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No one knew better than Crowley that God’s pronouncements could be a little confusing.
They weren’t always as backhanded as when She’d told him I love you, My child for the eons before the Earth began, only to send him hurtling into a cesspool that charred his wings black and burned his Grace out of his immortal core. No matter how much She had done for him in the last few years, that stung.
But still. When Aziraphale had told him that God had promised them sanctuary, declaring that once they’d cashed in on that promise that No harm will come to those who call this place their home, Crowley and Aziraphale both had assumed She’d meant that they couldn’t leave the bookshop. And, well, that was a perfectly logical assumption to make, right? The shop had become their physical sanctuary, so they wouldn’t be safe outside of it, and considering what not-being-safe meant for them these days, they weren’t going to risk that.
She’d since done them the rare courtesy of clarifying Her meaning. Even if they weren’t physically at the bookshop, they still called it their home. Her protection would still follow them wherever they went. Sure, Crowley had still had a panic attack in the middle of St James’s Park the first time they’d left the shop, but things had gotten easier since then.
They’d gone to the Ritz tonight. Aziraphale was happily nibbling on a chocolate torte. Crowley was sipping his coffee, happily watching him.
Some things never changed.
Aziraphale paused on what must’ve been a particularly scrumptious bite, closing his eyes with a blissful hum. “I know a chef is entitled to their secrets, but I simply must ask for this recipe.”
“Good idea,” said Crowley. “While they’re distracted talking to you, I’ll sneak the whole cookbook from the kitchen. Make you whatever you want at home.”
Aziraphale chuckled. “You are a terror.”
“Demon.”
Aziraphale set down his fork, and performed his version of relaxing back in his chair—in other words, his spine slouched one degree from its usual upright state. No one else would’ve noticed it but Crowley.
“This place hasn’t changed much, has it?” Aziraphale remarked, glancing around the dining room.
Crowley looked around, himself. “When you’re rated the most beautiful dining room in the world, doesn’t make sense to change things up too much.”
As he looked, he couldn’t help the way his eyes were drawn to a table at the center of the room. The couple seated there chit-chatted away, oblivious to the demon staring at them. Not that they were of any particular interest to him.
Except for the fact that they were seated at his and Aziraphale’s usual table.
It wasn’t that two humans had somehow outsmarted an angel and demon’s miraculous version of fine dining reservations. He and Aziraphale chose tables in the corners of restaurants on purpose these days.
Crowley needed his back to the wall.
The change didn’t usually bother him anymore. Protecting his back had become second-nature. He didn’t think about it.
Except at the Ritz.
He and Aziraphale didn’t come here as often as in the past. Crowley suspected it had something to do with That Month.
They’d had a window of one beautiful month after the failed Apocalypse. They’d tricked Heaven and Hell (though Crowley now shuddered to think he’d once let Aziraphale willingly walk into Hell in his place). They’d gone to the Ritz, toasted the world, and breathed a shared sigh of relief that they could, for the first time, enjoy the world without worry.
They’d frequented the Ritz quite often during that month. That centrally-located table had become a shared symbol of their newfound freedom, the seal cementing Their Own Side. And always, in every sip of champagne, every hand set tantalizingly close on the tablecloth, there was the promise of something more. Something they could take their time arriving toward, savoring the gradual, magnetic pull into each other’s arms.
Then Heaven and Hell had come for them. Crowley had warned Aziraphale in time for the angel to escape, only for him to be captured himself.
Four years of torture and nearly three years of attempted normalcy later, seeing their usual table at the Ritz brought such a bitter taste to Crowley’s mouth.
“Guess some things have changed,” he muttered.
Aziraphale looked at where he was staring. “I suppose,” he said. “Although, not all of those changes were for the worse.”
“What d’you—”
Aziraphale’s hand slid on top of his own on the tablecloth.
Crowley’s heart kickstarted a new rhythm in his chest. The first second of physical contact always wiped his mind blank with joy. When he came to, he turned his hand over to hold Aziraphale’s. He hid his smile in another sip of coffee. Aziraphale probably still noticed it.
This change—loving each other openly—was definitely for the better.
“So,” said Aziraphale, leaning in closer, “was there…any particular occasion for coming here tonight?”
Crowley grinned. Aziraphale knew him too well.
It had become somewhat of a tradition that, when Crowley wanted to try something new between them, he did his best to give them both a good day before asking. They’d had a perfect day before the night of their first kiss, and the day they had first made love, their date had been exquisite.
And as it happened, Crowley did have something new in mind when he’d suggested the Ritz tonight.
But before he could reply, their waiter came around the corner, refilling Aziraphale’s wine glass. “Is there anything else the gentlemen would like?” he asked. As Aziraphale smiled at him, the waiter turned his attention to Crowley expectantly.
That’s when Crowley noticed it.
The look. A quick up-and-down. Blink, and you’d miss it.
But Crowley didn’t blink much.
He pressed his lips together, trying to disguise the curl of discomfort. “Just the check,” he gritted out.
The waiter nodded dutifully, and departed. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed Crowley’s tone, or perhaps he was too professional of a server to react to it.
Aziraphale, however, did notice. “Goodness, what on Earth was that about?” he asked, indignant. “He’s only doing his job.”
Crowley’s jaw clenched. It wasn’t enough that that look had put a damper on his own evening; it was threatening to have Aziraphale turn this into A Thing. Perhaps A Thing that would last long after they left the restaurant.
But, it all depended on Crowley’s response.
So, as he flexed his hand under the tablecloth, he schooled his face into a more neutral expression, and shrugged. “Nothing. Just reminded me of someone a few thousand years ago. Not the poor lad’s fault."
He wondered if Aziraphale would call his bluff. After all, they usually had a good read on when the other one was lying. Even with Crowley’s advantage of his dark glasses; the angel had learned over the last two thousand years to read his expressions with them on.
But, they both knew that sometimes, their lies were in place for a good reason. Whatever the case, Aziraphale didn’t press him on it as the waiter returned with the check.
xxx
They spent the walk back window-shopping in Soho. Aziraphale oohed and ahhed over little trinkets and knickknacks, thinking of what decorations he might want to purchase for the shop come the Christmas season. He turned his nose up over a rival book dealer’s window selection.
Crowley, meanwhile, couldn’t have recalled a single word said between them the entire time. And not because he didn’t generate automatic responses to Aziraphale’s excitement; he gave perfectly acceptable replies.
No, it was because his mind was on the waiter. And the look.
Like many waiters at such establishments, the lad was perhaps in his mid-twenties, still growing into what his face would become in middle age. He’d probably assumed Crowley and Aziraphale were involved in some shady business deal (which, at one point, they technically had been), to be frequenting the Ritz with such premier seating arrangements as often as they did.
But it wasn’t purely a look of admiration at their supposed social status. It was a pointed look of desire.
It was far from the first time Crowley had been dealt such a look from a human. Aziraphale had gotten plenty of those looks, too, during their various rendezvous at cafés and restaurants over the years. Their corporations were near-opposites; at least one of them was going to be someone in the room’s type.
Humans couldn’t help who they were attracted to. It wasn’t the young man’s fault.
But, considering how shut-in Crowley and Aziraphale had become after…what happened to Crowley…he hadn’t since given any humans many opportunities to serve him a look like that. Until tonight.
Angels and demons, on the other hand.
He knew all too well what it was like for another demon to look at him with want. He knew what it meant when an angel other than Aziraphale laid eyes on him, while their own gaze grew darker.
It meant things too terrible to name, and memories which Crowley always tried to keep buried, clawing their way to the surface.
xxx
Fortunately, their evening went on as Crowley had originally hoped: it ended with them making out on the sofa.
They were cuddled in on their sides. The back cushions dug into Crowley’s back as he was pressed up against them. Aziraphale was the one with his back to the room, wiggling up against Crowley. Protecting him, as always.
The waiter’s look was still needling in the back of Crowley’s mind. But at least Aziraphale had forgotten all about it. And Crowley had every intention of keeping it that way.
Aziraphale broke the kiss, staring at Crowley with a cheeky grin. “What would you have of me, my darling?”
Crowley shivered. The affection in his tone…it always pushed all the right buttons in his brain. It made him feel important, made him feel loved.
But, although he had every intention of asking for what he’d originally planned for tonight…the words wouldn’t come. They stuck in his throat instead, while visions of that look made him shudder.
“I could have you in my mouth,” was what he ended up saying.
Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. “You could, indeed.”
Permission granted, Crowley kissed him once more, and slithered down the length of the sofa.
He pulled Aziraphale from his trousers, licking his lips at the sight of him. Like the rest of him, Aziraphale was nice and girthy. Crowley hadn’t performed this particular act too often, but when he did, he knew that a few minutes of this activity could make his jaw start to ache from the stretch.
Best get to it, then.
As he took Aziraphale into his mouth, giving a good, long suck, Aziraphale gave a lustful cry. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, and sucked again, releasing him with a lewd smack.
It bounced against his lips. A chill went through him.
Crowley glanced up. Aziraphale’s eyes were closed in bliss. His hand started curling in Crowley’s hair, petting through the tuft at the top of his head.
Crowley swallowed, and resumed his task.
It didn’t take too long. Soon he lost himself in the act, sucking, slurping, releasing. Going back in, hollowing his cheeks. Up, and down. Up, and down. Again, and again, and—
“Crowley—” Aziraphale warned him.
Crowley took the hint, and quickly shimmied back up to Aziraphale’s face, replacing his mouth with his hands. “Come on,” he whispered, “let go, come for me…”
With a sharp cry, Aziraphale did. He’d warned Crowley just in time, before he’d come all over Crowley’s face. It splattered on his shirt and jeans instead.
Thank Satan.
As Aziraphale came down from it, basking in the afterglow, Crowley cleaned away the mess. He was also panting like he’d just sprinted for his life.
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale slurred out. “How wonderful you are. So… gorgeous…”
Another chill went through Crowley.
But as Aziraphale gained more presence of mind, his gaze drifted downward. Toward the half-hard bulge in a pair of black denim trousers. “And you?” he asked. “What would you have of me?”
Crowley shook his head. “I’m fine.”
Concern filtered into those sea-gray eyes. “You’re sure?”
Crowley tucked Aziraphale’s head under his chin. “Positive. Just wanted to make you feel good.”
Aziraphale, sleepy from the wine at dinner and his recent high, didn’t press him on the issue.
Sometimes it was the small blessings that counted.
xxx
Some nights, Crowley knew the nightmares were coming. Those were usually the nights after a particularly trying day, in which he attempted to avoid sleep altogether. Aziraphale had helped him a great deal in his endeavors to stay awake, engaging him in in-depth, silly conversations long into the night.
But some nights, Crowley didn’t see it coming. They visited him just when he’d thought everything was going well—or perhaps, like tonight, when he’d refused to examine the turmoil bubbling in the background of his own mind.
And tonight, Crowley was dreaming he was on his elbows and knees in his freezing-cold cell, swallowing down his whimpers of pain as an angel raped him.
xxx
It always hurt. You’d think with how often it happened, his body would have loosened up enough to give him some relief. Instead, the angel battered against his open wounds from the last assault, while he was still tight enough to be torn open in new ways.
And it wasn’t just the physical pain—although it had him biting his own lips till they bled, so he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of screaming. But one of the worst parts was that they could do something this intimate to humiliate him. Each time, they took away another piece of his soul, destroying what little dignity he tried to scrape together in the meantime.
It was enough to make him collapse into sobs afterward, every. Single. Time.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, this time he wasn’t alone. This time, another angel was standing by, watching.
“You know, I thought he’d resist this more,” said the observing one. “Try to fight you off. At least tell us ‘no, I don’t want it’, or something. But no. Doesn’t even bother trying to deny he wants angel cock.”
“And he’s not—gonna get any more angel cock—if you keep staring,” grunted the angel raping him. “Why do you—even wanna look?”
The watching angel knelt down beside him. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, whimpering from the scrutiny and a particularly hard thrust.
“I was just thinking,” said the angel beside him, “I wish we could use his other end.”
A low grunt. “What?”
“His mouth. I wish we could use that, too.” He ran a thumb over Crowley’s bleeding bottom lip. “He looks like he’d be a natural at it. World-class pout, he’s got. Gorgeous. Made for fitting pipes.”
“I told you,” grunted the other angel, “he’d bite your prick off. Then you’re—dealing with—discorporation paperwork.”
“You say that like you’re so sure. You hear how he’s whimpering for your big cock?”
“Will you shut up about my cock?”
“Sorry, I just—”
“Worry about—your own cock! He’ll—bite it off—I’m telling you!”
The angel rubbed over Crowley's lower lip one more time. Crowley flushed red with shame, and tried to turn away.
“Nah-ah-ah,” taunted the angel, and grabbed a hold of Crowley’s chin. “Look at me, slut.”
Faced with no other options that didn’t end in more pain, Crowley obeyed, and stared into the eyes of one of his countless tormenters, whimpering as he was jolted back and forth.
xxx
Five days later, Crowley was restless.
He’d made at least four laps of the shop in the last hour. He usually only got like this when he was bored, and would often fiddle with things he wasn’t supposed to touch as he prowled through the shelves.
He wasn’t bored, though. He was unsettled.
He stopped, and leaned back against a bookshelf. He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling at the roots as he heaved an irritated sigh at himself.
The ancient tomes were digging into his back. It set the uneasiness on a knife’s edge. The sensation could settle the itching dread creeping up his spine; or, it could claw him down into flashbacks, as his brain associated the pressure with cursed knives, blessed whips, or worst of all, cruel and grasping hands …
Four years of torture by Heaven and Hell was in his rearview. So, yeah. Bad days were inevitable after that.
But this wasn’t a bad day. Not like, with a capital B. He wasn’t trembling like a leaf as he tried to keep his panic and rage under wraps. He wasn’t drowning in memories.
This was just…something there.
He’d decided a couple years ago that, even if he never felt ‘normal’ again, he at least wouldn’t let those four years of imprisonment in Hell define his existence. He would live a happy, fulfilled life, powered by sheer spite if nothing else. He would do things he enjoyed, and surround himself with comfort and safety.
Which, of course, made days like this really fucking annoying. It was almost worse than the outright panic. At least that commanded his total attention. It made it easier to admit that No, I’m really not okay right now. It gave him a full alibi from having a normal day.
But this prickling feeling under his skin? It was so easy to ignore it, to stuff it down into that shoebox in his head labeled Open This For A Real Bad Time.
But, stuffed down or not, it would keep buzzing beneath his flesh. Reminding him that, try as he might, he couldn’t be normal. Those four years would stay embedded in the bedrock of his identity, tattooed inside his skin, as unshakeable as the invisible hands he still felt groping him sometimes. Like a fly he could never swat away.
He gave a low groan in irritation. He was stuck at his least-favorite crossroads: To Delve, or Not To Delve.
That was always the question, wasn’t it.
He could try to ignore this feeling. He knew it wouldn’t work, but he could pretend it didn’t bother him. Fake it till you make it, right?
Or, he could stop, and think, and try to figure this out.
Might as well go on BBC One for this. A brand-new on-air radio game: Which Part of the Demon Crowley’s Trauma Is the Most Bothersome Today? Is it:
A: The time three demons lost count of how many times they'd scourged him, and kept starting the count over at one?
B: The time the angel who was fucking him made him beg for his cock even as he screamed?
C: The time those two demons chained him up by his wings, and used those wings as targets for knife-throwing practice?
Or D: The time the Archangel Michael promised him they would torture Aziraphale the same way once they’d caught him, and would make Crowley watch them do it?
If Crowley could’ve glared at himself, he would have. He settled on rolling his eyes so hard they might get stuck that way.
This inner dialogue probably wasn’t helpful.
But, it was either play this guessing game, or ignore the feeling, and let the squirming thoughts rip his subconscious apart until the inevitable outburst spilled over. And he’d rather not spend today yelling at the one person he loved, thank you very much.
The thought of the person he loved brought some clarity. (Didn’t it always?) If he was going to stew in his thoughts, he might as well do it beside his best friend.
So, Crowley pushed off from the bookshelf, stuffed his hands in his too-small pockets, and sauntered over to the back room where he’d left the angel.
By doing so, he gathered more information: his clothes were too tight.
Here’s the thing. Crowley liked his appearance. He’d spent just over six thousand years inside this human corporation, and though he enjoyed keeping up with the fashions of the day, the body itself had never changed. And though the humans might consider some of his traits a bit odd (and other traits a bit eye-catching), he liked it.
He liked the way his face looked. Contrary to his habit of wearing dark glasses, he liked his serpent’s eyes. He liked his nose, his cheekbones, his jawline, the wrinkles beginning to wear into his face. He liked his fiery red hair, on his head and everywhere else. He liked his Adam’s apple (ironic, that his was so prominent). He liked how long and slender he was. He liked his veined hands and nimble fingers. He liked the way his clothes sat on his wiry frame, hugging tight or hanging loose in all the right places.
And yes, he liked the way he walked. He was thoroughly aware of how strange it looked to others—it was often one of the first things human contacts would notice about him as he approached. They would hurriedly avert their eyes from staring at the sway of his hips, but the temptation was already in motion.
It wasn’t even about tempting humans, though. He simply enjoyed the feeling of his hips moving as he walked. It wasn’t a performance; it was just fun.
But now, after those four years of Heaven and Hell dragging his body through the worst torments imaginable…
It was different.
Now, where his clothes used to sit naturally on his body, they itched against his skin. Three years later, and it still felt like they didn’t belong there. Like he should still be naked, trying to emotionally tread water as his body was claimed and picked apart.
Now, instead of his swaying hips bringing him a quiet satisfaction, they swayed into memories of demonic claws digging into them, or angels’ Grace burning their fingerprints into them, as they dragged him back onto their cocks.
He could still hear the smack of their hips against his.
He could still feel their palms stinging against his flanks.
I knew demons could be whores, but you’ve really let them pass you around, haven’t you?
I thought you’d be like this, your trousers left nothing to the imagination.
How many humans did you tempt with this body? I bet they all wanted a piece of you.
Go on, traitor. Beg for it. The way you strutted around Earth, you must’ve been desperate for something up the ass.
Regarding that last one: yes, he had been desperate for that. But only from one person.
Crowley entered the back room with a more muted saunter than usual, and once again laid eyes on that one person.
Aziraphale was on the sofa, sitting primly as always, reading The Picture of Dorian Gray. Crowley had been watching Golden Girls in here earlier; the TV was still on low, filling the silence of the room with the quiet canned laughter at Bea and Betty’s antics. Aziraphale didn’t seem bothered by it.
Crowley didn’t think this lightly, but good Lord. Even sitting quiet and unassuming on the sofa, his angel was downright gorgeous.
Crowley loped over to the sofa. He could’ve spilled his limbs over half of it in his usual sprawl, but instead, he gave into the impulse to curl up tight. Anything to make himself feel less exposed.
(Never mind that curling into a ball in his cell had never protected him from the next assault. Never mind that no one would ever hurt him here. The fear was irrational, and far more powerful for it.)
So, he folded his body on the sofa in a manner he’d dreamed of for six millennia: plastered to Aziraphale’s side, legs swung over the angel’s thighs. As close as he could get to sitting in Aziraphale’s lap without actually doing so.
Aziraphale didn’t look up. His response was even better: his mouth turned up in a slight grin, and one hand let go of his book, only to wrap his arm around Crowley’s shoulders. As if the two of them cuddling on the sofa like this was the most normal thing in the world.
And the best thing about it? For the last three years, it was.
Crowley let out a contented sigh. Some of the buzzing settled immediately. Like he’d grabbed his brain’s remote control, and turned down the anxiety volume, till it was as quiet as the sitcom still playing in the room.
He glanced at the hand resting warmly on his shoulder. For a second, the world fell off-kilter, as he became too hyperaware of reality. So much so that it didn’t feel real at all. Derealization, Aziraphale had once told him it was called. A common trauma response, apparently, and one he’d often experienced post-imprisonment.
It made sense: he’d lost track of time while being tortured, and back then, he’d thought it would last for eternity. His mind had adapted to the new reality of pain and terror as best as it could. Now, he was trying to compensate the other way, and the last three years’ onslaught of gentleness and affection still felt like a foreign language sometimes.
Case in point: how the Heaven could a hand be resting on his shoulder, not hurting him, not cruelly groping his flesh, not mocking or degrading in any way; but instead holding him so sweetly and reverently he might discorporate from it?
Simple. Because it was Aziraphale.
“Something’s on your mind,” Aziraphale said, breaking the easy silence between them. Crowley slid his gaze back to Aziraphale, who met him with kind, loving eyes. “I can tell.”
Crowley expertly avoided the implied question. “You know me too well.”
Aziraphale laughed. “My dear, I don’t think there’s any two beings in the universe who know each other better than we do.”
Crowley’s smile flickered to life as he realized how true that was. Humans couldn’t live long enough to experience the same centuries-long connection to someone. Other angels or demons, meanwhile, treated each other as friendly work acquaintances at best. True friendship between two immortal beings—let alone any deep-rooted love and devotion—was an intimacy no one else shared but him and Aziraphale.
The hand on his shoulder started rubbing a soothing rhythm. “Do you want to talk about it?” Aziraphale asked.
Crowley let out a breath. He shrugged. “Maybe. Words aren’t all there yet.”
Aziraphale’s smile turned somber. “Well, let me know if they turn up. I’m happy to listen to them.” He kissed Crowley’s forehead, and went back to his book, leaving Crowley shivering with how loved he felt.
Time trickled into that hazy space of contented silence between an old married couple. The television prattled on. Aziraphale turned the pages of his book. The afternoon shadows lengthened on the shelves.
Crowley leaned his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He would have worried about digging in, but Aziraphale’s softness always cushioned his sharp edges. They each contained the other so well. Always had done.
The thought of their bodies’ differences made part of his thoughts fall into place.
“Do humans ever look at you?” he asked quietly.
Aziraphale glanced to him, then back to his book. “Could you be more specific?”
“I mean, look at you. Like…” Crowley trailed off, inhaling the scent of Aziraphale’s cologne. “Like they want something.”
“Like they want…” Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Oh. You mean, a look of desire?”
Crowley nodded, his chin rubbing against Aziraphale’s shoulder.
“Of course they do,” Aziraphale said, with a smug little wiggle that may have been subconscious. Crowley couldn’t tell, but it made him smile, that Aziraphale was so pleased to be considered by certain humans. “I’ve told you my…previous exploits, in that arena.”
Crowley shrugged. “Yeah.”
Aziraphale suddenly stilled before he turned the next page, glancing at Crowley out of the corner of his eyes. “Why?”
Crowley sighed, and slumped down further against Aziraphale’s shoulder. There wasn’t really any smooth way to segue into the topic of his torture. He’d tried before, to hilariously flat-footed results. You just had to plunge in tits-first.
“In Hell…” He swallowed. “It wasn’t just what they did. It was…what they said.”
Aziraphale stayed quiet, but Crowley could feel him start to tense. Couldn’t be helped. Crowley knew he would start trying to imagine all the hurtful things they’d said to him.
And that just wasn’t fair, to let Aziraphale’s imagination hurt him anymore. So Crowley intervened, even though he started choking up partway through. “The things they said…about my body…”
Aziraphale’s jaw clenched.
But Crowley could hardly bring himself to continue. The realization of what was really bothering him was crashing down to Earth, and his emotions were the impact crater.
“What did they say?” Aziraphale asked softly.
Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder, feeling the heat of the shame burning his cheeks and throat. “You know. That I was attractive. Handsome. Made for…”
Aziraphale slammed his book shut, his hands shaking.
Crowley closed his eyes. “That I was gagging for it. That I was asking for it all this time, with the way I walk, and the way I dress, and how everyone on Earth must've—”
Then an arm was around his back, while Aziraphale’s other hand cradled the back of his head. When he slid open his eyes, Aziraphale had turned to fully face him, Dorian Gray forgotten on a shelf somewhere.
“It’s not true,” Aziraphale murmured to him. “You know that, yes? Not a word of it.”
Crowley frowned. “You mean I’m not attractive?”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes at Crowley’s pitiful attempt at levity. “Everything they said on the subject was meant to degrade you. It’s all about cementing this—this horrid victim-blaming attitude, that every survivor of such assaults has been forced to carry, since time immemorial.”
Crowley sighed, letting his chin fall heavier on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I know,” he mumbled.
Aziraphale leaned down to look him in the eye. “But you still can’t help thinking those things?”
Crowley started tracing Aziraphale’s front. The velvet of his waistcoat. The fob and chain of his pocketwatch. The buttons of his many layers, arranged exactly how the angel liked. “They gave me my body, didn’t they? Designed it themselves, down to the last hair follicle. So…”
“Crowley, I hope you’re not implying that they designed your body to be—”
He cut himself off. So Crowley stared up at him, and finished the sentence. “That they designed my body to be fuckable?”
Aziraphale bit back a sigh. “My darling, you know that’s not true. They gave you your body to blend in among the humans.”
“Yeah, to tempt them.”
“Not to tempt them into… that!”
“How do you know?” Crowley asked, suddenly irritated. “Were you there, on the design committee? Did you not hear them say ‘Oh, I know, let’s be sure to give him hips in the shape of handles for people to grab onto’?”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “You’re being ridiculous. You of all people should know that Hell’s intentions toward you can—can—go bugger right off!”
Crowley laughed, in spite of himself. It wasn’t every day that he got to hear Aziraphale employ such colorful language. Soon enough, Aziraphale joined in, sounding surprised at least.
Aziraphale brushed that stubborn lock of hair from Crowley’s forehead, and pressed a kiss there instead. “Your body is yours,” he murmured. “The moment they gave it to you, they ceded ownership of it. You could modify it however you wished, as you have done. Its purpose is to give you joy. However you wished to find it.”
Crowley felt a flush crawl up his neck again. “So you’re saying it’s my fault, that I didn’t modify it to—”
“No, dearheart. The fact that you kept your body mostly as-is—hairstyles notwithstanding—means that you find joy in its arrangement. Why else do you think my own corporation is the way that it is?”
Crowley grinned. “You mean beautiful as all Creation?”
Aziraphale chuckled. “I’m glad you think so. But I’ve kept it this way not because you or anyone else likes it, but because I like it. And I know, deep down, you feel the same way about your own corporation, because there is nothing wrong with it.”
Crowley didn’t reply. Aziraphale’s words were clanging too loudly around his head, leaving echoes in their wake. There’s nothing wrong with it, nothing wrong with it, nothing wrong, nothing.
Some buried part of him reeled back from the words. His emotional immune system was overreacting, throwing up defenses against what it perceived was a lie.
Maybe there had once been nothing wrong with his body. But after all the horrors it had been subjected to, how he still woke up screaming in the wake of them, how he still couldn’t go into certain positions with it, how a single touch could send him into a flashback…
How could there be nothing wrong with it now?
xxx
Weeks passed. The worry gradually left Crowley’s immediate attention. He had a few nightmares here and there that sent the thoughts roaring back to life, but they soon faded, as well.
And just as gradually, the thing he’d wanted the night of the Ritz resurfaced in Crowley’s mind.
He’d wanted this for centuries now. He’d thought it would never happen. Then Heaven and Hell had raped him over and over, and he knew it would never happen. But now…
Now, he and Aziraphale were spending an afternoon cuddling in the bed they shared, comfortable and relaxed, talking about stupid nothings. Now, with no pressing threats on his radar, and nothing at the forefront of his thoughts to bother him…
Now, the want was perking back up again, with a real chance of actually doing something about it.
But for now, Crowley continued his game of playful questions. “Who was your oldest?” he asked.
Aziraphale’s brow raised. “You mean the oldest human?”
“Of course. I’m asking about humans only, I know all you’ve done with me.”
Aziraphale chuckled. “A fair point. Let me think…” His eyes looked to the ceiling in contemplation. “Perhaps…it was Eleanor of Aquitaine? When we finally fell into bed—”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“What?”
Crowley was scowling at him. “You did not fuck Eleanor of Aquitaine.”
“Yes I did!”
“You DID NOT fuck Eleanor of Aquitaine.”
“I did!”
Crowley ran a hand down his face. “I was off tempting in Poitiers around then, and everyone in Western Europe wanted to marry her! How did—”
Aziraphale chuckled. “Well, by the time I met her, she’d been around the old block, as it were. But she was still quite…enthusiastic.”
Crowley couldn’t help his chuckle.
“It was a glorious few weeks,” Aziraphale admitted. He trailed off. “Although…”
Crowley raised his brow.
Aziraphale stroked down Crowley’s face. “I almost imagined her having golden eyes, once. And I tell you…I never had a more glorious time, with any human, than during that moment.”
Crowley grinned, his chest burning with the praise. “Glad I could help get you off, even if I wasn’t there.”
“Oh, hush,” said Aziraphale. But his caress of Crowley’s face never ceased. “You have been my guiding light, all these years. Even while I have enjoyed time with some humans, and even held deep affection for a select few…they were all candles, to your Northern Star.”
“You should write a sonnet out of that. That last bit was in perfect iambic pentameter.”
Aziraphale hummed in agreement. “Perhaps I should.”
He looked down in thought. “Penny for them?” Crowley asked.
“Oh, I just wondered…” Aziraphale looked at Crowley again, his gaze unbearably soft. “Did you truly never feel such things for a human? Any fleeting moment of desire, or wanting to touch, and hold, and share…anything?”
Crowley thought back. Sure, there were countless human acquaintances he’d made over the millennia through the course of his Evil Deeds. A select few—like Leonardo, or Mozart, or Mr. Bowie—could have even been considered friends, of a fashion.
But as far as wanting anything physical with them?
He shrugged. “Not to my recollection. Just…never registered.” He smiled. “'Til you, that is.”
Aziraphale’s smile softened, his eyes growing even more tender as he caressed Crowley’s cheek. “Even as far back as Eden?”
Crowley was about to nod and agree, but…something stopped him. He squinted as his mind traveled back to the wall of the Garden. Aziraphale had lifted a wing to shelter him from the rain, but with nothing to shelter himself, the rain had soaked his robes.
As he thought back on it now, Crowley could feel his own desire stirring. But back then?
“I…don’t think I…did,” he said slowly. “At least, I—I knew you were attractive, but—with humans, it’s always been, ‘oh, I can see why someone would want them’, or ‘yeah, that jawline must be what gets them laid’, or something like that. But it’s never, ‘I want to get them laid.’ Does that make sense?”
Aziraphale nodded. “So…when did you start thinking that way, with me?”
The memory snapped to Crowley right away.
The Globe Theatre. 1601.
Aziraphale had been wearing the fashions of the time, for once: stockings that showed off his calf muscles; a blue and beige tunic that shimmered in the sunlight. His white hair had been as fluffy as the ruffled collar around his neck that day.
But what had done it for Crowley was when Mr. Shakespeare had encouraged them to interact with the performers more. Hamlet had begun his monologue again, and Aziraphale had shouted, “To be! I mean, not to be!”
He’d smiled at Crowley, saying in his awkward, adorable, enthusiastic way, “Come on, Hamlet, buck up!”
And for the first time, Crowley had felt a stirring of warmth in his belly, wanting to kiss that sweet smile until he forgot how to breathe.
He’d only shown it by tensing his own brow, staring at Aziraphale while trying to remember why he’d come here in the first place. Stupid angel, he remembered thinking, making me feel things. How very dare he.
When he told Aziraphale this, the angel hummed fondly. “I remember seeing that look on your face. I must say, it was quite a similar train of thoughts going through my own head.” His caresses moved to Crowley’s forehead. “I remember wanting to kiss away that crease in your forehead, until you forgot what the word stress meant.”
Crowley quirked up a corner of his mouth. “I do, when you kiss me like that.”
“Oh, do you?”
“Mm-hm.”
Then they were kissing, and Crowley couldn’t remember the meaning of any words whatsoever.
But Aziraphale suddenly broke away, a new light in his eyes. “I think I know what—there’s a word for this!”
“For what?”
“For how you experience attraction. Such wonderful humans, they’ve come up with so many words to describe such things.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Aziraphale, still with that infectious smile on his face, pronounced the word: “Demisexual.”
Crowley frowned. “Demi-sexual? Like, half-sexual?”
“Of a sort. What it means is, you only experience attraction with those you already have an emotional connection to.”
Crowley squinted. “So I only want to fuck my friends?”
“No, that’s—it doesn’t necessarily apply to all your friends. It simply means that, in order for attraction to occur, emotional intimacy must, necessarily, be a prerequisite.”
Crowley thought back, to all the times he found others experiencing attraction—the Roman orgies being a particularly memorable example. He’d looked around at all the writhing bodies, all the naked slaves on display, the lovers entwined in various configurations…and felt nothing but a brief curiosity at this latest example of human lust.
Compared to Aziraphale, with his sweet smiles, and his sturdy, solid frame, and his eyes…
And he realized how right Aziraphale was. It was only after the Arrangement was in place, only after they started really trusting each other, and spending significant amounts of time together, that Crowley started feeling that way toward him.
He let this newfound knowledge settle into his bones. It felt right. It fit. For once, he had a word to describe his attraction, besides merely Aziraphale-centric.
“So,” he said, “I guess I’m demisexual.”
Aziraphale smiled. “Congratulations, my dear.” And he kissed him so sweetly, Crowley was sure he’d discorporate from it.
He wasn’t sure where his next words came from, why he decided to voice his long-time-coming urge now. If he’d gotten a grip on himself, he probably would’ve come up with a smoother segue into the topic. They were already talking about sexual orientation, after all; asking for something sexual wasn’t too abrupt of a conversation-switch.
But instead, Crowley broke the kiss and asked unprompted, “What would you think about having me inside you?”
Aziraphale’s mouth fell open.
Crowley buried his face in his hands. “M’sorry, I should’ve planned that out better, I’ll—”
“No, my sweet, I’m—"
And then Aziraphale was laughing. It made Crowley flush harder, squeezing his palms against his eyes, wishing he really had discorporated from the kiss.
“I apologize,” Aziraphale said between giggles, “I’m only—of all the things I thought you would say next—”
“Well,” said Crowley, peeking out from behind his hands, attempting to find his footing again, “we were talking about how comfortable I am with you? Maybe take it as a compliment?”
“Oh, I do,” Aziraphale said fervently, “very much so. ” He took one of Crowley’s hands, and pressed a kiss to the back of it, before holding it to his chest. “And as far as what I think of it, I…” His eyes lit up. “I think I would like that very much.”
Crowley grinned in spite of himself. “Yeah?”
Aziraphale kissed his hand again, eyes full to the brim with love. “Yes.”
xxx
As always with such first-time activities, this required careful planning. Crowley needed to know when, and where, and what they would be doing.
They planned it for that evening, in their bed.
And Crowley was going to be…inside Aziraphale.
As he kissed Aziraphale down to the bedding, he still couldn’t believe that that was where this was headed. It was almost an out-of-body experience, to know that they were doing something he’d previously thought inaccessible to his trauma-bruised self.
But if it was going to happen, Crowley was going to be careful about it. As much as part of him wanted to rush in cock-first, he knew his too-fast tendencies could get him burned in this arena. So. Slow and steady, and all that.
They’d gotten their shirts off, and were working on their trousers, when Aziraphale paused. He gazed up at Crowley fondly, lips shining with their shared saliva.
“What?” Crowley asked. “You okay?”
“Oh, I’m marvelous,” said Aziraphale with a grin. “I’m just…so proud of you, darling. For trying this.”
The compliment tore through a chink in Crowley’s armor. He rolled his shoulders to loosen them up. “Hopefully we’ll do more than just try.”
“I know,” said Aziraphale, cupping Crowley’s cheek. “But even if we don’t—”
“It’s fine, Aziraphale.”
Aziraphale faltered. “I—I know it is. Just…know that there’s no expectations you must meet in this regard. Ever.”
Crowley melted a little. He truly was the luckiest demon to have ever lived.
Trousers came off, and they were naked. Crowley had to take a moment. How could he not, when the beautiful feast of his best friend was displayed before him, fully offered to his own desires?
He bit back saying the word gorgeous.
He would go slowly, though. He wouldn’t hurt Aziraphale. Wouldn’t dream of it on purpose, but accidentally…his inexperience could work against him. His best counter to that would be to take plenty of time.
“So,” said Aziraphale, wriggling with delight, “how would you like me?”
Crowley’s answer was one he’d given countless times before: “Want to see your face.”
Aziraphale beamed. “That will do nicely!” And he stuffed a pillow under his hips, presenting himself for…
Right. For preparation.
Crowley took the liberty of miracling some lubricant onto his fingers—holy shit, they were actually doing this—and—and—
And moved one of Aziraphale’s legs up higher. Exposing him.
He took a deep breath. It’s okay. He wants this. You’ll be careful.
Still, his fingers stuttered as they approached Aziraphale’s hole. He paused. Took another deep breath.
Go on, traitor. Beg for it. The way you strutted around Earth, you must’ve been desperate for something up the ass—
He gazed desperately up at the ceiling, gulping in air. Pressure was building in his lungs, not to mention behind his eyes. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t—
A warm hand closed around his wrist. “Crowley?”
He tore his eyes from the ceiling, back down to those beautiful sea-gray eyes and soft smile. A dollop of lube dripped down his fingers, to his wrist.
“It’s alright,” said Aziraphale. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not happening.”
Another breath. Another. He’d walked toward the threshold of panic, but now it was sinking beneath the waves again. He was settling.
He could do this.
He went back in, toward Aziraphale’s hole. His hand was shaking, but he managed to settle it by the time he reached his destination. He traced the outside rim, to Aziraphale’s humming satisfaction.
He’d touched Aziraphale here before, and his angel had enjoyed it. They both had. This would be no different.
He put more pressure on the furled skin. More, and more, until—
Until it gave way, and the tip of one finger was inside him.
Aziraphale hummed again. Crowley nearly startled, ready to pull his hand away at the slightest noise of discomfort. But instead, Aziraphale drew his knee toward his chest, exposing himself even more.
He was asking for it.
Well, well, well, aren’t you just asking for it, little whore?
He closed his eyes. Shut up, he told that stupid voice.
If it were up to him, that voice’s owner wouldn’t be alive anymore. But they’d had no time to hunt down every single angel and demon who had hurt Crowley; there were likely hundreds of them running around Above and Below. They’d had healing to do instead, safety and comfort to build between them.
But Crowley had to admit, even if they had killed that particular angel who had said those words, he would still be alive in Crowley’s head. His voice would keep resurfacing, prolonging his life in Crowley’s memories, unable to be snuffed out once and for all.
But this would help. What they were doing would help with the voices. It would override the painful memories with moments of joy. It had to.
Otherwise, Crowley was out of options.
So, he pressed his finger in further. Aziraphale sighed happily. He swiveled it around. That brought out another sweet sigh. He started moving it in and out and—
No. He couldn’t do that. That was too close to—
“You know what will happen, if you don’t tell us where he is?” Michael asked him.
Crowley shivered as she rose again, the grime and blood from the floor of his cell vanishing from her knees as soon as she stood. He shivered, but it didn’t stop him glaring at her.
“We’ll find him, anyway. And you’ll stay here, along with him. We’ll stop hurting you—”
“Y-y-you think I c-c-care wh-what h-h-happens to me?”
“We’ll stop hurting you, because every last thing that we’ve done to you…we’ll do to him.” She smiled coldly. “Don’t worry, though. You won’t miss a thing. We’ll let you watch—”
Crowley jolted in his chains, snarling at her. She smoothly stepped out of the way just in time, her smile sharp as glass, cutting every last piece of his hope to shreds.
“Crowley?”
Crowley jolted his head up. Aziraphale’s gaze was tinged with concern, but he still smiled. “Could you kiss me?”
Oh, as if he didn’t know what Crowley’s answer would be. He lunged to obey, sweetly gulping down Aziraphale’s breaths as they kissed, and kissed, and kissed.
Now it was easier, as they kissed, to move his finger around that tight heat. He could feel Aziraphale loosening, opening up to his ministrations. He could feel Aziraphale’s cock staying hard, could hear him sighing and grunting as he kept his own desire simmering.
This. This was what Crowley wanted.
One finger was followed by two, then three. Aziraphale was writhing around him now, riding his fingers, clearly eager to go onto the main event. But Crowley lingered, three fingers inside him, swiveling them around. He just wanted to be sure, that Aziraphale was ready—
“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered between their lips, “I do believe I’m ready, now.”
Crowley paused. Okay, then. If Aziraphale thought so…
He pulled his fingers out, and realized he hadn’t a clue of how to proceed. Did he just…push right in?
He squeezed his eyes shut. Bad phrasing. Bad images coming to mind.
But it still didn’t change the fact that he had no prior experience, no muscle memory to fall back on. The most he’d ever fucked before had been his own fist, during the long, lonely centuries of wanking to thoughts of his angel. He didn't know the angle for this, or how to balance himself, how much pressure to use, how to…
How to fuck his best friend.
He grabbed his own cock, lubing it up, trying to line it up right. Aziraphale wiggled himself into a better position on the pillows, pulling his legs up to expose himself. Crowley held himself up on one elbow, guided his cock to the right place, and—
He pushed the tip inside.
He groaned, gritting his teeth, trying to stave off the impeding explosion he could feel coming. The tight heat was so much more intense around his cock than with his fingers. He was going to lose it, there was no way he could—
He slid away slightly, and slowly pushed in further. The angle change guided his cock along. Aziraphale squeezed, and gave a low cry, and the friction was too much, the buildup too fast even for him—
Crowley squeezed his eyes shut as he came with a jolt, sobbing out his release.
He was still twitching dryly as he pulled out. It made a sickeningly slick sound. Aziraphale gasped.
Crowley couldn’t look. Not at where he’d pulled out, not at his spent cock, and definitely not at Aziraphale’s face.
“Crowley—”
He fled, levering off the bed and locking the bathroom door shut behind him.
xxx
It took a few minutes of shivering for him to summon the presence of mind enough for a conjured robe. He wrapped the black fabric around him, hunched on the floor next to the twin sinks, as if he could disappear in the silk’s depths.
Little snake’s asking for it. Listen to him, begging for cock!
Everything we’ve done to you, we’ll do to him.
Say it again, whore. Say it like you mean it.
You won’t miss a thing. We’ll let you watch.
He pulled his head further down to his chest, trembling. The chill felt so much worse after the lingering heat of his orgasm.
How could he have—
He glanced down at himself, at the thin triangle of his chest visible from the robe. His cock still felt slick from the lube and his come, lying soft against his thigh.
What had he done?
A knock at the bathroom door jolted him out of his self-loathing, only to spiral him back down once he recognized who it was. “Crowley?” came that sweet voice. “May I come in?”
Crowley at least owed him that much. So with a resigned snap of his fingers, the door creaked open a few inches.
Aziraphale shuffled in, wearing a similar robe the color of a cloudless sky. He padded over to sit beside Crowley on the pristine floor. After a moment’s awkward silence, he asked quietly, “Are you alright?”
Crowley hesitated. It took a moment for him to shake his head, flushing an even deeper scarlet.
“If it’s any consolation,” said Aziraphale, “I’m not at all upset with you. The first time can be—”
“‘S’not that,” Crowley mumbled. He paused. “Well, maybe a little.”
Aziraphale smiled gently. “Stamina is something that can be learned. If that’s something you wish to aim for.” He took one of Crowley’s hands. “But regardless, I wish you had stayed. Those moments after…they are precious between us. Sometimes I think it’s when you feel safest.”
Crowley shook his head. “Not this time.”
In his periphery, he still knew enough of Aziraphale’s body language to know his face was falling, too. “Was it…not good?”
Crowley scoffed. “No, it was. That’s the problem.”
“I don’t understand.”
Crowley sighed. He hardly knew what his own thoughts were in the first place. They were still coalescing into some semblance of ideas, not yet something he could easily communicate.
But he would try. For Aziraphale’s sake.
“Physically, yeah. It was good. Not just good. Fantastic. I didn’t—didn’t know it would be that good.” He took a deep breath, trying to quell the burning in his chest. “The problem is, now I get it.”
“Get…what, exactly?”
Crowley closed his eyes. Let go of Aziraphale’s hands, drew his arms around his knees. “I get why they did it,” he mumbled.
“Get why who did—”
Aziraphale stopped. And gasped.
Crowley pressed his forehead against his knees, squeezing his eyes shut harder. He was starting to tremble again, he could feel it.
“I get what it must’ve felt like for them,” he choked out. “The demons, it was just a sick pleasure kind of thing, and that’s the only kind of pleasure you’re allowed down there. And angels, they thought they were doing the right thing, by punishing a demon. And the thing is”—another burning breath—“if it feels that good while you’re doing it…who’s gonna argue it’s wrong?”
Aziraphale gently placed his hand on one of Crowley’s knees, trying to soothe him. “I would.”
Crowley swallowed hard, the action tasting too much like bile for his liking. He couldn’t believe the words out of his mouth, but here he was, empathizing with his rapists.
What sort of sick person did something like that?
Easy. The same sort of sick person who thought of his rapes while attempting to make love to his best friend. Imagining…that…with Aziraphale…
He retched.
Everything came up into his mouth, but he gritted his teeth to seal his lips shut. Nothing came out. He swallowed it all back down, anyway. Wiped the thick saliva from his lips with the back of his hand.
A chime of a miracle saw Aziraphale holding a conjured towel for him. He accepted it, wiping his mouth with that instead.
It took another few minutes of recovering from the nausea before either of them spoke again. “Are you okay?” Crowley rasped.
Aziraphale chuckled in surprise. “I think your state is more to the point, my dear.”
Crowley shook his head. “Well, I did just throw up. But I meant was, are you okay, after…”
“Oh.” There was one of Aziraphale’s signature sweet smiles. “I’m perfectly well.”
“Yeah, but…did it…y’know…”
“You haven’t damaged me beyond repair, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Crowley blew out a breath, surprised to feel the relief in it. “Well, that’s. That’s good. And I’m sorry I left. And didn’t. Erm.”
“I don’t need to achieve an orgasm to enjoy my time with you in our bed," Aziraphale said gently. "And I must say, that moment you were inside me…it’s been a very long time since I had that particular pleasure.”
Crowley arched a brow. “Yeah?”
“Why, you said so yourself that you used to fantasize about it, while using your own fingers!” He smoothed some of Crowley’s fringe from his forehead. “You know as well as I do that the act of receiving can feel good in of itself.”
Crowley grew quiet again.
Aziraphale must’ve realized what he’d said, and the implications of it. “What I meant was—”
“I know what you meant.”
“But let me make myself plain, just to be sure.” He took both of Crowley’s hands in his. Crowley looked up, to see a deadly serious glint in his angel’s eyes.
“You did not deserve what they did to you,” Aziraphale intoned. “It was wrong. It was violent, and cruel. They did things to you that you didn't want, while they were in a position of power over you. It doesn’t matter what they did or didn't do, or what they said to you, or what you said to them. It doesn’t matter if they made you beg for it, or if your body looks a certain way, or you enjoy the same positioning in consensual encounters. It wasn’t consensual. It couldn’t have been, while you were their prisoner.”
He kissed Crowley’s fingers, his lip wobbling. “And that’s why what they did cannot compare to what we share together. They have no place here. It’s only us, and our love.”
When his hand faltered in reaching for Crowley’s face, Crowley guided his hand there, pressing his cheek into his palm. “Thank you, angel,” he whispered.
And he meant it. With the benediction from Aziraphale, some weight started lifting off his shoulders. The waiter who had briefly ogled him. The angels who had raped him. The way his body looked and moved. The fact that his desire had never manifested without an emotional connection to someone.
He could be blameless in all of it.
And perhaps, as he caught Aziraphale up in a fierce hug through their robes, his appearance and desires had never been something deserving of blame in the first place.
xxx
But, one conversation couldn’t fix thousands of years of shame. And so, as Aziraphale drifted off beside him in their bed, Crowley’s mind was still wandering into avenues he’d rather not venture down.
The way those angels and demons had touched him. Like they had every right to him, like they owned his body. As the demons had pointed out, they technically still had the paperwork for its issuance. They could requisition it, do whatever they’d like with it, whether Crowley was still attached to it or not.
But following that logic, didn’t that mean they technically owned Crowley the demon? That couldn’t be true. He existed outside the laws of Heaven and Hell now. God Herself had made it clear She was protecting him from both.
And yet they had staked their claim. Their touches still lived dormant in his skin, ready to leap out and claw him down into flashbacks at the slightest wrong move.
Three years now. Three long years of panicking, of living in terror in his own home, of weeping into Aziraphale’s shoulder as the afterimages of nightmares burned into his retinas. Three years of that, after four years of abuse, and millennia of neglect and painful loneliness.
His body had begged to be touched. He’d denied it, out of fear and disinterest, out of a lack of truly feeling safe enough to chase it. It had gotten so bad, even simple handshakes, or the occasional hug from a human, made Crowley internally scream in desperation.
He’d stared at people’s hands, wondering. He’d stared at Aziraphale’s most of all.
And now he was here in Aziraphale’s arms, still screaming inside. Endlessly hungry for something he couldn’t sate.
He levered out of bed, and padded silently to the bathroom again.
The shower poured down steaming-hot in an instant; it had the good sense to not bother with warming up a water heater. Soon, the bathroom mirror had fogged. (Thank God; Crowley still couldn’t bear to look at himself in a mirror for long.)
He didn’t look at himself as he undressed, either. He stood on the tiles, naked and unexamined, feeling the water with one hand. The warmth beckoned him in with its promises of sating the starvation, for a time at least.
He stepped into the spray.
He closed his eyes, leaning his head back, feeling the rivulets run down his back, down his legs. His nipples, pebbled from the cold air earlier, soon relaxed again in the heat. He knew his hair was growing dark from the weight of the water.
His hands started wandering before he registered it. But once he did, he didn’t once think of stopping.
Instead, he tracked the movements with his eyes.
First, to his opposite arm. Down the long length of bone and muscle, gliding over slippery skin and soaked hairs. Tracing the delicate bones of his hand and knuckles.
He shivered, and did the same with his other arm. He’d never noticed how much he liked the shape of his limbs. Long and gangly, yes, but wasn’t that so perfectly suited to the serpent he’d started out as?
Next, to his prominent collarbones. His chest, his nipples, his breastbone. He didn’t have much of a chest—he was more sinew than muscle—but he enjoyed the solidness of his ribcage, the wet thicket of his chest hairs, how he could feel his own heart beating, his lungs slowly filling and releasing.
He’d done this before. Plenty of times, while he still worked for Hell. He’d never desired anyone sans Aziraphale to touch him intimately, but touch in general? His skin had burned for it, for millennia. It had taken him a while to understand just what it was asking for, but once he’d figured it out, he couldn’t stop.
Touch was always dicey. He craved it, and couldn’t stand it from others at the same time. It was either lack of trust, lack of desire, or too much trauma. He couldn’t begin to process the reasons sometimes. Lately, there were times he’d wished he could disconnect from his body altogether, existing only as a supernatural force.
But this?
This wasn’t sexual. It was sensual. Filling his senses with what he’d longed for, while fighting down any shame that arose.
And the more he did this, the more the shame quieted. His body—manufactured for Earth though it was—felt so…human. It was solid, and warm. It had weight and structure. Its shape was its shape; it had no subversive intention in the way he used it.
There didn’t have to be anything inherently sexual about it.
The knock at the bathroom door startled him. But he quickly cleared his throat, and found himself bidding Aziraphale welcome.
“Um…” Aziraphale stammered, gesturing to the shower door, “…may I?”
Crowley considered. He knew Aziraphale wouldn’t take it personally if he said no. And he could say no, if he wanted to. It was allowed.
But Aziraphale’s touches had never come with ill intent. They’d never been weighed down by an expectation.
Crowley’s mouth turned up in a lazy smile. “Sure.”
Aziraphale beamed, undressed, and stepped in to join him.
They went to hold one another without words. Crowley hooked his chin over Aziraphale’s shoulder, tracing folds of skin and rippling muscles on his back. Aziraphale did the same, tracing Crowley’s vertebra, his shoulder blades, pressing kisses to his neck.
“Can I wash you?” Crowley murmured.
Aziraphale nodded, and kissed him again for good measure.
Crowley soaped up a sponge, and started lathering it all over Aziraphale’s back. His chest. His stomach. His flanks. Raking through every patch of coarse hair, caressing every ridge of bone, every roll of fat.
Aziraphale’s body was beautiful to him. It turned him on like nothing else. But as he washed his best friend, hearing the soft sighs at every pass of the sponge, the imminent desire started to fade. The siren song of Aziraphale’s skin quieted. He began to really look at it, really feel. The plumpness, the wrinkles, the muscles, the stretch marks.
He was so very human, at the end of it all. Yes, Heaven had designed this body for him, just as Hell had designed Crowley’s. But at the end of the day, it was Aziraphale who had lived in it. He’d been the one to settle into his bones, and make this human disguise his chosen home.
There was nothing inherently sexual about this body. It didn’t exist to serve others; it existed to give Aziraphale all the joys Earth had to offer him.
When Crowley finished with the waist up, he knelt down, and began working up from his feet. He lovingly traced the knob of bone at his ankles, his one long toe, the fine hairs on his calves that grew darker under the water’s spray. He pressed his lips against the crease of muscle and fat above Aziraphale’s knee, feeling the flex against his face.
He stopped as he came face-to-face with Aziraphale’s half-hard erection.
The shame pierced through the armor he’d built up in the last few hours, rallying in full force. His looks, the shape of his lips, world-class pout, made for fitting pipes—
He glanced up at Aziraphale. Asking. But the question wasn’t May I? as it usually was.
This time, it was closer to Should I?
Aziraphale met his eyes. Crowley swallowed. Perhaps unconsciously, he was preparing his throat for…
But then Aziraphale reached down, and with a gentle grip on Crowley’s arms, he helped him stand again. Crowley swayed slightly, breathing hard, getting his bearings.
Aziraphale cupped his face, urging him to look at him. Crowley stared into those oceanic eyes, full to bursting with his infinite patience. And in those eyes, Crowley got the message:
He didn’t have to.
They held one another under the spray. With how close they were, it was impossible to miss what was poking Crowley in the thigh. They ignored it.
“May I wash your hair?” Aziraphale asked.
Crowley, still slightly dazed and lightheaded, gave a nod.
Aziraphale smiled, and lathered up his hands with the shampoo. Then, more gently than Crowley had ever experienced before…
He took Crowley’s head in his hands, against his shoulder. And began stroking through his hair.
A long breath shuddered out of Crowley. Aziraphale’s fingers started scratching through his scalp, inching caresses through every lock of hair. He started combing through it, working out what few kinks and snarls had gathered under the water’s spray. When he was satisfied, he hummed, and kissed the serpent’s tattoo at Crowley’s temple.
Crowley thought he might cry.
Each touch was so gentle. Every stroke to his hair was so tender. Each caress to his scalp made him shiver with how loved he was.
Soon it wasn’t about washing at all. (Had it truly ever been about just washing?) Aziraphale was clearly massaging his scalp for the sake of the touch itself. He sighed into Crowley’s ear, and his movements grew gentler still.
By the time Crowley sank his head into Aziraphale’s neck, the shower had long rinsed the shampoo from his hair. There they stood, entwined together under the water’s spray, answering each other’s breath with their own.
There was no one to judge them here. No one to look at them with ill intent. No one to hurt them. No memories to intrude upon them.
There was only their love, expressed in the ways they’d always wanted.