaking, then unbuttoned Crowley’s pants before he could try. That didn’t stop Crowley from reaching down with shaking hands, fumbling at his zip. Aziraphale let him try for a heartbeat, then batted his hands away. He tugged down his zip, before yanking his pants off with enough force his hips left the couch. Crowley choked, then groaned, then laughed, clutching at the fabric (Aziraphale, hopefully, would forgive him for what he could hear tearing beneath his claws) to keep from being pulled off as Aziraphale tugged, struggling to get them the rest of the way off.
“These damn pants,” Aziraphale huffed, finally managing to get them over his feet, throwing them with a bit too much glee over his shoulder. “They’ve taunted me ever since you got them,” Crowley shuddered under the weight of his stare, feeling it like a physical touch. His hips twitched, cock dribbling. Aziraphale’s eyes darkened at the sight of slick trickling down his thighs.
“Aziraphale—”
He cut himself off, gasping as Aziraphale grasped him by the hips and effortlessly flipped him over. His cock ground against the sofa, making him shudder. Twisting, he turned to face Aziraphale, but Aziraphale pressed his hand between his shoulder blades, shoving him back down. Pleasure radiated from the touch and any other time he would have been embarrassed by the fact Aziraphale could certainly feel his purr radiating up his arm.
“Clinging to you like food-wrap, showing off your legs and arse.” He swiveled his ears back to listen to Aziraphale’s words.
“Angel, please,” The words were nice, and he’d surely be hearing them for the rest of his life. But he needed, desperately, Aziraphale’s cock. Or his fingers, or his tongue. Anything.
“I’ve got you, Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice shook. He shifted back, crawling off the couch. Kneeling beside it, he hooked Crowley’s knees over his arms and lifted them, setting them on his shoulders. Then, with a deep breath that Crowley felt on his slick thighs, he turned his head and began to lick the slick from his legs. Crowley cursed, jolting; Aziraphale shifted an arm to pin his hips as he, moaning at the taste, chased the slick up his skin.
Up his left leg, down his right. Crowley hitched his hips, trying to get Aziraphale’s tongue where he needed it, begging loudly.
“You taste so good,” Aziraphale rumbled against his skin, nipping at where it was thinnest with his sharp canines. It was only once he’d licked his fill, and deemed Crowley’s legs clean enough, that he turned his attention to where Crowley desperately wanted him.
He spread his cleft, hungrily eyeing his dripping hole. It clenched, fluttering around nothing. “Please, please, please,” Crowley sobbed above him, rolling his hips back as much as Aziraphale’s hold would allow.
Watching slick trickle, beading on his balls, Aziraphale licked his lips. Then, without further preamble, he flattened his tongue against Crowley’s hole.
“Fuck!” Crowley moaned into the couch, claws ripping into fabric, twitching under Aziraphale’s tongue. “Damn your tongue,” he said, or at least tried to, the words slurred together. “Your fucking—fucking mouth fixation.”
Aziraphale purred, the rumble making Crowley gasp. He dragged his tongue across his hole, perking his ears to listen keenly to Crowley’s choked-out whines and gasps and curses. Crowley was certain he would never be able to watch Aziraphale eat again without remembering how he’d made the same sounds with his tongue fucking into him, the same noises withdrawing his tongue to chase slick down the inside of his thighs.
The scrawny red tail struck him in the head again. Aziraphale laughed against him (Crowley shouted), reaching up to pin it down. It thrashed like a livewire, and he stroked it fondly for a moment in time with the movements of his tongue.
“Angel, I’m close,” Crowley’s voice pitched up, going rigid against Aziraphale. He cried out in dismay when Aziraphale pulled back, one hand continuing to pin his tail while the other reached up to sloppily wipe his messy mouth and chin. Fumbling, struggling to do so one-handed, he worked to unzip and unbutton his pants, pulling them down just enough to free himself.
Releasing his grip on Crowley’s tail, Aziraphale flipped him back onto his back. Crowley stared up at him, wide-eyed, pupils blown into massive disks. Taking in Aziraphale’s flushed, slick-and-spit shiny face, swollen red lips, and dilated pupils. He shuddered, throbbing cock dribbling onto his stomach (Aziraphale was going to give him hell for the mess later), then spread his legs and arched his back. “Angel, I need you inside me, please.”
Aziraphale, growling, shoved him up the couch so he could kneel between his spread legs. He lowered his head, nipping at Crowley’s quickly-bared throat. Crowley couldn’t have shut himself up if he tried.
Not that he ever could.
“Needed you for so long, since the first time I saw you.” His breath hitched as, having taken himself in hand, Aziraphale pressed the head of his cock against his hole. “Didn’t think I’d ever get to have you.”
For a moment, bracing himself by gripping Crowley’s hips, Aziraphale tried to go slow. But the way Crowley moaned; the heat of him around his cock, the trickle of his slick around him; the way he clenched around him; he couldn’t help himself, and bucked his hips. Together, they moaned as he slid to the base.
“Oh, Crowley,” he gasped, tail puffing up.
“Fuck, yes,” Crowley’s tail twined with his, golden eyes staring up at him greedily, “fuck me, angel, please. Give me everything. I need you.”
Aziraphale drew back, looking down at where they were joined, his cock glistening with slick and arousal. Then, with a noise that made their ears twitch, he thrust back to the base. Crowley shouted, cock bouncing on his stomach. He scrabbled at the couch as Aziraphale, without hesitating, immediately drew back out, then thrust back in, setting a punishing, hungry pace. Aziraphale hunched over him, a welcome weight, stomach just brushing his cock with each thrust.
“You have me, darling,” Aziraphale managed, strangled, watching the rapture on Crowley’s face. His ears twitched with every punched-out groan and whine, chasing the angle that made Crowley cry out the loudest.
When he found it, managing it with every thrust, tears began to trickle down Crowley’s face. He let go of the couch, not nearly enough to ground him as pleasure built in his gut, heat coming to a boiling point in his blood, beneath his skin, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders.
Oh, it was soft, came the thought irrationally when, with a particularly rough thrust, he clutched at Aziraphale’s hair to ground himself. Even softer than he’d imagined, Aziraphale moaned at the tug, lowering himself further until he was nearly pinning Crowley. Who clutched onto him, clinging as closely as he could. His hips bucked, struggling to match Aziraphale’s punishing pace, chasing the grind of Aziraphale’s stomach against his cock. He was only barely aware of his panted pleading.
His nostrils flared, chasing a scent, there and gone. The air was clogged with the scent of his heat, matched only by the smell of sex. Under it was still the bite of winter air, crisp and irritatingly clean, the scent-burners but, underneath all of it—
He tasted the air again on the tail-end of a moan. Then, twisting awkwardly, buried his face in Aziraphale’s throat. Because that was where the scent was coming from, he was sure of it, even mentally hazy with heat and pleasure. The scent was clouded, still weakly covered with what scent-blocker hadn’t been sweated off, but undeniably there.
“Y’re an alpha,” he managed, finally, words. Pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Aziraphale’s throat, feeling him shudder. His cock throbbed inside him, his grip turning bruising on his hips.
“You—ah—you didn’t know?”
If Crowley were able to think about anything other than the cock inside him, the alpha atop him (though even still, if Aziraphale were a beta he’d have wanted him. Hell, even if he were an omega), the fact that it was Aziraphale, the orgasm he could feel just out of reach and the way Aziraphale’s thrusts had begun to stutter, he’d have probably made some comment about how Aziraphale hadn’t known he was an omega, either, until it had slapped him in the face. Instead, he just shook his head shakily. “N-no. Couldn’t smell you. Smell so, so good angel.”
“Please,” Crowley dug his heels into Aziraphale when he hesitated, “please, give me your knot, fill me up, come in me, give me everything.”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s thrusts slowed, deepening, as the base of his cock began to swell. He reached between them, taking Crowley in hand. Crowley cried out, head thumping against the couch, and Aziraphale took the opportunity to set a string of markings in the thin skin of his throat.
“I’ll,” Aziraphale shuddered, laving his tongue over a darkening mark, “I’ll leave you dripping, dearest. Fill you up until you’re swollen with it, so everyone knows you’re mine.” He cried out as, finally, his knot pressed into Crowley’s hole, a strain even with heat and arousal to loosen him.
Crowley shouted, the slight tightening of Aziraphale’s hand and the burn of his knot enough to undo him. He arched beneath Aziraphale as much as he could, pinned as he was, cock spilling between them, filthying his stomach and Aziraphale’s hand and shirt. Pleasure ran over him in waves, walls clenching rhythmically around Aziraphale. As that drove him over the edge, Aziraphale sank his teeth into his neck. He could only manage tiny thrusts as Crowley’s walls milked his knot, Crowley going limp beneath him, twitching as the last of his orgasm ran through him.
Crowley purred loudly, fingers tangled in Aziraphale’s hair, legs loosely held up by Aziraphale’s hips, at the feel of Aziraphale’s cum filling him. He felt boneless, completely run through, though it wouldn’t be long before he’d be ready to go again. That didn’t stop him from wishing he could see Aziraphale’s face, wanting to know how he looked when he came. If he made the same face he did when he found something particularly ‘scrummy’, if he went even redder, if he closed his eyes or stared enraptured.
He found Aziraphale flushed when he finally released his neck, leaning back after pressing a kiss to the resultant mark. Aziraphale was careful as he moved them onto their sides, mindful both of the knot and the fact the sofa wasn’t overly wide.
A blunt thumb rubbed over his hip as they caught their breath, purrs rumbling in their chests. After a long moment, Aziraphale asked, “Will you stay?”
Crowley looked at him, startled. “Huh?”
He couldn’t exactly leave at the moment, after all. They were rather stuck together.
Aziraphale’s tail twitched, his ears pinning. “I—that is, the reason Anathema was looking for scent blockers that don’t bother you was, she and I, and Newton as well, were hoping you’d stay. With us, I mean, in our cottage.”
Crowley stared at him. Surely he didn’t mean—?
“Winter will be so cold, after all.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. He shifted, stilling when his knot tugged uncomfortably. “And after winter, of course. It’s always so wet, and it’s just not fair for you to be out in that when we have room for you, and so much food.”
He didn’t know what to say. What do you say, when your housecat… what could he call Aziraphale? Friend didn’t cover it, not close. When your housecat angel invites you to live with them? Especially when they have their knot inside you and their marks darkening on your hips, thighs, and throat?
“Fuck, angel,” he finally said. Aziraphale’s ears flattened, expression closing off. Crowley laughed, disbelieving, and kissed Aziraphale. Who made a startled sound against him, then pressed into the kiss eagerly.
Pulling back, Aziraphale asked, “Does that mean you will?”
And Crowley grinned, purring, wrapping his tail around Aziraphale’s leg. “I don’t think you could get rid of me if you tried.”