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a soft place to land

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Crowley feels like he’s in a tailspin. Like he’s spiraling downwards, although he truthfully doesn’t know where he’s going to land. Perhaps he’ll never land at all. Perhaps he’s meant to be forever spiraling, lost in the inability to ask for what he wants. 

What he wants is… a complicated topic. Difficult to verbalize, nearly impossible for him to put into words and properly explain. He loves Aziraphale; he loves him a very great deal. He loves him and he wants to make him happy and wants to please him. He likes to please him. It makes him very happy to please him. It makes him very satisfied to be able to see the look on Aziraphale’s face when he brings him somewhere for a nice date or watches him have a nice meal.

He also likes to see Azirapahle’s face when he orgasms.

Aziraphale’s face when he bites into his favorite appetizer is very lovely. Aziraphale’s face when Crowley is on his knees before him is even better.

Crowley has had lengthy conversations with Aziraphale about this. He’s laid next to Aziraphale in bed and asked him a million and one questions. What do you like? How do you like it? How fast? How slow? How rough? How gentle? Do you like this? Do you want more of this? Does this feel good? 

“Show me what to do,” he begs Aziraphale constantly, his voice a hushed whisper because if he raises it any higher, his angel might notice how it trembles.

“Show me what to do,” he whispers like a prayer, his hands waiting to be told where to go. He wants to be a good boy; he wants to do exactly what Aziraphale wants, exactly how he wants it, exactly when he wants it done. 

“Show me what to do,” he pleads every night, like servicing his angel was what She made him to do. Like making Aziraphale feel good is the only thing that will make Crowley feel anything.

“You’re so good to me,” Aziraphale whispers to him one night, tracing the line of his pretty cheekbone. Crowley feels hot all over at the praise, but he doesn’t let it show on his face. Aziraphale continues, moving to run his fingers through his hair. “You’re a very good lover, Crowley. Although I’m sure you’ve been told as much before.”

Crowley has never been told as much before. He’s never been a lover before.

He doesn’t say anything.

“Are you happy with this?” Aziraphale asks him, and Crowley’s eyes dart to look at him nervously. Aziraphale doesn’t catch it. “This— well,” he stops to let out a giggle. “This arrangement?”

Crowley swallows. He is. He so desperately is. He loves touching Aziraphale, loves kissing him and pushing him down onto the bed and servicing him. Loves making him happy. Loves making him feel good. Loves to hear Azirapahle’s noises and see his face while he makes him feel happy and good over and over and over and over. 

“Of course, angel,” he says, because that’s not a lie. He’s more than happy with the way things are now. He’s more than happy to pin Aziraphale down and take care of him. He’s more than happy to tend to his every want and need and make sure he’s satisfied. 

Aziraphale presses his face into the crook of Crowley’s neck. “Perhaps one night I should take care of you,” he murmurs. “Do everything you like.”

Crowley hates when he says things like that. He hates it because it makes his whole body hot with arousal; it makes him hot all over; it makes him so horny he feels like he could die; it sends every nerve alight with so much need he thinks he’s going to choke on it. He doesn’t even know what he needs; he doesn’t know what he wants; he doesn’t know what he likes.

“I like taking care of you,” he mutters. And he does. He so desperately does. Above everything else, even if he doesn’t understand what he likes, he knows he likes that. It’s a solid piece of ground to stand on. It’s a service he can provide. It’s a crutch he can lean on so he doesn’t have to be confusing. He doesn’t have to stop what they’re doing because it already works; he’s not quite sure how it works or why it works, and he has a sneaking suspicion there’s something out there that might work better, but thinking about it makes him feel sick with nerves. 

He’s not sure how to ask for something when he doesn’t even know what it is that he wants. 

He doesn’t want to be a problem. He wants to be a solution. He wants to be able to hold Aziraphale in his arms and pleasure him until he’s shaking with it, wants to completely take him apart over and over again, wants to make him feel so good he forgets about everything else.

At least, he’s pretty sure that’s what he wants.

He wants to make Aziraphale happy. And if that’s what makes Aziraphale happy, then that’s what he’ll do.

Aziraphale likes to talk about it a lot, though.

“Are you very familiar with the modern terminology?” he asks one day while Crowley is in the garden. He’s sitting on the porch with one of his books, though it’s currently bookmarked and set aside. He’s wearing a frankly ridiculous straw hat and a very thin, very loose cotton shirt, and as silly as it is, the look is very flattering on him. 

Crowley straightens and sits back, squinting up at him. “The modern terminology for what?” he asks. “The garden?”

“No, sex,” Aziraphale corrects casually, and Crowley nearly chokes on his tongue.

“What, er—” he stutters. “In what way?”

“Well the internet has been supremely helpful in a lot of the newer things,” Aziraphale explains cheerfully. “Although I suppose calling them “newer” things might not be exactly correct. I suppose humans have always been up to them, just with far more privacy.”

 “What, with sex being sinful, and all,” Crowley teases.

Aziraphale wrinkles his nose at him. “Either way, are you familiar with much of it?”

“Yeah,” Crowley lies.

“You’re familiar with— well, hm,” Aziraphale pauses to consider his choice of words. “Let me put it this way— what sort of things do you like? Have you any kinks or fetishes you’d like me to know about?”

“Are we really discussing this while I’m weeding?” Crowley asks, his face hot with his blush. 

“It’s as good a time as any,” Aziraphale reasons. “Would you prefer I go first?”

“Do you have kinks?” Crowley asks, unable to keep the squeak out of his voice.

“Don’t you?” Aziraphale asks, sounding surprised. 

Crowley swallows nervously; does he? He can’t think of what he likes in bed. What on Earth does he like in bed? “I like pleasing you,” he forces himself to say, instead of staying choked up. “I— like that a lot. That’s my kink.”

Aziraphale smiles at him. “Would you consider yourself a service top, then?”

Crowley stands abruptly. “I’m— thirsty.”

He stares at Aziraphale for a moment.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, darting up onto the porch and past him to get inside.

He yanks his phone out of his pocket, drops it on the floor in his haste, and scrambles to pick it back up. He looks over his shoulder nervously to make sure Aziraphale isn’t watching, like he’s messaging a secret lover rather than trying to look something up on Urban Dictionary.

The top definition for service top reads: someone who is a top in bed, but likes to service the other person (mostly only doing things for the other person's pleasure ) rather than dominating them.

Crowley reads it several times. It sounds simple enough. He doesn’t really like the idea of dominating Aziraphale; he’s much happier with the idea of taking care of him. He’s pleased to read the definition, though; it sounds like what he likes to do.

He glances over his shoulder one more time, then scrolls down to check for any additional information. There’s none, but there is a list of related terms. Crowley glances over it with no real intention of investigating further, but just as he locks his phone something catches his eye. He unlocks his phone and clicks on it.

The top definition for pillow princess reads: A term to refer to someone who almost always prefers to be the bottom, and often is fairly lazy/self-serving about it. Stems from the idea that they just want to lay back on the pillow and be treated like a princess.

Oh, Crowley hates that. He despises it. He detests it entirely for the pulse of arousal it sends through his entire body that settles inconveniently in the space between his legs. He’s suddenly plagued with the mental image of Aziraphale on top of him, whispering dirty things in his ear and dragging him into position, fucking him while Crowley lays beneath him and just enjoys himself. The fantasy is intoxicating; it makes his cock twitch in his trousers and he loves it, and he hates that he loves it.

He imagines himself walking back out into the porch and saying, “Yeah, so you know how we’ve been having sex and I’ve been taking care of you and putting in as much effort as I possibly can to make sure you’re satisfied and taken care of? Well even though I like that, and you obviously love it, what if I just decided there was something I liked more than that which involved you doing all the work instead and me not having to lift a finger? What would you think of that?”

He can see the distasteful look on Aziraphale’s face in his head, and it makes him want to throw up in the sink. It makes him want to drown himself in guilt. He closes the tab and clears his browser history and closes the app, and briefly considers just destroying the entire phone.

He comes back out onto the porch and nervously hands Aziraphale a glass of lemonade; he thanks him for it and takes a sip and goes back to reading. If he notices that Crowley is alight with nerves, he doesn’t say anything. 

“Have you given it much thought?” Aziraphale asks later that night, while they’re both sitting on the couch nursing a glass of wine and are starting to get a little bored with the movie they’re watching.

Crowley hesitates. “Given… what? Much thought?”

“Our discussion from earlier,” Aziraphale elaborates. “About things in the bedroom? Kinks and whatnot?”

“Oh,” Crowley says. He takes a sip. Truthfully, he hadn’t given it more than a few seconds of his time since he’d stumbled into it earlier, on account of it making him feel both cripplingly guilty and desperately aroused. “I— already told you, angel, I don’t have any.”

“You don’t have a single thing you’d like to try in the bedroom?” Aziraphale asks skeptically. “You’re absolutely certain there’s nothing you’d like me to be able to indulge? You can tell me even if you think it’s odd, Crowley, I won’t be judgmental.”

Crowley swallows nervously. “Nope. Nothing. Sorry to disappoint, angel.”

“You’re never a disappointment, my dear,” Aziraphale assures him. “I simply wasn’t expecting you to be quite so vanilla.”

Crowley takes a sip of his wine. “Have… you? Any? Kinks?” he asks awkwardly.

Aziraphale blushes, smiling sheepishly. “Well, it feels a bit silly to share, considering I’ll have a much longer list.”

“No!” Crowley exclaims nervously, sitting up. “We— we can do whatever you want, angel. I’ll do whatever you want. Whatever makes you happy. I— I like making you feel good. That’s what makes me feel good.”

Not a lie, he tells himself desperately. Not a lie. It does make me feel good. It makes me feel great. It’s fucking fantastic— it’s the end all be all of pleasures. I’m not lying.

Aziraphale smiles knowingly at him; the look makes Crowley’s pulse spike. “You’re absolutely certain?”

“Yes,” Crowley says immediately, refusing to think about whether or not he actually is. “Tell me what you like. Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

Whatever Aziraphale wants turns out to be a bit of a tall order. Crowley does a very good job of keeping up, though, for someone who’s pretending to have far more experience than he actually does. He keeps a straight face while Aziraphale explains, well, everything, even through the things that make Crowley want to mutter expletives. Instead, he nods when he feels he should nod and he makes little noises like “mm” and “ah” and “uh-huh” when he feels appropriate, and Aziraphale never suspects a thing.

The handcuffs aren’t that big of a deal. Neither is the more complicated work with all the rope; Crowley even sits down on his own time and learns some of the more difficult knots. He knows he could just miracle it, but Aziraphale is very impressed with him when he shows the skills off, which makes it that much more enjoyable.

Aziraphale likes biting; he likes being bitten. He asks Crowley if he can make his canine teeth just a little sharper (“Like fangs?” Crowley asks, trying not to squeak, and trying not to go pale when Aziraphale responds with an enthusiastic yes! ). He likes when Crowley bites his neck and his shoulders and his chest and his stomach and his thighs; Crowley is happy to oblige, although he can’t do it very hard, especially with the sharp teeth. Aziraphale does tell him they make him look very handsome, though, which makes Crowley especially weak at the knees.

Much to Crowley’s mortification, Aziraphale has to explain what rimming is to him. Once he gets a grasp on the concept, though, he’s more than happy to perform the task. Having extreme control over his tongue proves to be very useful, as it tends to in these situations; he also finds he very much doesn’t mind being borderline suffocated by Aziraphale’s thighs, as that’s the position he finds himself in more often than not. He doesn’t need to breath, though, and he loves Aziraphale’s body very much, so he’s perfectly content to stay in one spot for as long as Aziraphale wants and make him feel good.

Aziraphale keeps one hand in Crowley’s hair, gripping and pulling at it in a way that makes Crowley groan. “Oh, you’re so good,” he moans breathlessly, in a tone that makes Crowley desperately need to rut against the mattress.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale gasps, grinding against him in a way that makes Crowley absolutely certain he wouldn’t mind if this were the last thing he ever did. “ Oh, Crowley— yes, oh, you’re so good— so good—”

Crowley doesn’t really care what they do in bed for the rest of their lives as long as Aziraphale keeps saying that.

“Good boy,” Aziraphale mutters sometimes, and it takes a last second second demonic miracle to keep Crowley from coming untouched in his trousers.

There are some things that are far more out of his depth.

Dirty talk doesn’t come easily to him; he’s not exactly the most coherent demon in bed. He finds it incredibly difficult to form sentences at all as the night goes on, let alone complex ones that are meant to be sexy. He finds himself coming up with things to whisper in Aziraphale’s ear while he’s gardening, or cooking, or walking along the beach looking for shells. He catalogues them in his brain, mutters them to himself like he’s rehearsing, carves them into his memory so there’s no possible way for him to forget them in the moment. The way Aziraphale moans when he leans in close to mutter them in his ear is more than worth the effort.

There are things he doesn’t like.

“You want me to hit you?” he asks, unable to keep the tremble out of his voice when he says it.

“It’s not painful,” Aziraphale tries to explain. “Or, well, I suppose it is, but the pain is pleasurable. Does that make sense?”

Crowley stares at him. “No.”

Aziraphale offers him a gentle smile. “It’s sort of— well, I suppose it is difficult to explain. It does sting a bit, but the pain incites arousal rather than just being, well, painful.”

“Right…” Crowley mutters.

“You don’t have to do it with your hands,” Aziraphale continues earnestly. “You could use a riding crop. Or perhaps a paddle. How do you feel about that?”

Crowley is quiet for a long time. “… You want me to hit you?”

The sympathy, the calmness of Aziraphale’s face never dissipates, but Crowley still feels stupid for asking the same question twice. 

“I assure you, I would enjoy it very much,” he assures him.

Crowley wrings his hands together. He doesn’t look at Aziraphale. “I… don’t think I can hit you, angel. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Crowley,” Aziraphale says immediately. “You never have to apologize for not wanting to do something. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“Yeah, I know,” Crowley says meekly. “The same goes for you, angel… if I do something you don’t like, tell me right away.”

Despite Aziraphale’s reassurance, Crowley still feels bad about it. He doesn’t want to hit him, he doesn’t think he’d be able to bring himself to, and even if he did, he’d never be able to enjoy it, but he can’t help but feel like he’s disappointing him. Like he’s underperforming if he can’t do everything Aziraphale wants. Like he lied when he said whatever you want. 

We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. What does Crowley not want to do? Maybe if he starts there and works his way backwards, he can figure out what he does want to do. 

He doesn’t want to hurt Aziraphale. He doesn’t want to upset Aziraphale. He doesn’t want to disappoint Aziraphale. He doesn’t want to perform poorly or do anything wrong. He doesn’t want to be told he’s doing a bad job. 

He doesn’t want to make Aziraphale do all the work.


Okay, maybe he does, but only in his head. He wants Aziraphale to do all the work when Crowley has time to himself and he ends up with his hand in his pants thinking about being pinned down. He’d rather die than actually ask Aziraphale to indulge it, though. He’s entirely convinced he’d say no, anyway. He’s certain it wouldn’t be any fun for him. 

Is Crowley having fun?

… Yes?

It’s a difficult question to answer. The experience is… pleasurable. He achieves orgasm. He enjoys making Aziraphale feel good, but he’s not so sure he’s having… fun. Sometimes he gets so nervous his breathing gets shallow and he can’t find any sort of rhythm. Sometimes he slips and he does or says something that makes Aziraphale laugh and then he spends the rest of the evening feeling like he wants to sink into the floor. Sometimes he doesn’t want to do anything at all. Not in a fantasy about being completely taken care of, but in a way that means he just wants to go to sleep. 

Should sex feel like a chore? Should it feel like something he has to prepare himself to deal with? Should it be something he has to rehearse for? Should he dread it? Should he spend its duration wondering when it’s going to be over? Does everyone feel that way about it? Is that why married humans eventually stop doing it? 

The questions bounce around in his head like questions have always bounced around in his head. He’s not sure who to ask them to.

What do you like? Christ, how is he supposed to know? How does he answer the question when everything that arouses him makes him feel guilty at the same time? He likes Aziraphale, shouldn’t that be enough?

Sometimes he tries to be rational. If he’s willing to do anything Aziraphale wants, shouldn’t the feeling be mutual? But then he remembers he’s not willing to do everything Aziraphale wants, and he’s not sure how much goes the other way. What would Aziraphale do for him? What wouldn’t he do for him? What if the one thing Crowley wants is the one thing Aziraphale won’t do? 

He thinks about it constantly. He has an endless amount of fantasies where Aziraphale lays him down and just takes care of him. Where Aziraphale handcuffs him to the bed and spends the entire evening turning him into an incoherent mess. Where Aziraphale pins him down on his stomach, pushes his face into the pillows, and fucks him for hours. Crowley touches himself until he’s oversensitive, stifling his noises— he makes far too many noises— in his free hand until he exhausts himself. Afterwards, he always manages to feel guilty; he always manages to feel like he has to make it up to Aziraphale, even though everything that happened was confined to Crowley’s mind and the palm of his hand.

Are you happy with this arrangement? Crowley isn’t sure. What if he isn’t? Then what? What’s he supposed to do if taking care of Aziraphale doesn't make him happy? It should make him happy. He should be more than happy to take care of him; he’s loved him for thousands of years, daydreamed about being his lover for centuries. He wonders what would make Aziraphale more unhappy: knowing that Crowley isn’t enjoying himself, or listening to what Crowley would need in order to do so.

Crowley can imagine him pulling back. He can hear his voice saying, “I’m sorry, I don’t know if that… particular arrangement is going to work.” Crowley is fairly convinced he’d drink holy water if he destroyed his relationship with Aziraphale over their sex life.

He has dreams about everything happening differently. About losing his virginity to Aziraphale again, except this time he gets to lay on his back and enjoy himself while his angel holds his hips with a tight grip and makes him feel good. He wakes up horny and sick with guilt.

“Darling,” Aziraphale murmurs against the curve of his neck one evening. “I’d quite like to ride you— how would you feel about that?”

“Sure,” Crowley says immediately, hardly giving it a second thought, let alone a first one. “Anything you want, angel. As long as I can make you feel good.”

He can feel Aziraphale’s smile against the skin of his neck. The sensation makes Crowley smile, too. As long as he’s doing a good job, he’s happy.

He regrets agreeing to it as soon as Aziraphale pushes him down on the bed.

He’s not even forceful about it, his hands never even lingering on his shoulders. It’s not like he’s pinning him down, but Crowley still moans. As soon as the sound escapes lips, he’s flushed all the way down to his chest, absolutely mortified.

“Sorry,” he says breathlessly. “Got— excited.”

He sits back up hastily. “Let— let me get you ready, angel.”

He opens him up the way he always does, reveling in the noises it pulls from him, the faces he makes as Crowley makes him feel good. He crooks his fingers up, searching for— 

“Ah!” Aziraphale moans, his hips shifting desperately for more. “Ah— yes— yes— there, Crowley, oh—! Oh, yes, please— Crowley—”

“Good?” Crowley asks.

Yes !” Aziraphale exclaims. “Yes— you’re so— you’re so good, Crowley— you’re so good— oh, my dear, please, I— I want you— I want your cock—”

Crowley pulls his fingers out slowly, so as not to hurt him. Before he can lay back, Aziraphale pushes him flat onto his back. Crowley moans again, horrified when he barely stops himself from coming untouched with the use of a hasty miracle. His hips twitch up, and he screws his eyes shut in an effort to keep his breathing steady. 

“Angel…” he whines, and he’s fairly certain he sounds pathetic.

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s cock in his hand, guiding it as he sinks down onto it. Crowley moans again, loudly, trying not to buck his hips up into the tight heat. “Sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Aziraphale asks breathlessly.

“Being— loud,” Crowley chokes out.

“Don’t apologize, darling,” Aziraphale assures him. “You’re— lovely. Oh, my dear, I… I love your cock…”

“Thank you,” Crowley says reflexively.

Aziraphale laughs, and Crowley groans, wishing he could roll over and hide his face in the pillows. Aziraphale lifts himself up off him, then sinks back down; then again, and again. Crowley bites down hard on his lower lip in an attempt to keep himself quiet, his hands moving reflexively to grab at Aziraphale’s hip. 

Aziraphale isn’t particularly noisy, but he never stops himself when he has something to say. “ Ah — darling, you’re— so good… you fill me up so nicely—”

Crowley has to yank himself off the brink of climax again, gritting his teeth as he focuses on performing the miracle. He tries to shift his hips up, to fuck into Aziraphale, to take care of him, but much to his dismay he finds that he doesn’t want to. He just wants to hold him by his hips and watch him bounce on his cock and enjoy it.

Bad, he tells himself, like a reprimand. Bad. Bad. Bad. Flip him over and fuck him. Take care of him. This isn’t about you.

He opens his mouth to try to explain himself, but all that comes out is a moan. As guilty as he feels, he also feels good. He feels so good, pinned down on the bed looking up at Aziraphale, not having to do anything—

“Crowley—” Aziraphale moans, and Crowley just whimpers. “Crowley, my dear, won’t you please— oh, won’t you— say something dirty, I— I want to hear you…”

Crowley scours his brain for all those things he can make himself say at a moments notice, only to realize he can’t remember any of them. His heartbeat quickens, faster than it had been already, gazing up at Aziraphale and feeling terribly useless. He opens his mouth and tries to force himself to come up with something, anything—

“Aziraphale…” is all he manages to moan.

“Yes…” Aziraphale encourages him. “Tell me…”

“I—” Crowley chokes on his words. “I— God, angel, I— I can’t— I’m sorry I can’t—”

Aziraphale pauses. “What’s your color?”

“Green!” Crowley exclaims. “Green, angel, you’re— you’re so good, it’s just—”

“Tell me,” Aziraphale insists breathlessly.

“It’s good,” is all he manages. “Please— please don’t stop, angel, please—”

When Aziraphale moves again, Crowley has to miracle himself off the brink of orgasm for the third time. By the time Aziraphale finishes, and therefore Crowley can, as well, he’s lost count of how many times he’s had to perform the miracle. When he comes, it’s the best orgasm he’s ever had.

When Aziraphale lays down next to him, he rolls over nervously and presses a smattering of kisses to his neck. “Do you want to go again?” he asks a bit breathlessly. “We— I could… be on top this time, take care of you. Would you like that?”

“I’m done for the evening, dear,” Aziraphale tells him sweetly; he catches the tiny noise of disappointment Crowley makes in the back of his throat. “Did you want to go again? Because I could—”

“No,” Crowley says quickly, although in the back of his head he can’t help but think about how he wouldn’t mind a dozen more orgasms exactly like the one he just had. “No, I’m— fine either way, angel. Just… making sure you were enjoying yourself.”

“Oh, I did,” Aziraphale assures him with a smile. “Very much, you were wonderful.”

Crowley swallows. “I didn’t really… do anything.”

“Well, I enjoyed myself all the same,” Aziraphale assures him. “Would you be interested in doing it again?”

Crowley bites the inside of his cheek. “Sure. As long as you liked it.”

Aziraphale looks at him seriously. “Did you like it?”

Crowley wishes Aziraphale wouldn’t ask him that. He wishes Aziraphale would just take everything he’s willing to give him without making him stop and think about it. “Yeah.”

“You’re certain?” Aziraphale asks.

“Yeah,” Crowley says again. “I wouldn’t lie to you, angel. Especially not about this.”

And is it really a lie, per say, if he doesn’t entirely know what the truth is? He did just enjoy himself, even if he feels like he shouldn’t have. All he had to do was lay down and let Aziraphale do all the work and keep himself from finishing too soon, all resulting in the best orgasm he’s had to date. Surely it must have been an enjoyable experience, then?

The next time they have sex, he can’t finish without thinking about it.

He fucks Aziraphale through his orgasm, and then keeps going, thrusting into him and chasing his own; it’s almost there, just out of his grasp as he holds Aziraphale’s hips tight and listens to all his oversensitive noises. He can’t reach it, though. It evades his grasp even as he grinds into Aziraphale desperately.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whines beneath him. “I— I’m— yellow, darling, it’s too much—”

Crowley pulls out of him immediately. “Oh, God, angel, I’m sorry—”

He chokes on a moan as Aziraphale wraps his fingers around his cock, stroking him off at a pace similar to what Crowley had just been going at. “Let me finish you,” Aziraphale insists, pulling Crowley closer so he can hold him at a better angle.

“Sorry,” Crowley says reflexively.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Aziraphale assures him breathily. “Nothing to apologize for. Let me make you feel good.”

“Ngk,” is all Crowley manages, rocking his hips forward into Aziraphale’s grasp, chasing an orgasm that’s still slightly out of reach.

“You’re so good, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, and he bites back a whimper. “You’re so, so good. Come for me…”

Crowley thinks about Aziraphale leaning over him, riding him, pressing him down onto the mattress, and he moans and comes into Aziraphale’s hand.

He gets little hints of it sometimes. When Aziraphale rides him and Crowley lays underneath him, his hands on his hips while he just gets to watch and enjoy. When Aziraphale sinks down on his knees and takes Crowley into his mouth, and he balls his hands up into fists to keep himself from grabbing his hair. He has to bite down on his hands to keep himself from being loud, has to perform a dozen miracles in one evening to keep himself from finishing early. 

He loves those things. They don’t do them often. But that’s more than okay— Crowley supposes he ought to earn such treatment, and he doesn’t earn it very often. He’s not exactly skilled at asking for it, either; rather, he just finds himself hoping Aziraphale will decide to indulge him. He finds himself hoping for it very, very often. Practically every night, it would seem like, though that hardly seems fair.

He doesn't want sex to feel like a chore. He wants it to be something he enjoys. But when he’s enjoying it, it probably feels like a chore for Aziraphale, and Crowley would much rather do all the work himself, exhaust himself making his angel feel good, than make his angel do it the other way around. 

Aziraphale traces patterns on the skin of Crowley’s stomach, his torso, while they’re laying in bed. Crowley presses his cheek into the pillow and finds himself hoping Aziraphale doesn’t ask to have sex. He doesn’t want to make the effort right now, he’s tired.

“May I ask you something?” Aziraphale asks; the low voice he uses to whisper in Crowley’s ear isn’t exactly encouraging on the no sex tonight front.

“‘Course, angel,” Crowley says, but he doesn’t roll over to look at him. “What is it?”

“In the past,” Aziraphale begins, “with your, er, other lovers… have you always…? Well, what I mean to ask, darling, is if you’re enjoying yourself.”

“You ask me that all the time, angel,” Crowley says, trying to keep the nerves out of his voice. “My answer is always the same. Of course I’m enjoying myself. I’d tell you if I wasn’t.”

Would he? Yes, certainly he’d tell Aziraphale if he was having a bad time, but what they’re doing now isn’t a bad time, at all. It toes the line a bit, but at the end of the night, he enjoys himself at least a little bit.

“I know,” Aziraphale says. “It’s just— in the past, with… with the lovers I’ve taken, I’ve never quite had one who… took the reins quite as much as you do.”

Crowley glances over his shoulder, letting his irritation show on his face.

“You’re a service top,” Aziraphale says bluntly. “And it’s not that I don’t enjoy what we do. The way you treat me, it’s— it’s very generous of you, darling, and I appreciate it very much. You make me feel so good. But I was wondering if you would be comfortable… switching it around? Letting me take care of you for a bit?”

Crowley tenses, rolling back over to press his face into the pillow. Aziraphale continues quickly. “If it makes you uncomfortable, you don’t have to, my dear. We can continue the way we have been, I’m more than happy to.”

Crowley feels like his stomach has been replaced with a bottomless pit. He wishes Aziraphale just hadn’t brought it up. He doesn’t respond.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks gently. “Please talk to me. If you don’t like the idea of it, I’d like you to tell me.”

“Not sure,” Crowley admits, without meaning to. The worlds bubble up out of his throat through the beating of his heart, and as soon as he’s said them he wants to sink through the bed, through the ground and straight down to Hell where Beelzebub will be waiting to douse him in holy water. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly. “Roll over and talk to me, won’t you, darling? Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Reluctantly, Crowley rolls over to face him; Aziraphale reaches between them and takes his hand, lacing their fingers together and raising it so he can press a kiss to his knuckles. “Tell me what you’re unsure about.”

Crowley takes a shaky breath. “I’ve never quite… done it that way before.”

“I see,” Aziraphale says. 

“I… worry,” Crowley admits slowly. “I wouldn’t quite know how. I’d feel… silly. I don’t want to embarrass myself. I don’t like it when we’re in bed and I make you laugh.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says regretfully. “I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t know—”

“I never said anything, it’s not your fault,” Crowley says hastily. “Sorry. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Of course it’s a big deal,” Aziraphale insists. “I never want to do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable in bed. I never want to make you feel silly over your inexperience.”

Crowley has to bite back a laugh. If only you knew…

“I also worry,” he continues nervously, “about, er… I mean, I just don’t want you to be stuck doing all the work.”

Aziraphale frowns. “I don’t follow.”

“I mean I like being on top because I can take care of you,” Crowley says quickly. “I like taking care of you. I don’t want to put us in a position where I just get to lay back and enjoy myself while you… make the effort.”

Aziraphale smiles sympathetically. “Crowley,” he coos, reaching up to cup his cheek. “I assure you, darling, it never feels like that when I take care of my lovers.”

Crowley is caught up between the euphoria of Aziraphale calling him his lover and the despair that comes from wondering why it feels that way when Crowley tries to take care of him. 

“Perhaps we can start somewhere a little more familiar?” Aziraphale suggests. “You could ride me, if you like. That way you’d still be on top, making the effort, as you put it.”

Crowley traces his fingers over Aziraphale’s torso. “Would you enjoy that?”

“I would never suggest anything to you if I didn’t think I was going to enjoy it,” Aziraphale assures him. 

Crowley is quiet for a long time. “Do we have to right now? I’m… tired.”

“Of course not, darling,” Aziraphale says immediately. “We have all the time in the world. We never have to do anything the moment we discuss it unless we both truly want to.”

Crowley dozes off curled against his side. He has a dream about Aziraphale pinning him down and fucking him as many times as he pleases, but the entire time there’s an angry look on his face. Crowley wakes up early feeling guilty, takes a cold shower, and spends most of the day in the garden.

He doesn’t bring it up the next few times they’re intimate. Aziraphale lets him do all the heavy lifting, and Crowley secretly hopes he’ll forget about the conversation so Crowley never has to stop rationalizing their sex life to himself.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says warmly one night while they’re laying in bed kissing. “I— I should quite like… remember when we discussed, er, switching things up?”

“Mhm,” Crowley says, a bit numbly, into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck.

“Would you like to try that tonight?” Aziraphale asks, running his hand across Crowley’s torso; Crowley can’t help the way he shivers in response. 

“Yeah,” Crowley agrees, because he’s admittedly desperate to find out how it feels to have Aziraphale’s cock buried in his ass. He presses a smattering of kisses to his neck, his face heating up at the thought. “I— I want your cock, angel…”

Aziraphale pulls Crowley into his lap, suddenly, and it takes all his strength not to moan over being tugged around with no warning. Aziraphale kisses him, and Crowley melts into it, leaning against him, savoring it.

“You’re so cute,” Aziraphale mutters when he breaks the kiss. He puts his fingers in the belt loops of Crowley’s trousers, pulling him closer and forcing him to grind down on him; Crowley finds he doesn’t mind very much as Aziraphale begins pressing kisses to his neck.

“I do love to please you, Crowley,” he whispers against his skin, and Crowley shivers. “Tell me, what can I do to make you feel good?”

“Er,” Crowley says, absolutely certain half of his blood has just rushed to his cheeks and the other half to his cock. “Can we… just… er, can I just ride you?”

Aziraphale lays him down on his back to get him ready, and even just that nearly sends Crowley over the edge more than once. He has to bite his hand to keep himself quiet, and it hurts a bit with the effort it takes, but it’s more than worth it, because the way Aziraphale’s fingers feel opening him up is, well, heavenly.

Crowley nearly sobs when he sinks down on Aziraphale’s cock; he grabs at his shoulders desperately and tries to keep himself from trembling as he takes him to the hilt. 

Ah— ” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. “A— Aziraphale— you feel— you feel ssso good…”

“So do you, darling,” Aziraphale whispers back, and he sounds so calm about it, it makes Crowley go completely dizzy. 

Aziraphale’s grip on Crowley’s hips is firm and grounding, perhaps the only thing preventing Crowley from slipping out of his corporeal form all together. “Are you going to move, my dear, or do you need me to do it for you?”

Crowley grits his teeth with the effort it takes to miracle himself off the brink of orgasm. “ Sssorry.”

He shifts before Aziraphale can remind him he doesn’t have to apologize, and Crowley stifles a groan, trying to keep himself composed. He rocks back and forth in Aziraphale’s lap, unable to do much else and quickly losing his ability to think coherent thoughts.

“Oh, you’re so pretty,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley barely miracles away his orgasm. “You look so handsome, bouncing on my cock,” and Crowley has to miracle it away again. 

He’s not making very good progress, though. He’s mostly just grinding down on him in his lap, and Aziraphale notices. He holds his hips a little firmer, shifting his hips ever so slightly. “Would you like me to—?”

“No,” Crowley gasps. “No— no, angel, jussst— jussst let me do the work— let me— let me do it— jusst enjoy yourssself…”

But Crowley still isn’t doing much, just weakly rocking back and forth as though that’s going to help either of them achieve orgasm. Aziraphale grips his hips tightly, and it takes hardly any effort at all to lift him slightly up before letting him sink back down.

Ah !” Crowley says, unable to bite the noise back. “Ah— angel, just— jussst let me do it—”

“You hardly weigh anything, darling, it’s nothing,” Aziraphale assures him, a bit breathless now himself. “If you’d like me to—”

“No,” Crowley insists. “No, let me— let me do it.”

Aziraphale almost remarks on how Crowley isn’t really doing much of anything, but then Crowley manages to lift himself up and sink back down once, twice, three times, even. He almost sets a rhythm, but then he dissolves in Aziraphale’s lap, practically trembling, grinding down against him, seemingly unable to do much else.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says gently, lovingly. “Would you mind terribly if we switched spots?”

Crowley bites back a whimper, thinking what he’s doing isn’t quite cutting it. He misunderstands, though, exactly what Aziraphale means by switching spots. “Yeah,” he mutters, embarrassed, shifting so he can sit up and they can switch and he can spend the rest of the night pleasing his angel.

Aziraphale grabs him by his hips, flips them over, and pins Crowley down to the bed without really meaning to. Crowley comes hard. 

Aziraphale blinks in surprise. “Oh, dear.”

“I’m sssorry!” Crowley practically wails. He screws his eyes shut in mortification, but that doesn’t stop the tears from leaking out. “I’m sorry— I’m sorry—!”

“Why are you apologizing!?” Aziraphale asks, somewhat panicked over the rapid change in Crowley’s demeanor. “I didn’t— I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t— I didn’t know flipping us around was going to make you so upset, I thought—”

“I’m not upset ,” Crowley says miserably; he covers his face with his hands as though that’s going to hide the fact that he’s in tears. “I’m not— I’m sorry— I liked it.”

Aziraphale frowns. “I’m not following.”

“I liked it!” Crowley says again, sobbing now. “I liked it, that’s why I came. I— I— I’m sorry— I liked being pinned down. I— I like— I like the idea of you— pinning me down and— and fucking me— God, I’m sorry— I know it’s not— I know I shouldn’t— I mean— I— I’m sorry, I just— I like the thought of you— just— taking care of me and me not— not having to do anything, I’m sorry, I know it’s— it’d be so much work ‘cause I think about you doing it over and over and— over again, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I—”

He breaks off crying for a moment, heaving sobs, his face still covered in shame. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m sorry, just— just give me a minute, and I’ll— just give me a minute and— forget I said anything, I’m sorry— just— I’m sorry, just give me a minute and I’ll take care of you— like— like I should…”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says sternly. “Crowley, look at me.”

Crowley whimpers, squirming and refusing to remove his hands from his face. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says again, his tone a little more gentle. “Why would you ever feel like you need to apologize for wanting something?”

“Because it’s too much!” Crowley insists. “It’s too much to ask for! You’d have to do all the work and I wouldn’t be doing anything, I’d just be enjoying myself at your expense.”

“At— at my expense?” Aziraphale asks, incredulous. “What do you mean at my expense? You don’t pleasure me at your expense!”

Crowley begins to cry harder, and Aziraphale feels very cold all over. “Crowley,” he says, the stern edge back in his voice. “Please look at me.”

“No,” Crowley sobs.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “Do you or do you not pleasure me at your own expense?”

“Stop talking,” Crowley says weakly.

“Crowley, you’re supposed to tell me when you’re not enjoying things!” Aziraphale exclaims. “You’re not supposed to bottle it up and— and perform for me. I don’t ever want you to do things for me at your own expense.”

“That’s exactly what it’d be like if you did what I wanted, though,” Crowley insists. “It’d be exactly the same, except flipped.”

“No,” Aziraphale says. “No, Crowley. Sex is never supposed to happen at anybody’s expense. It’s not meant to feel like a chore for anyone involved. It’s meant to be pleasurable for both parties. Have— have your lovers in the past made you feel like you weren’t meant to be enjoying yourself?”

Crowley finally uncovers his face, frowning angrily at Aziraphale as the tears continue to fall. “I’ve never had another lover, angel!”

Aziraphale looks taken aback. “... What?”

“I’ve never had sex before having sex with you!” Crowley exclaims. “I’ve never been— physically intimate with a human! Or a demon! And certainly not with a bloody angel! There are no past lovers! I’ve never wanted to be intimate with anyone except you!”

Aziraphale stares at him miserably. “You— you lost your virginity to me and you didn’t tell me?”

Crowley curls in on himself. “It didn’t seem important.”

Aziraphale blinks. “You lost your virginity to me and you didn’t even enjoy it?”

“I did enjoy it,” Crowley insists desperately. “I came, didn’t I? That means I enjoyed it.”

“That’s not—!” Aziraphale starts to say, but he cuts himself off and takes a deep breath instead.

“Crowley,” he says gently. “I want you to tell me what you would enjoy doing in bed, disregarding whether or not it would make me happy.”

“No,” Crowley says immediately.

Crowley ,” Aziraphale insists. “You’ve listened to me tell you about every single one of my fantasies, you’ve indulged every single—”

“I haven’t,” Crowley points out. “I haven’t. I couldn’t hit you, remember? I can’t indulge every single one of your fantasies, I can’t hit you.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says gently. “I will experience pleasure when I’m being intimate with you regardless of whether or not you’re able to hit me. That doesn’t matter. If you can’t enjoy yourself being on top—”

“I can,” Crowley insists desperately. “I can, I can, I can make myself—” 

“You’re not going to make yourself do anything,” Aziraphale says sternly. “Either we both enjoy ourselves or we don’t have sex.”

Crowley makes a miserable noise. “You’re not gonna like it.”

“How do you know that?” Aziraphale asks.

“Because it’s too much!” Crowley insists. “It requires you to do all the work while I don’t do anything, how is that fair?!”

“Taking care of you isn’t work, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “Tell me what you want. And don’t apologize for it.”

Crowley begins to cry again. He screws his eyes shut. “I— I want… I want you to fuck me…”

He takes a deep, shaky breath. “I want you to— pin me down, or— or tie me up, just— just keep me still while you fuck me. Just… take care of me, and… and praise me while you do it, even though I’m not really doing anything. I just… I like it when you tell me I’m good. I like it when you call me a good boy. And I… I want… I want you to do it more than once. Like, more than once… at a time. Like… like multiple orgasms in one sitting.”

He takes another deep breath, clearly trying to keep himself calm, before he tacks on: “But— obviously, you— you don’t have to if you don’t want to…”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says gently. “Please look at me, darling.”

Reluctantly, Crowley opens his eyes, looking up at Aziraphale nervously. He reaches out and strokes along his cheek, and Crowley has to bite back a whimper.

“I’m not upset with you,” Aziraphale assures him softly. “I’m not abhorred by what you want. In fact, if I’m being honest, I want very much the same thing.”

Crowley looks at him suspiciously. Aziraphale continues. “Crowley, I’ve had numerous lovers in the past. And they’ve all been… well, to put it bluntly, they’ve all been bottoms. It’s just the sort of partner I tend to attract. Quite honestly, I was a bit surprised when you seemed to want to be in charge, because I’m more used to it being the other way around. I enjoy it, if I’m being honest. Not that I don’t enjoy being on the bottom, as well, I just… enjoy being on top a little more. I like indulging my partners fantasies, because half the time I don’t have to ‘indulge’ them at all. I enjoy them, too. And I assure you I would very much enjoy treating you the way you’ve just described.”

He traces Crowley’s cheekbone, wipes away some of the tears fallen there. “If you’d like to just lay back and let me take care of you, that sounds very favorable to me. Truthfully I’ve gotten off several times to the image of you spread out underneath me, just… taking whatever I’ll give you.”

Crowley manages to swallow nervously even though his entire mouth has gone dry. “You… that’s not true…”

“It very much is,” Aziraphale assures him softly.

“Why— why didn’t you bring it up, then?” Crowley asks skeptically.

“I thought you were enjoying the, er,” he huffs out a bit of a laugh, “the arrangement, as it were. I wasn’t sure you’d be interested in flipping it around. But now that I know you are, I’m more than open to the idea.”

Crowley is quiet for a long time; he doesn’t look at him. Finally, he says, “I— I really don’t… mind that much. Taking care of you. I like making you feel good. It… it sort of balances out any discomfort on my part to know that you’re at least enjoying yourself.”

Aziraphale brushes his hand through Crowley’s hair, pushing it out of his face. “I wouldn’t have been enjoying myself at all had I known you’d been in discomfort.”

“Sorry,” Crowley says quietly.

“Please stop apologizing,” Aziraphale pleads. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

“Feels like I have plenty to be sorry for,” Crowley croaks. “I get the feeling that I'm not a very good lover.”

Aziraphale offers him a sympathetic smile. “Your communication skills are a little lackluster, admittedly, but that’s nothing that can’t be improved upon. Besides, I love you, and I know you love me in return, and regardless of whether or not we have sex at all, the fact that we’re able to express that love however we please makes me more than happy to be your lover.”

He wipes a fresh tear from Crowley’s cheek. “Love isn’t sex, my dear. I’d love you if we had sex every day and I’d still love you exactly the same if we never had sex again. It’s just a pleasurable way to express that love. It’s not the only way to make me happy. I’m happy to simply be with you.”

Crowley shuts his eyes. “I love you, too.”

Aziraphale offers him a gentle smile. “May I kiss you?”

Crowley opens his eyes again, looking exponentially more nervous. “Er— I don’t really… want to… do anything else tonight…”

“Oh, I know, darling,” Aziraphale assures him softly. “We won’t have sex again until you’re comfortable with it. I was only asking for something chaste, but you don’t have to kiss me right now if you—”

Crowley pulls him down into a chaste, closed mouth kiss. It lasts for several moments. When he breaks the kiss, he looks up at Aziraphale earnestly, still holding him close. “Thank you for not, er… divorcing me?”

He hesitates. “Is that— the right term? I mean I know we never technically got married but we do call each other husband. ‘Breaking up’ just sounded too juvenile when I thought it over in my head. I just mean—”

Aziraphale gives him another chaste kiss. “My dear,” he says warmly. “Now that I have you after all this time of wanting you, there’s very little you could do that would ever make me let you go again.”

Crowley blinks. “Such as?”

“Hm,” Aziraphale hums thoughtfully. “Murder, for one thing.”

“You liked it when I murdered those Nazi’s,” Crowley points out.

“Nazi’s don’t count, they should all be murdered,” Aziraphale reminds him affectionately. 

“Right, sorry,” Crowley says with a slight grin.

“I’ve just decided you’re not allowed to apologize for the next hour,” Aziraphale says firmly.

“Even if I step on your foot?” Crowley asks immediately. “Even if I set fire to the city?”

Aziraphale pinches his thigh ever so lightly. “Quit being cheeky and roll over so I can hold you.”

Crowley doesn’t think about sex again for weeks. His libido is practically nonexistent; not that it ever used to be before he’d started having sex. Even before finally getting to be with Aziraphale it wasn’t uncommon for him to have wet dreams, or to spend an evening with the angel only to go home to scream into his pillow before rutting against it. But he’d been dreading sex more than looking forward to it, recently, and participating on more than one ocassion when he hadn’t quite been in the mood, so his body welcomed the reprieve.

Then comes an evening when they’re both out to dinner, tucked away in a booth in the corner of the restaurant, sitting rather close to one another. They’re in the middle of dessert— or rather, Aziraphale is in the middle of dessert, and Crowley is watching him affectionately— when the angel insists upon sharing a few bites of the cake. It’s vanilla, and coated in a thick layer of frosting; not the sort of thing Crowley would usually go for, but he lets Aziraphale feed him a bite, anyway. 

It’s sickly sweet, incredibly rich, but beneath all the sugar Crowley supposes it’s good. He’s about to say as much, when Aziraphale says, “Oh, dear, you have—” and sets the fork down, before reaching over and wiping a bit of icing off the corner of Crowley’s mouth. He licks it off his finger, and Crowley is very suddenly, very intensely reminded that he is, in fact, sexually attracted to him. 

“Alright, darling?” Aziraphale asks, noticing the look on his face.

Crowley blinks. “Er— fine.”

Aziraphale gives him a skeptical look. Crowley clears his throat awkwardly. “Er— I don’t… don’t really want to have this conversation in the restaurant, angel.”

Aziraphale arches an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“We can… talk about it in the car— er, finish your dessert, yeah?” Crowley says quickly, looking away nervously.

“So,” Aziraphale says smoothly, as soon as they’re in the car and the doors are shut. “What would you like to talk about?”

“Er,” Crowley says, unable to actually find the words for it. “You— you know.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, a tad bit stern. “You need to tell me what you want.”

“Forgive me, I feel a bit silly just bluntly saying do you want to have sex?”

“That’s a perfectly fine way to ask for it!”

“Makes me sound like a Puritan on my honeymoon.”

Aziraphale snorts. Then he sobers. “Well, come now. The Puritans weren’t really all that prudish, despite what the name implies. You’d be more accurate comparing yourself to, say, a Mormon.”

Crowley laughs for a good few minutes at that.

“And I do, by the way,” Aziraphale adds once he’s done.

“Huh?” Crowley asks.

“I do want to have sex,” Aziraphale clarifies. “If you’re asking.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, blushing hard. “Er— yeah. Yeah, I am.”

The drive continues in silence for a moment.

“Sorry,” Crowley says frowning. “That was— the most awkward fucking thing I’ve ever said.”

“I can assure you I’ve been prepositioned for coitus is much more awkward ways,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley cringes. “Please don’t call it coitus.”

“Would you prefer intercourse?”

“I’d prefer you either said love making or fucking.”

Aziraphale looks at him affectionately for a long moment. After such a long lapse of silence, Crowley blushes and glances at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale assures him. “Just trying to figure out what would make you more flustered: if I said I was going to make love to you, or if I said I was going to fuck you.”

“Ngk,” Crowley says, rendered completely useless by the combination of both. He turns the radio up so he doesn’t have to carry on the conversation. 

Once back to the cottage, Aziraphale wastes very little time pulling Crowley into a heated kiss, which the demon happily reciprocates. His heart hammers away in his chest, his palms sweaty as Aziraphale moves on to pressing eager kisses to his neck. He has to remind himself there’s nothing to be dreading this time around; Aziraphale is going to lay him down and take care of him. Aziraphale is happy to lay him down and take care of him. The thought makes Crowley’s stomach knot with nerves and butterflies simultaneously. 

They spend several moments with Crowley backed up against the kitchen counter, Aziraphale pinning him there, the two of them kissing fervently. Crowley has to lean down and into it, considering how much shorter Aziraphale is than him; even so, being pinned with Aziraphale’s firm grip, it’s quite obvious that he’s not the one making the decisions, and Crowley doesn’t mind that at all. In fact, it makes him quite weak at the knees.

“Can I take you to bed, darling?”Aziraphale murmurs against his lips, and Crowley has to repress a full body shiver.

“Er,” he says, his mouth suddenly gone quite dry. “Yeah. I— er— I would… I would like that…”

Aziraphale smiles sweetly, and the sight makes Crowley’s heart beat twice as fast. Before he can say much else, Aziraphale grabs him firmly by the waist, and suddenly Crowley’s feet are no longer touching the ground. The angel tosses him over his shoulder, holding him steadily in place, and if Crowley wasn’t hard before, he certainly is now, considering how he almost comes in his pants.

Aziraphale carries him to bed, which leaves Crowley practically swooning. Once there, Aziraphale drops him down onto the mattress with enough force that Crowley does come in his pants. Quite loudly.

Aziraphale pauses, surprised. “Did you just…?”

Sssorry,” Crowley hisses. “Usually I— I’m better at— sometimes I have to— miracle it away, sort of, so I can… you know so I don’t— too soon… but I— I can go again. My refractory period is, like, nothing, angel. Really, I’ve touched myself for hours before, just over and over.”

He swallows nervously, curling in on himself a bit. “Sort of wish I hadn’t told you that.”

“Oh, no, I’m glad you did,” Aziraphale practically purrs. “I’m very pleased by it.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, blushing fiercely but managing to relax a bit. “Okay. Er— that’s fine, then.”

“One thing, though,” Aziraphale says warmly, crawling onto the bed.

Crowley bites his lip nervously. “Yeah, anything, angel.”

Aziraphale pulls him close, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Don’t miracle yourself off the edge tonight,” he tells him quite sternly. “Or any other night, for good measure. I’d like to make you come until you beg for mercy.”

Crowley nearly dissolves into his arms. “Yeah, that, er— yeah, I can, er— I can… er…”

He can’t seem to properly form the sentence. To save him the trouble, Aziraphale leans forward and kisses him. Crowley eagerly accepts, allowing himself to be pushed backwards on the bed so he’s laying flat on his back, pressed up against the pillows. After such a long time of not being sure what to do with himself, of spiraling and falling and not being certain, it’s a soft place to land.