Happy Holidays, Conjure_Lass!
It was a dark and stormy night. To be fair, there was nothing particularly sinister about the weather; it was the third such night that week, being that it was a. winter and b. England.
On the second floor of a very old and nondescript bookshop, as rain bombarded the brick walls outside and plinked against the glass windows, a demon slept in an angel’s bed, sprawled out over the small frame, the bed’s intended occupant banished to a chair on the lower level of the building. It was the first time the bed had ever actually been slept in, rather than used for reading in or as a storage space for various cardigans, and Crowley slept as he always did-that is to say, very well.
Until he had a dream.
Crowley knew all about dreams, of course. He had even created a few, some of which he was rather proud. If you’ve ever dreamed of standing in front of a large number of people in nothing but your undergarments, thank Crowley. However, until this particular night, he had never actually experienced a dream for himself1 It was... different.
Crowley’s dream began in a manner rather similar to the position Crowley was in in the waking world. He rested comfortably on a small bed, curled in on himself in a way that would remind anyone who saw him of a sleeping serpent, a very apt metaphor, and he woke slowly, lazily, stretching an arm across the bed. His hand touched something warm and soft and very much alive.
Had it been the awake Crowley who found another being in bed with him, a being who had most certainly not been in bed with him when he fell asleep the night before (at least, he didn’t think so, though he couldn’t remember for sure, having drunk quite a lot of wine and only sobered most of it away), he would have jerked his hand back and hissed, and probably thrown himself violently off the side of the bed-he was rather clumsy when he woke up, in those few moments between sleep and full wakefulness. Dream Crowley did no such thing. As though he very much expected the other occupant of the small mattress to be there, he rolled over contentedly to look at the owner of the arm against which his hand had brushed.
“Morning, angel,” Crowley said, tilting his head upward to focus slitted yellow eyes on Aziraphale’s face. The angel’s back rested against the headboard, and a book lay open on his lap. He shut it, and a faint musty, aged smell puffed out with the air escaping from the closing book.
“Hello,” Aziraphale replied, smiling softly down at the demon. “Did you sleep well?”
“Mmhmm,” Crowley mumbled, wrapping a hand around the back of Aziraphale’s neck and pulling him down to press their lips together. He twisted his lithe body, shifting and rolling so that he was on top of the angel, a knee on either side of Aziraphale’s hips, and kissed him more deeply.
Aziraphale squeaked. “Really, my dear,” he said, pulling away, but Crowley captured his mouth again, simultaneously grinding down onto his hips until the angel moaned into the demon’s mouth.
It was at about this point that Crowley-the real Crowley, not the dream version busy temping (quite a bit more than tempting, really) the dream version of his favorite Principality-woke up. Eyes wide and breathing heavy, Crowley sat up straight, then let his eyes roll back in his head as he flopped back onto the pillow. Closing his eyes, he slid his sunglasses onto his face and sat up again, slowly, as close to awkward as the demon was capable of getting.
1. He had, however, once had a hallucination. After that, he was rather more careful about which wild mushrooms he put into his mouth.
His mind was churning. Of course, he was aware of this sort of dream. But it was different being aware that people dreamed of sex and actually having a dream about it. In his first dream ever, no less. With an angel, no less. With Aziraphale, no less (though really, who else?). Crowley would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it. With some frequency, even.1 But he had no intention to act on it, in dreams or otherwise (though considering the dream was the first of its kind, Crowley never expected to act on much of anything while he slept.2 Aziraphale didn’t even make an effort, for Heav- for Hel- for somewhere’s sake, He could make an effort, but he didn’t, and so even the thought was a moot point.
“Bugger,” Crowley groaned. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, where they collided with a pile of books. It was only then that he realized it wasn’t his own bed he had woken in. “Oh, bugger,” he said again. He remembered being in Aziraphale’s bookshop, remembered drinking, sobering, drinking again. He remembered talking to Aziraphale. But he didn’t remember falling asleep, and he certainly didn’t remember any way he could have ended up in Aziraphale’s bed. He kicked the pile of books out of the way angrily and stood up.
On his way down the stairs, Crowley heard a noise. As he got closer to the first floor, the noise got louder. It was humming, it was off-key and cheerful, and it was coming from the kitchen area. And of course it was Aziraphale. “Good morning,” the angel said when Crowley slouched into the kitchen.
“Hm.” Crowley’s response was non-committal. Then he cut straight to the chase. “Why was I in your bed?”
The angel blushed faintly, which worried Crowley somewhat. Perhaps he was wrong about what was dream and what was reality and what exactly had happened the night before. Then Aziraphale said, “Well, you, erm, fell asleep. And you looked so uncomfortable in that chair, my dear, so I just…”
“You just miracled me into your bed?” Crowley interrupted. He wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or horrified, but was leaning toward the latter, as the angel didn’t appear to have any ulterior motive.
“Actually,” Aziraphale said, blushing more deeply, “I carried you.”
“You did what?” Crowley yelped. “Angel, I am not a child,” he said in exasperation. He was unlikely to ever admit it, but suddenly imagining Aziraphale gathering him in his arms and lifting him gently made him feel almost uncomfortably warm.3
“You looked uncomfortable,” Aziraphale said again. He offered Crowley a cup of tea. Out of habit, Crowley took it, but placed the cup immediately down on the counter.
“I have some rights to wrong,” Crowley said.
“Will you come by later?” Aziraphale asked, sounding hopeful.
“Yes, alright,” Crowley lied distractedly, already moving toward the door, past the shelves upon shelves of old and dusty and valuable and rare and mysterious books, books like the one in dream-Aziraphale’s lap when dream-Crowley woke in the dream-angel’s bed. He dashed out of the bookshop.
1. Crowley wasn’t against lying by any means, of course, but he saw no reason to be dishonest in his own thoughts.
2. Although, while he was sleeping through the 19th century, he apparently took up the habit of sleepwalking, or rather sleep writing, judging by the barely coherent letters Aziraphale showed him when he finally decided to wake up.
3. And being that Crowley had, of course, spent a great deal of time in… Below, uncomfortably warm was saying something
Crowley was nearly two blocks away before he realized he was on foot and not in the Bentley. But when he looked back and saw Aziraphale standing on his front step, looking worriedly after the demon, Crowley decided that he could use a walk anyway. He felt flustered, and he hated to feel flustered, though it did give him a better idea of how Aziraphale probably felt every single day of his existence, judging by the blush that quite frequently crept over the angel’s face.
At the thought of Aziraphale, Crowley immediately felt that uncomfortable warmth again, spreading through him in a way that was not altogether unwanted. For a brief moment, he considered going back to his flat and having a wank, but decided it was one thing to accidentally dream about sleeping with his frie- aquain- the angel, but quite another to actively imagine the prospect. For an even briefer moment, he considered going back to Aziraphale’s flat and doing something with the angel himself about the pressing feeling of need that curled deep and low in his stomach, but decided that it was an even worse idea than getting off alone.
Crowley spent the rest of the morning walking rather aimlessly around London. He stopped only to perform various small but nonetheless inconveniencing bad deeds-that day, many drivers would return to their parked vehicles only to find tickets after their meters had expired hours ahead of schedule, and office workers and college students alike would have the bad luck to be greeted with pornographic pop-up advertisements on their computer monitors each and every time their bosses and professors walked by their desks.
Crowley ate lunch alone at a small and out-of-the-way café. He had first bypassed three others, including the source of his favorite chips in the entire city, because they were all places he had been to with Aziraphale over the years, and he really wanted to avoid thinking about the angel for fear of being unable to stop thinking about the angel. The restaurant he chose had neither the food nor the atmosphere that he and Azira- his companions usually enjoyed, which was probably why he had never been there, but it was suitable enough for lunch and more than suited to allow him to spend an hour of his time not thinking about Azira- not thinking about anything.
The day was nearly as dark and stormy as the previous night, but Crowley still had no interest in returning either to his own flat or to Aziraphale’s, so he walked to the first nearby place that came into his head. Which he realized immediately was a mistake when he saw the figure standing complacently at the edge of the pond, seemingly oblivious to the rain pelting down upon him.
Aziraphale turned as Crowley came up to stand beside him, their shoulders brushing slightly as he faced the demon. The contact sent another jolt of warm energy through Crowley, and he mentally told himself to get a grip; it was his job to do the tempting and corrupting.
“You left suddenly,” Aziraphale said. He opened his mouth as though he was going to say something else and then closed it again and handed Crowley a piece of the sodden bread he was using to feed the ducks in the lake. Crowley tossed it half-heartedly into the water. “The Bentley is still outside my flat.”
“I am well aware,” Crowley responded dryly, not looking at the angel.
“Are you going to pick it up?” Aziraphale asked. “If you don’t want to, I could drive it over for-“
“No,” Crowley exclaimed quickly. On one memorable occasion, he had let Aziraphale drive, and it had left all three of them-angel, demon, and car-rather the worse for wear. “No, I’ll… I’ll pick it up.” He paused. “Eventually.”
“Is everything alright, dear?” Aziraphale asked, peering at the demon curiously. Crowley ignored him because he was not about to have anything that could be misconstrued by well-meaning angels as a heart-to-heart in the middle of a park in the rain. Or anywhere, for that matter. “Crowley,” Aziraphale said, lifting a hand to cup the demon’s cheek and turn his face towards him, which the angel blessed well knew that Crowley hated. He didn’t need to be coddled.
Crowley jerked away from Aziraphale’s touch. “For-for somebody’s sake, Aziraphale, don’t do that,” he said angrily. Aziraphale looked hurt. Crowley looked at him for a moment from behind dark sunglass lenses. Then his shoulders slumped slightly and he sighed.
“Damn it, angel,” he said. What he meant was “Why won’t you just make an effort?” Because that was really it-it wasn’t that Aziraphale was an angel and Crowley was a demon; that had never stopped them from any other aspect of the friendship that came out of the Arrangement. It wasn’t that Aziraphale would reject him; they were closer to each other than to anyone else in the Universe, so Crowley was all but certain that if he was feeling things for the angel, then the angel would surely feel things back if he bothered to try. It was just the plain and simple fact that Aziraphale did not care to attempt.
Crowley didn’t realize that he had followed his muttered “Damn it, angel” with “Why won’t you just make an effort?” verbally rather than mentally until he looked at Aziraphale to find the angel staring at him, eyes wide and mouth open in a small surprised “o”.
“You didn’t just read my thoughts, did you?” Crowley asked coldly.
“I didn’t have to,” Aziraphale breathed, unable to stop gaping at the demon.
“Oh,” Crowley responded. He found that he could no longer quite meet Aziraphale’s gaze, and he turned to stare out across the water, barely visible underneath the fog and rain. They stood in silence, Aziraphale continuing to look at Crowley, Crowley continuing to resolutely look away.
Then Aziraphale spoke again. “But-oh, but Crowley,” he murmured, furrowing his brows. “You never asked.” It was true of course; the demon had never said a word. Had considered asking, and perhaps if he thought it would really be that easy to tempt an angel, he would have. Or perhaps not. But the fact remained that he had never even mentioned the possibility.
“I know that you don’t like to-“ Crowley began, but Aziraphale interrupted him, clearly not even caring that interrupting was rather impolite.2
“I suppose I could try,” he said, smiling gently at Crowley.
“I don’t want you to try just for my sake,” said Crowley grumpily. It was for the angel’s benefit, but it was also an absolute and utter lie, so Crowley assumed that the consideration was cancelled out by the dishonesty.
1. Though later, after all was said and done, he did apologize profusely to the demon.
“There’s no one else for whose sake I would even consider it,” Aziraphale said softly. And fuck if that didn’t bring all the heat and tightness and arousal that Crowley had been trying to quash all day flooding back into him. He grabbed Aziraphale’s face, pulling it toward him so he could press his lips to the angel’s. The gesture was much less romantic than it had been in Crowley’s dream, but it was much more the demon’s style.
Crowley flicked his forked tongue against Aziraphale’s lips, and they parted slightly, allowing him access. He curled his fingers into Aziraphale’s light-colored hair, pulling him even closer, then slid his hand down to rest against the angel’s back and pull their bodies flush against each other. He was sure that Aziraphale could feel his arousal pressing against him, but from Aziraphale, he felt… nothing. From the breathy noises issuing from the angel’s mouth, Crowley was certain that Aziraphale liked what was happening, but still, nothing.
It took Crowley three tries, his lips treacherously finding their way back to press against the angel’s, but finally he broke away. He pulled back slightly and looked at Aziraphale. The angel’s eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily. He opened his eyes slowly and looked at Crowley.
“Yes?” he asked, looking concerned.
Crowley summoned every ounce of every considerate feeling that he spent all of his time pretending he didn’t have. “If you don’t want to do thissss…” he responded, unable to keep the hiss from slithering into his voice.
“That’s not... that-“ the angel flushed slightly. “I do, dear, I do.”
“But you’re not-“ Crowley began, and Aziraphale interrupted him for the second time that day.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale stopped him, sounding amused. “We’re in public. I’m not going to do that here. What if somebody walks by?” Then it didn’t matter because they weren’t in public anymore. “Really,” the angel said as Crowley pushed him backward onto the bed. “A little warning.”
“Hmm,” Crowley muttered, smirking as he pressed his lips against Aziraphale’s neck. He leaned forward until the angel’s back was flat against the bed and his front was flat against Crowley. The demon bent over him, pressing forward between his legs. He could feel that, by this point, Aziraphale was definitely making an effort.
Crowley smirked as he vanished their clothes, sending them somewhere into another room-or perhaps another dimension.1 “Aziraphale,” Crowley gasped as his skin pressed against the angel’s. Aziraphale didn’t respond, just blinked at the demon above him with wide eyes, the blue of his irises a thin ring around large black pupils.
Crowley glanced around the room. He spotted what he was looking for and grabbed the small bottle of lotion from the bedside table. “Cheater,” he mumbled into Aziraphale’s neck as he unscrewed the cap of the container. “I knew you used something to get your hands that sof-oh, fuck,” he gasped. Aziraphale had taken the opportunity to wrap one of those abnormally soft hands around one of the more sensitive areas of Crowley’s anatomy. He stroked the demon’s length gently, running a finger across the head, while Crowley fumbled with the lotion, spreading it over his fingers.
At the first press of Crowley’s finger against his entrance, Aziraphale shuddered. Pushing in slowly but not altogether gently, Crowley added a second finger and then a third, twisting and moving them leisurely until Aziraphale was panting beneath him. “I think it’s… alright… now,” Aziraphale said, out of breath.
“Patience is a virtue, isssn’t it?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale glared at him.
“You are the one who wants to-oh.” Aziraphale’s comment was stopped by a sharp intake of breath as Crowley shifted and pushed inside him.
“If I’m the only one who’s interested, here,” Crowley said dryly even as he slid into the angel, “I’ll stop. I can get off just as easily by myself. It’s all the same to me.” The lie rolled easily out of his mouth and he hesitated, stilling completely until Aziraphale opened his mouth.
“You’re not the only one,” Aziraphale murmured through clenched teeth.
“I suspected not,” Crowley answered, smirking as he sank the rest of the way into the angel. He rolled his hips experimentally and the angel’s breath hitched, so Crowley did it again. “You honestly have never done this before?” he asked Aziraphale.
“N-no,” Aziraphale stuttered as Crowley’s pace quickened slightly. “N-never had a reason.”
“Then why now?” Crowley asked. He stilled again, though it took all of his patience to do so.2 “What,” he asked, “is your reason now?” He was fairly certain he knew the angel’s answer, or at least the gist of it. However, he wrapped a hand around the angel’s length and asked again, “Why did you change your mind?” punctuating each word with a rough, gripping stroke.
Aziraphale whimpered then, biting his bottom lip and closing his eyes as he pushed against Crowley, and something about the broken sound and the angel’s expression was too much for the demon. If Aziraphale answered Crowley’s question, Crowley didn’t hear it. He tumbled over the edge of orgasm with a cry, moving faster inside Aziraphale and stroking the angel harder until Aziraphale came with a soft moan.
Crowley rolled over onto his back, pulling out of the angel and sprawling on the bed, one arm hanging over the side of the bed and the other resting across Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s hand and pressed his lips to the palm. Crowley pulled away. “None of that, angel,” Crowley said. “We’re not going to cuddle and talk about our feelings.” He rolled onto his stomach and pressed his face into a pillow.
Aziraphale smiled faintly, got rid of the evidence of their evening with a thought, and then leaned back and closed his eyes. And when he, not sleeping but not fully awake either, turned to wrap an arm protectively over Crowley’s shoulders, pressing a kiss to the demon’s neck, Crowley didn’t push him away.
1. The clothes ended up on Aziraphale’s writing desk downstairs. Aziraphale’s sweater had, unfortunately, knocked over a fountain pen and was covered by purple ink. Later, he had attempted to remove the stain but Crowley had told him that perhaps it was simply fate, something Ineffable, that had destroyed “that hideous thing.”
2. Admittedly, patience wasn’t one of Crowley’s virtues (or vices) as it was.
The morning was not a dream come true. It wasn’t a surprise; as Crowley had only ever had the one dream and Aziraphale had never had any, the chances of that one dream coming true compared to all other possible scenarios had a ratio of one to a number too numerous even to be comprehended. This was, as a whole, absolutely fine with Crowley; dreams coming true sounded much more appropriate for the princesses in those ridiculous films for children than for any sort of supernatural entity.
However, there were certain elements of Crowley’s dream of two nights before that he did wish had carried over into the waking world. Namely, that Aziraphale would still be there when he woke up. In his career as a professional ne’er-do-well, Crowley had, on occasion, been called upon to tempt someone sexually-a woman just days away from her wedding night or a man out for a few drinks with his friends-and Crowley had learned that a most disconcerting feeling the morning after a night of anonymous sex was waking up alone, which was why Crowley always made sure to sneak out silently while his partner slept, in order to maximize the wickedness of his deed.
Being on the receiving end of waking up alone, however, was not something Crowley had ever experienced. He didn’t like it. When he languidly opened his eyes and turned to look next to him but saw nothing but an empty patch of clean, white sheets, he sat up immediately and looked around. Aziraphale was nowhere to be seen.
“Bugger,” Crowley muttered. Apart from the fact that he was still naked, and that his clothes were stacked at the foot of his bed in a pile far neater than Crowley would have ever put them, it felt as the morning before did, when he woke up flushed and sweating after his dream about Aziraphale.
“Oh, you’re awake,” Aziraphale said, entering the room, wearing a bathrobe. He sat on the bed and offered Crowley a cup of tea, which Crowley took wearily. It smelled like chamomile. “I wanted to return before you woke up.”
“Few minutes slow,” Crowley mumbled.
“I do apologize,” Aziraphale told him. “I wanted-“ he blushed faintly, “I wanted it to be like your dream.”
“Well, I-wait, you wanted what?” Crowley asked. “Did you spy on me while I was sleeping?”
“I couldn’t help it,” Aziraphale exclaimed. “It was a very strong thought you were having and I just couldn’t avoid it.”
“So you knew,” Crowley said accusingly. “You knew that I wanted-“
“Me, yes,” Aziraphale answered quietly. “But Crowley… I’ve known that for a long time.” The angel’s tone was matter-of-fact.
“What?” Crowley asked, confused. “How long?”
“Very,” Aziraphale said. “A very long time.”1
“And did you want-“
“Of course, my dear.”
“And you didn’t say anything?” Crowley said. “It could have saved us the trouble of-”
“I wasn’t sure how you would react.”
“I would have thrown you up against a wall and fucked you until you screamed,” Crowley said casually, but his voice cracked somewhere in the middle and betrayed his intended glib tone.
Aziraphale turned bright red. His mouth worked for a few moments, opening and closing, but no words came out. “Oh,” he finally said.
Crowley leaned over to press his lips to the soft, pale flesh of the angel’s shoulder. “We have time to try that later,” the demon muttered, and then wrapped a hand around Aziraphale’s neck to pull him closer, forgetting that Aziraphale still held a full cup of steaming tea. The angel miracled the liquid away just before it could spill across the sheets and Crowley’s chest.
“I ought to open the shop this evening,” Aziraphale said pensively. “I’ve been frustrating customers, not having it open. I don’t like to frustrate people.”
“You’re frustrating me,” Crowley grumbled, running his tongue along Aziraphale’s mouth. “But fine,” he conceded. “Open the shop. We’ve been around for thousands of years, and we’ll be around thousands more. We have all the time in the world.”
“Why Crowley,” Aziraphale said, drawing back in mock astonishment. “That’s almost romantic.”
“Don’t push your luck,” Crowley said, nipping the angel’s bottom lip.
“You sleep in my bed and grump around and try to spill my tea,” Aziraphale said, kissing the side of Crowley’s mouth. “What luck do I have?”
“You don’t have to deal with a chubby angel who tries to get you to drink tea at all hours of the day and night and shrieks if you get too close to his books,” Crowley replied, leaning into Aziraphale.
“I think… I like you a great deal,” Aziraphale murmured.
“I know,” Crowley answered, muffled because his face was buried against Aziraphale’s neck. He let his eyelids flutter, blinking slowly.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale said hesitantly. “If you’re going to sleep again, might I go downstairs and run the shop?” Crowley moved closer to the angel, closer than he actually intended to be while he rested, but he knew the gesture of affection would ensure that the angel would stay, and he liked the feel of Aziraphale’s warm skin against his chilly flesh. “Oh, all right,” Aziraphale huffed, running a hand through Crowley’s black hair. “But tomorrow, really, I ought to work.”
“We’ll see,” muttered Crowley, closing his eyes, dark eyelashes resting on pale skin. What he meant was Not if I can help it. This thought he apparently managed to keep inside his head, because Aziraphale said nothing.
Crowley drifted to sleep, wrapped around the angel.2
1. Since one of Crowley’s 19th century sleep-written letters, which said only “love love love love” written in Crowley’s looping scrawl over fifteen sheets of paper. Aziraphale had never shown that particular letter to Crowley and had no plans to do so. Crowley would have only denied writing it and then acted insufferably ornery for days.
2. He did not dream. He didn’t need to.
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Happy Holidays, conjure_lass, from your Secret Writer!
On the second floor of a very old and nondescript bookshop, as rain bombarded the brick walls outside and plinked against the glass windows, a demon slept in an angel’s bed, sprawled out over the small frame, the bed’s intended occupant banished to a chair on the lower level of the building. It was the first time the bed had ever actually been slept in, rather than used for reading in or as a storage space for various cardigans, and Crowley slept as he always did-that is to say, very well.
Until he had a dream.
Crowley knew all about dreams, of course. He had even created a few, some of which he was rather proud. If you’ve ever dreamed of standing in front of a large number of people in nothing but your undergarments, thank Crowley. However, until this particular night, he had never actually experienced a dream for himself1 It was... different.
Crowley’s dream began in a manner rather similar to the position Crowley was in in the waking world. He rested comfortably on a small bed, curled in on himself in a way that would remind anyone who saw him of a sleeping serpent, a very apt metaphor, and he woke slowly, lazily, stretching an arm across the bed. His hand touched something warm and soft and very much alive.
Had it been the awake Crowley who found another being in bed with him, a being who had most certainly not been in bed with him when he fell asleep the night before (at least, he didn’t think so, though he couldn’t remember for sure, having drunk quite a lot of wine and only sobered most of it away), he would have jerked his hand back and hissed, and probably thrown himself violently off the side of the bed-he was rather clumsy when he woke up, in those few moments between sleep and full wakefulness. Dream Crowley did no such thing. As though he very much expected the other occupant of the small mattress to be there, he rolled over contentedly to look at the owner of the arm against which his hand had brushed.
“Morning, angel,” Crowley said, tilting his head upward to focus slitted yellow eyes on Aziraphale’s face. The angel’s back rested against the headboard, and a book lay open on his lap. He shut it, and a faint musty, aged smell puffed out with the air escaping from the closing book.
“Hello,” Aziraphale replied, smiling softly down at the demon. “Did you sleep well?”
“Mmhmm,” Crowley mumbled, wrapping a hand around the back of Aziraphale’s neck and pulling him down to press their lips together. He twisted his lithe body, shifting and rolling so that he was on top of the angel, a knee on either side of Aziraphale’s hips, and kissed him more deeply.
Aziraphale squeaked. “Really, my dear,” he said, pulling away, but Crowley captured his mouth again, simultaneously grinding down onto his hips until the angel moaned into the demon’s mouth.
It was at about this point that Crowley-the real Crowley, not the dream version busy temping (quite a bit more than tempting, really) the dream version of his favorite Principality-woke up. Eyes wide and breathing heavy, Crowley sat up straight, then let his eyes roll back in his head as he flopped back onto the pillow. Closing his eyes, he slid his sunglasses onto his face and sat up again, slowly, as close to awkward as the demon was capable of getting.
1. He had, however, once had a hallucination. After that, he was rather more careful about which wild mushrooms he put into his mouth.
His mind was churning. Of course, he was aware of this sort of dream. But it was different being aware that people dreamed of sex and actually having a dream about it. In his first dream ever, no less. With an angel, no less. With Aziraphale, no less (though really, who else?). Crowley would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it. With some frequency, even.1 But he had no intention to act on it, in dreams or otherwise (though considering the dream was the first of its kind, Crowley never expected to act on much of anything while he slept.2 Aziraphale didn’t even make an effort, for Heav- for Hel- for somewhere’s sake, He could make an effort, but he didn’t, and so even the thought was a moot point.
“Bugger,” Crowley groaned. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, where they collided with a pile of books. It was only then that he realized it wasn’t his own bed he had woken in. “Oh, bugger,” he said again. He remembered being in Aziraphale’s bookshop, remembered drinking, sobering, drinking again. He remembered talking to Aziraphale. But he didn’t remember falling asleep, and he certainly didn’t remember any way he could have ended up in Aziraphale’s bed. He kicked the pile of books out of the way angrily and stood up.
On his way down the stairs, Crowley heard a noise. As he got closer to the first floor, the noise got louder. It was humming, it was off-key and cheerful, and it was coming from the kitchen area. And of course it was Aziraphale. “Good morning,” the angel said when Crowley slouched into the kitchen.
“Hm.” Crowley’s response was non-committal. Then he cut straight to the chase. “Why was I in your bed?”
The angel blushed faintly, which worried Crowley somewhat. Perhaps he was wrong about what was dream and what was reality and what exactly had happened the night before. Then Aziraphale said, “Well, you, erm, fell asleep. And you looked so uncomfortable in that chair, my dear, so I just…”
“You just miracled me into your bed?” Crowley interrupted. He wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or horrified, but was leaning toward the latter, as the angel didn’t appear to have any ulterior motive.
“Actually,” Aziraphale said, blushing more deeply, “I carried you.”
“You did what?” Crowley yelped. “Angel, I am not a child,” he said in exasperation. He was unlikely to ever admit it, but suddenly imagining Aziraphale gathering him in his arms and lifting him gently made him feel almost uncomfortably warm.3
“You looked uncomfortable,” Aziraphale said again. He offered Crowley a cup of tea. Out of habit, Crowley took it, but placed the cup immediately down on the counter.
“I have some rights to wrong,” Crowley said.
“Will you come by later?” Aziraphale asked, sounding hopeful.
“Yes, alright,” Crowley lied distractedly, already moving toward the door, past the shelves upon shelves of old and dusty and valuable and rare and mysterious books, books like the one in dream-Aziraphale’s lap when dream-Crowley woke in the dream-angel’s bed. He dashed out of the bookshop.
1. Crowley wasn’t against lying by any means, of course, but he saw no reason to be dishonest in his own thoughts.
2. Although, while he was sleeping through the 19th century, he apparently took up the habit of sleepwalking, or rather sleep writing, judging by the barely coherent letters Aziraphale showed him when he finally decided to wake up.
3. And being that Crowley had, of course, spent a great deal of time in… Below, uncomfortably warm was saying something
Crowley was nearly two blocks away before he realized he was on foot and not in the Bentley. But when he looked back and saw Aziraphale standing on his front step, looking worriedly after the demon, Crowley decided that he could use a walk anyway. He felt flustered, and he hated to feel flustered, though it did give him a better idea of how Aziraphale probably felt every single day of his existence, judging by the blush that quite frequently crept over the angel’s face.
At the thought of Aziraphale, Crowley immediately felt that uncomfortable warmth again, spreading through him in a way that was not altogether unwanted. For a brief moment, he considered going back to his flat and having a wank, but decided it was one thing to accidentally dream about sleeping with his frie- aquain- the angel, but quite another to actively imagine the prospect. For an even briefer moment, he considered going back to Aziraphale’s flat and doing something with the angel himself about the pressing feeling of need that curled deep and low in his stomach, but decided that it was an even worse idea than getting off alone.
Crowley spent the rest of the morning walking rather aimlessly around London. He stopped only to perform various small but nonetheless inconveniencing bad deeds-that day, many drivers would return to their parked vehicles only to find tickets after their meters had expired hours ahead of schedule, and office workers and college students alike would have the bad luck to be greeted with pornographic pop-up advertisements on their computer monitors each and every time their bosses and professors walked by their desks.
Crowley ate lunch alone at a small and out-of-the-way café. He had first bypassed three others, including the source of his favorite chips in the entire city, because they were all places he had been to with Aziraphale over the years, and he really wanted to avoid thinking about the angel for fear of being unable to stop thinking about the angel. The restaurant he chose had neither the food nor the atmosphere that he and Azira- his companions usually enjoyed, which was probably why he had never been there, but it was suitable enough for lunch and more than suited to allow him to spend an hour of his time not thinking about Azira- not thinking about anything.
The day was nearly as dark and stormy as the previous night, but Crowley still had no interest in returning either to his own flat or to Aziraphale’s, so he walked to the first nearby place that came into his head. Which he realized immediately was a mistake when he saw the figure standing complacently at the edge of the pond, seemingly oblivious to the rain pelting down upon him.
Aziraphale turned as Crowley came up to stand beside him, their shoulders brushing slightly as he faced the demon. The contact sent another jolt of warm energy through Crowley, and he mentally told himself to get a grip; it was his job to do the tempting and corrupting.
“You left suddenly,” Aziraphale said. He opened his mouth as though he was going to say something else and then closed it again and handed Crowley a piece of the sodden bread he was using to feed the ducks in the lake. Crowley tossed it half-heartedly into the water. “The Bentley is still outside my flat.”
“I am well aware,” Crowley responded dryly, not looking at the angel.
“Are you going to pick it up?” Aziraphale asked. “If you don’t want to, I could drive it over for-“
“No,” Crowley exclaimed quickly. On one memorable occasion, he had let Aziraphale drive, and it had left all three of them-angel, demon, and car-rather the worse for wear. “No, I’ll… I’ll pick it up.” He paused. “Eventually.”
“Is everything alright, dear?” Aziraphale asked, peering at the demon curiously. Crowley ignored him because he was not about to have anything that could be misconstrued by well-meaning angels as a heart-to-heart in the middle of a park in the rain. Or anywhere, for that matter. “Crowley,” Aziraphale said, lifting a hand to cup the demon’s cheek and turn his face towards him, which the angel blessed well knew that Crowley hated. He didn’t need to be coddled.
Crowley jerked away from Aziraphale’s touch. “For-for somebody’s sake, Aziraphale, don’t do that,” he said angrily. Aziraphale looked hurt. Crowley looked at him for a moment from behind dark sunglass lenses. Then his shoulders slumped slightly and he sighed.
“Damn it, angel,” he said. What he meant was “Why won’t you just make an effort?” Because that was really it-it wasn’t that Aziraphale was an angel and Crowley was a demon; that had never stopped them from any other aspect of the friendship that came out of the Arrangement. It wasn’t that Aziraphale would reject him; they were closer to each other than to anyone else in the Universe, so Crowley was all but certain that if he was feeling things for the angel, then the angel would surely feel things back if he bothered to try. It was just the plain and simple fact that Aziraphale did not care to attempt.
Crowley didn’t realize that he had followed his muttered “Damn it, angel” with “Why won’t you just make an effort?” verbally rather than mentally until he looked at Aziraphale to find the angel staring at him, eyes wide and mouth open in a small surprised “o”.
“You didn’t just read my thoughts, did you?” Crowley asked coldly.
“I didn’t have to,” Aziraphale breathed, unable to stop gaping at the demon.
“Oh,” Crowley responded. He found that he could no longer quite meet Aziraphale’s gaze, and he turned to stare out across the water, barely visible underneath the fog and rain. They stood in silence, Aziraphale continuing to look at Crowley, Crowley continuing to resolutely look away.
Then Aziraphale spoke again. “But-oh, but Crowley,” he murmured, furrowing his brows. “You never asked.” It was true of course; the demon had never said a word. Had considered asking, and perhaps if he thought it would really be that easy to tempt an angel, he would have. Or perhaps not. But the fact remained that he had never even mentioned the possibility.
“I know that you don’t like to-“ Crowley began, but Aziraphale interrupted him, clearly not even caring that interrupting was rather impolite.2
“I suppose I could try,” he said, smiling gently at Crowley.
“I don’t want you to try just for my sake,” said Crowley grumpily. It was for the angel’s benefit, but it was also an absolute and utter lie, so Crowley assumed that the consideration was cancelled out by the dishonesty.
1. Though later, after all was said and done, he did apologize profusely to the demon.
“There’s no one else for whose sake I would even consider it,” Aziraphale said softly. And fuck if that didn’t bring all the heat and tightness and arousal that Crowley had been trying to quash all day flooding back into him. He grabbed Aziraphale’s face, pulling it toward him so he could press his lips to the angel’s. The gesture was much less romantic than it had been in Crowley’s dream, but it was much more the demon’s style.
Crowley flicked his forked tongue against Aziraphale’s lips, and they parted slightly, allowing him access. He curled his fingers into Aziraphale’s light-colored hair, pulling him even closer, then slid his hand down to rest against the angel’s back and pull their bodies flush against each other. He was sure that Aziraphale could feel his arousal pressing against him, but from Aziraphale, he felt… nothing. From the breathy noises issuing from the angel’s mouth, Crowley was certain that Aziraphale liked what was happening, but still, nothing.
It took Crowley three tries, his lips treacherously finding their way back to press against the angel’s, but finally he broke away. He pulled back slightly and looked at Aziraphale. The angel’s eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily. He opened his eyes slowly and looked at Crowley.
“Yes?” he asked, looking concerned.
Crowley summoned every ounce of every considerate feeling that he spent all of his time pretending he didn’t have. “If you don’t want to do thissss…” he responded, unable to keep the hiss from slithering into his voice.
“That’s not... that-“ the angel flushed slightly. “I do, dear, I do.”
“But you’re not-“ Crowley began, and Aziraphale interrupted him for the second time that day.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale stopped him, sounding amused. “We’re in public. I’m not going to do that here. What if somebody walks by?” Then it didn’t matter because they weren’t in public anymore. “Really,” the angel said as Crowley pushed him backward onto the bed. “A little warning.”
“Hmm,” Crowley muttered, smirking as he pressed his lips against Aziraphale’s neck. He leaned forward until the angel’s back was flat against the bed and his front was flat against Crowley. The demon bent over him, pressing forward between his legs. He could feel that, by this point, Aziraphale was definitely making an effort.
Crowley smirked as he vanished their clothes, sending them somewhere into another room-or perhaps another dimension.1 “Aziraphale,” Crowley gasped as his skin pressed against the angel’s. Aziraphale didn’t respond, just blinked at the demon above him with wide eyes, the blue of his irises a thin ring around large black pupils.
Crowley glanced around the room. He spotted what he was looking for and grabbed the small bottle of lotion from the bedside table. “Cheater,” he mumbled into Aziraphale’s neck as he unscrewed the cap of the container. “I knew you used something to get your hands that sof-oh, fuck,” he gasped. Aziraphale had taken the opportunity to wrap one of those abnormally soft hands around one of the more sensitive areas of Crowley’s anatomy. He stroked the demon’s length gently, running a finger across the head, while Crowley fumbled with the lotion, spreading it over his fingers.
At the first press of Crowley’s finger against his entrance, Aziraphale shuddered. Pushing in slowly but not altogether gently, Crowley added a second finger and then a third, twisting and moving them leisurely until Aziraphale was panting beneath him. “I think it’s… alright… now,” Aziraphale said, out of breath.
“Patience is a virtue, isssn’t it?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale glared at him.
“You are the one who wants to-oh.” Aziraphale’s comment was stopped by a sharp intake of breath as Crowley shifted and pushed inside him.
“If I’m the only one who’s interested, here,” Crowley said dryly even as he slid into the angel, “I’ll stop. I can get off just as easily by myself. It’s all the same to me.” The lie rolled easily out of his mouth and he hesitated, stilling completely until Aziraphale opened his mouth.
“You’re not the only one,” Aziraphale murmured through clenched teeth.
“I suspected not,” Crowley answered, smirking as he sank the rest of the way into the angel. He rolled his hips experimentally and the angel’s breath hitched, so Crowley did it again. “You honestly have never done this before?” he asked Aziraphale.
“N-no,” Aziraphale stuttered as Crowley’s pace quickened slightly. “N-never had a reason.”
“Then why now?” Crowley asked. He stilled again, though it took all of his patience to do so.2 “What,” he asked, “is your reason now?” He was fairly certain he knew the angel’s answer, or at least the gist of it. However, he wrapped a hand around the angel’s length and asked again, “Why did you change your mind?” punctuating each word with a rough, gripping stroke.
Aziraphale whimpered then, biting his bottom lip and closing his eyes as he pushed against Crowley, and something about the broken sound and the angel’s expression was too much for the demon. If Aziraphale answered Crowley’s question, Crowley didn’t hear it. He tumbled over the edge of orgasm with a cry, moving faster inside Aziraphale and stroking the angel harder until Aziraphale came with a soft moan.
Crowley rolled over onto his back, pulling out of the angel and sprawling on the bed, one arm hanging over the side of the bed and the other resting across Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s hand and pressed his lips to the palm. Crowley pulled away. “None of that, angel,” Crowley said. “We’re not going to cuddle and talk about our feelings.” He rolled onto his stomach and pressed his face into a pillow.
Aziraphale smiled faintly, got rid of the evidence of their evening with a thought, and then leaned back and closed his eyes. And when he, not sleeping but not fully awake either, turned to wrap an arm protectively over Crowley’s shoulders, pressing a kiss to the demon’s neck, Crowley didn’t push him away.
1. The clothes ended up on Aziraphale’s writing desk downstairs. Aziraphale’s sweater had, unfortunately, knocked over a fountain pen and was covered by purple ink. Later, he had attempted to remove the stain but Crowley had told him that perhaps it was simply fate, something Ineffable, that had destroyed “that hideous thing.”
2. Admittedly, patience wasn’t one of Crowley’s virtues (or vices) as it was.
The morning was not a dream come true. It wasn’t a surprise; as Crowley had only ever had the one dream and Aziraphale had never had any, the chances of that one dream coming true compared to all other possible scenarios had a ratio of one to a number too numerous even to be comprehended. This was, as a whole, absolutely fine with Crowley; dreams coming true sounded much more appropriate for the princesses in those ridiculous films for children than for any sort of supernatural entity.
However, there were certain elements of Crowley’s dream of two nights before that he did wish had carried over into the waking world. Namely, that Aziraphale would still be there when he woke up. In his career as a professional ne’er-do-well, Crowley had, on occasion, been called upon to tempt someone sexually-a woman just days away from her wedding night or a man out for a few drinks with his friends-and Crowley had learned that a most disconcerting feeling the morning after a night of anonymous sex was waking up alone, which was why Crowley always made sure to sneak out silently while his partner slept, in order to maximize the wickedness of his deed.
Being on the receiving end of waking up alone, however, was not something Crowley had ever experienced. He didn’t like it. When he languidly opened his eyes and turned to look next to him but saw nothing but an empty patch of clean, white sheets, he sat up immediately and looked around. Aziraphale was nowhere to be seen.
“Bugger,” Crowley muttered. Apart from the fact that he was still naked, and that his clothes were stacked at the foot of his bed in a pile far neater than Crowley would have ever put them, it felt as the morning before did, when he woke up flushed and sweating after his dream about Aziraphale.
“Oh, you’re awake,” Aziraphale said, entering the room, wearing a bathrobe. He sat on the bed and offered Crowley a cup of tea, which Crowley took wearily. It smelled like chamomile. “I wanted to return before you woke up.”
“Few minutes slow,” Crowley mumbled.
“I do apologize,” Aziraphale told him. “I wanted-“ he blushed faintly, “I wanted it to be like your dream.”
“Well, I-wait, you wanted what?” Crowley asked. “Did you spy on me while I was sleeping?”
“I couldn’t help it,” Aziraphale exclaimed. “It was a very strong thought you were having and I just couldn’t avoid it.”
“So you knew,” Crowley said accusingly. “You knew that I wanted-“
“Me, yes,” Aziraphale answered quietly. “But Crowley… I’ve known that for a long time.” The angel’s tone was matter-of-fact.
“What?” Crowley asked, confused. “How long?”
“Very,” Aziraphale said. “A very long time.”1
“And did you want-“
“Of course, my dear.”
“And you didn’t say anything?” Crowley said. “It could have saved us the trouble of-”
“I wasn’t sure how you would react.”
“I would have thrown you up against a wall and fucked you until you screamed,” Crowley said casually, but his voice cracked somewhere in the middle and betrayed his intended glib tone.
Aziraphale turned bright red. His mouth worked for a few moments, opening and closing, but no words came out. “Oh,” he finally said.
Crowley leaned over to press his lips to the soft, pale flesh of the angel’s shoulder. “We have time to try that later,” the demon muttered, and then wrapped a hand around Aziraphale’s neck to pull him closer, forgetting that Aziraphale still held a full cup of steaming tea. The angel miracled the liquid away just before it could spill across the sheets and Crowley’s chest.
“I ought to open the shop this evening,” Aziraphale said pensively. “I’ve been frustrating customers, not having it open. I don’t like to frustrate people.”
“You’re frustrating me,” Crowley grumbled, running his tongue along Aziraphale’s mouth. “But fine,” he conceded. “Open the shop. We’ve been around for thousands of years, and we’ll be around thousands more. We have all the time in the world.”
“Why Crowley,” Aziraphale said, drawing back in mock astonishment. “That’s almost romantic.”
“Don’t push your luck,” Crowley said, nipping the angel’s bottom lip.
“You sleep in my bed and grump around and try to spill my tea,” Aziraphale said, kissing the side of Crowley’s mouth. “What luck do I have?”
“You don’t have to deal with a chubby angel who tries to get you to drink tea at all hours of the day and night and shrieks if you get too close to his books,” Crowley replied, leaning into Aziraphale.
“I think… I like you a great deal,” Aziraphale murmured.
“I know,” Crowley answered, muffled because his face was buried against Aziraphale’s neck. He let his eyelids flutter, blinking slowly.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale said hesitantly. “If you’re going to sleep again, might I go downstairs and run the shop?” Crowley moved closer to the angel, closer than he actually intended to be while he rested, but he knew the gesture of affection would ensure that the angel would stay, and he liked the feel of Aziraphale’s warm skin against his chilly flesh. “Oh, all right,” Aziraphale huffed, running a hand through Crowley’s black hair. “But tomorrow, really, I ought to work.”
“We’ll see,” muttered Crowley, closing his eyes, dark eyelashes resting on pale skin. What he meant was Not if I can help it. This thought he apparently managed to keep inside his head, because Aziraphale said nothing.
Crowley drifted to sleep, wrapped around the angel.2
1. Since one of Crowley’s 19th century sleep-written letters, which said only “love love love love” written in Crowley’s looping scrawl over fifteen sheets of paper. Aziraphale had never shown that particular letter to Crowley and had no plans to do so. Crowley would have only denied writing it and then acted insufferably ornery for days.
2. He did not dream. He didn’t need to.
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Happy Holidays, conjure_lass, from your Secret Writer!