Chapter Text
They had saved the world. For a little while. Enough, he hoped.
Crowley should have felt ecstatic, and he had been - mere days ago. Before, when there was no ache in his soul, no fire licking at the hollow of his bones. Before, when all he had cared about was the next restaurant he could take Aziraphale, the next book he could gift him just so he could watch that smile bloom across soft features, the next... The next.
Before Beelzebub had visited him.
"What do you want?" Crowley asked, the desire to slam the door in their flies slightly undercut by a deadly case of curiosity. His first mistake. Of many, he was sure.
Beelzebub cocked their head to the side, languidly, as if they weren't just coming back from dealing with the fallout of trying to melt a demon in Holy Water. Unsuccessfully.
"Thought I might visit," they buzzed, voice even, eyes bored. Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that what friends do?"
"No. It's not."
This time, Crowley did slam the door, hoping to squash one of the braver flies that had headed for his face. Turned around. Only to find it in perfectly good health, still attached to its Master.
"Heard you finally got what you wanted. An angel, all for you." Beelzebub smiled, a rotting thing that hurt just to look at. "Good for you."
"What do you want, Bee?" Crowley asked, resisting the urge to press at his face, tired of the theatrics. They had been friends, long ago, in a different life. He could only hope that counted for something. "You come to kick me out of my home? Try to kill me again? Why. Are. You. Here?"
The smile twitched, the fly buzzed. A wine bottle materialised in Beelzebub's hands. "Fair is fair. You won. Hell won't bother you again. I thought that was reason enough to celebrate."
The growl couldn't have left his mouth faster. Crowley bared his, useless, undemonic, teeth.
"No."
A glass now, filled. Beelzebub drank from it, an eyebrow raised from above the rim. Passed it to Crowley. "To you. And your little angel."
Against his better judgment, Crowley took it, fingers wrapping around the fragile peace offering. His second mistake. Possibly, his last.
Beelzebub watched him as he sipped gingerly, the smile rotten now, putrid. Their gaze roved over his face before settling onto his eyes, their cheeks already flushed. They weren't used to alcohol.
"You know, I've always liked you, Crowley," they said finally, a sincerity to their words that tasted just as foul as their usual taunting. A fly landed on Crowley's cheek, gentle, almost like a caress. "Don't worry. It won't kill you."
And just as the pain seared his insides, they disappeared.
It was almost unbearable now. The pain, and the something else, something even worse, burning inside his veins. Crowley's hand tightened around his own waist, squeezing at the flesh, hoping it would melt under his touch. It would certainly hurt less.
The knock on his door came again, quickly, unsurprisingly. He ignored it, still. He couldn't ignore the voice calling for him.
Not this time. Not again.
"Crowley?" Aziraphale called for him, voice drifting through the only barrier between them. The only thing that could stop those vile impulses, the thoughts that made talons dig into the tender of Crowley's palm. He let out a breath, realised he could feel him, even through the door. He could feel the Warmth and the Good and...
Crowley shouldn't have opened the door. He knew he shouldn't have. But there was trepidation in the angel's voice, a quiver, a rush of air between the sour of his name. He could have never said no.
Aziraphale stared at him, gaze sweeping up and down before his eyes widened. He looked beautiful. All wild hair and soft skin and eyes as blue as innocence. Delicious. His. Something primitive and raw stirred in the demon's chest and he was growling before he could even feel his mouth fall open.
"Get inside. I don't want anyone seeing you."
Only Aziraphale, pure, beautiful Aziraphale, did not see this as the tendrils of Crowley's possessiveness curling around his body, squeezing the air out of his lungs. A furtive glance around, as if he, too, shared that fear, but he didn't. He couldn't. And he was stepping inside the demon's home, surrendering himself. He didn't even know.
He was still smiling.
"My dear, I was so worried about you," the angel murmured, soft. Crowley could feel his eyes on him again, lingering, his heavy gaze scalding on the demon's skin. He knew what he looked like. Flushed and aching, a sheen of sweat and a thin robe the only thing covering his shame. Shaking. Desperate. Vile.
He tugged at his robe, trying to cover himself as much as possible. Still swayed forward because he was weak and his angel was there and, Satan, he needed...
A soft hand pressed against his searing forehead and he hissed at the contact. At the cold relief of it.
"My goodness, Crowley, you are burning up. Are you alright, my dear?" Aziraphale's voice grew in fervour as his touch mapped the edges of Crowley's face. It wasn't what drew Crowley closer.
Yes. "No." The word was out the moment he had opened his mouth and Crowley tried to clamp it shut. But he wasn't done apparently. "Something's wrong. You need to go."
The marionette's strings digging at his skin pulled him forward. One foot, then the other, until he was crowding Aziraphale against the door.
It was that touch, careful and gentle and so very fleeting. He wanted it, again. He always had, that wretched craving almost sweet in its familiarity, but it was worse now. His skin wailing in pain where it wasn't pressed against that tempting softness.
Crowley looked down, startled at the sight of his own claws clenched around a pale wrist. Holding Aziraphale in place. Holding him close. Just holding. Unbruised, unmarred skin. Not for long and the sting of that thought made him let go with a hiss of pain. Stupid of him, considering the only time he wasn't hurting was when Aziraphale was touching him.
When Aziraphale was close.
"I can see that. You look terribly flushed, my dear." Aziraphale was fretting now, apparently not the least bit worried about the lack of any space between their bodies. The awful danger that he was in. "Do you need to sit down?"
It was the angel's turn to leave feather-heavy fingerprints against his chest as he lightly pushed him away. Crowley growled, in anger or surrender, he couldn't be sure, even as we swayed backwards. Of course he did. What did it matter the way his body was screaming at him to just reach forward, take what he was owed, what he deserved. It was just pain. It didn't matter.
Aziraphale mattered. The worried flicker of his eyes, the flush on his cheeks. The way his hands hovered between their bodies and Crowley wanted to scream, 'Touch me, touch me, touch me.' He wanted to beg and he wanted to cry and he needed him gone.
No. "No." At least his mind and his mouth were in agreement on this one. He chased the feeling of relief that washed over him at the realisation. Something was wrong, something was terribly wrong and he couldn't have the angel around for this. Not when he was feeling like this, burning with Hellfire and something else, something even more damning.
"Listen, angel, you need to leave."
He said it as gently as he could but it didn't seem to matter, Aziraphale was already shaking his head, that horrible whisper of a touch traveling up-up-up, until it was warming his shoulder. Gentle fingers held him lightly, loose enough to hurt, still, but in a different way than Crowley was used to.
"I am not leaving you, Crowley." The words were stern, the voice even more so. And Aziraphale was trying to smile, a flitty little thing and his lips looked so soft. They looked so beautiful and Crowley was swaying forward. He needed them, he needed them on him and he couldn't... He couldn't be expected not to.
"What happened?"
"Hell," Crowley heard himself say and then startled, mouth inches away from its goal. They both froze, Aziraphale's eyes narrowing in suspicion, Crowley's widening in horror. "Beelzebub was here. With wine."
"And you drank that?" Aziraphale almost screeched at him and he couldn't even argue. He deserved it. He had been stupid and he had been naive and the pain was there again, a lover's touch spreading from his lips outwards. If he could only...
"They had some first. I'm not an idiot, angel," he argued, absent-mindedly, as he tracked the way those lips disappeared behind a row of white teeth. "Satan, just look at you."
"Oh, yes, certainly that makes it all fine, doesn't it, my dear? The demon who tried to dissolve me, or you, rather, into Holy Water a mere week ago shows up at your door and you decide to have wine with them?"
There was a wild glint in Aziraphale's eyes and his voice was pitching higher and higher until it was almost comical. Or would have been if Crowley had not used his friend's rant to sneak closer again, and was now far more interested in the way the angel's chest was rising and falling against his own. He watched helplessly as his fingers traced over Aziraphale's waistcoat, before curling around the buttons, the only flimsy barrier between him and the soft skin he burnt for.
One button. Aziraphale was lecturing him about not letting demons inside his home. As if he hadn't entered the home of a demon all on his own free will. Two buttons. Aziraphale had now moved to telling him how irresponsible it was to accept drinks from said demons. As if he hadn't done that countless of times before. Three buttons. Not long now.
A hand wrapped around his own, squeezing at it and pressing it closer to the fabric Crowley had just uncovered. He wiggled slightly, one finger stretching, fluttering between the buttons of the angel's shirt and pressing against soft skin. A hitch of breath from above him and Crowley shifted closer, secured his other hand on Aziraphale's hip. He wouldn't let himself be moved, he wouldn't let this go.
Of course he would. If Aziraphale asked. Of course he would let him go, even if it hurt. Despite how much it hurt.
Aziraphale didn't drag him away.
"There was something in the wine." It wasn't a question. Crowley paid it no mind. "They drugged you."
Crowley nodded without even lifting his head, eyes still glued to where his fingers had wormed their way to heat and warmth and happiness, and desperately wishing he could do that with his whole body. The pain was dull now, a slight ache inside his soul and he wiggled closer, undid two buttons with the flick of his wrist until he could fit his whole hand inside.
Aziraphale's breath was coming out in rasps. He was still not making any effort to push him away.
"What do you need, Crowley?"
And maybe it was the steel in that question. The unsaid, but very much apparent, 'Anything you need, say it and it's yours," the taste of which was a familiar sting on the demon's mouth. Or was it the way Aziraphale had used his grip on his wrist to push his hand even further, had not only welcomed the intrusion but surrendered himself to it. The sight of the angel's shirt, pure white, wrinkled and undone and indecent.
Crowley gasped, snatched his hand away to cradle against his own chest, as if injured. He took a step back, considered, then took another.
"You need to leave, Aziraphale. You need to leave right now. I can't-" He didn't know what to say, how to say it differently so the angel finally listened to him. Finally realised the danger that he was in. He had asked so many times now and each time it became more difficult to let the words out, each time he hoped his friend would heed his advice less and less.
Aziraphale kissed him. It wasn't a good kiss. It wasn't even, strictly speaking, a kiss. It was a close-mouthed brush of the angel's lips against his cheek. It was also the best thing that had ever happened to Crowley and he couldn't stop the ferocity of his growl.
"Is this what you need?" Aziraphale asked him, eyes storm-blue and determined. Even as he was biting into his own lip so hard he would have drawn blood, were they human. Even as he was shaking like a feather in a hurricane.
Crowley shook his head. Even as he needed him, so badly he thought he might strip off his own skin just so he couldn't feel the way it tingled with desperation. Even as his cheek was engulfed in the sweetest of flames and his nails dug into his own palm, reminding him of what he could do to that pure form before him. He could touch him and he could have him and he would taint him and- He would never do that to Aziraphale. He would never ask for that.
"Yes."
He shook his head again, more forceful now, as if to banish that sudden burst of truth but it was too late. Hands wrapped around the edges of his robe and he was being drawn close, closer, until he was flush against his angel. And Aziraphale was kissing him again, impossibly soft lips pressing against his own in a determined albeit directionless flurry.
The pain was gone, its siren's song hushed now, replaced by the soft gasps, escaping the angel's mouth.
Despite himself, Crowley pressed closer. One hand wrapped around Aziraphale's cheek, a gentle touch to sooth at the ferocity with which the angel was pressing at his mouth, the other went back to its previous mission of liberating as much skin as possible.
And yet, even with everything he had ever wanted within his grasp, he couldn't stop himself from trying to chase it away.
"Last chance, angel. Please- Fuck, you are so soft- I wouldn't be able to stop. I'm so sorry."
Aziraphale shuddered, he could feel him shudder against his own body. Shook his head.
"Anything you need," he said and Crowley had known, he had heard it in everything the angel had done. Didn't make it any less devastating.
And because he was useless and stupid and vile, he couldn't offer anything else, could he? Anything else than the wretched apologies falling off his lips, even as he struggled to divest the angel from his clothes. It was harder than he had thought it would be, fingers shaking, eyes burning with shame and strangely wet. He didn't deserve this, the devotion, the sacrifice. Aziraphale was the sacrificial lamb and here he was, the big, bad demon and it was the demon wasn't it, the one who always lost. Why wasn't he losing, then? Why was it Aziraphale who had to suffer, because of him?
He felt Aziraphale lay a hand over his, bravely endured a comforting squeeze with only a choked off gasp to show for it.
"Let me," the angel whispered, before tugging him away. Crowley couldn't meet his eyes. He couldn't bear to see those kind, warm eyes, filled with everything the demon didn't deserve. Everything he couldn't expect and yet there it was, handed to him, just because Aziraphale was nice. Because Aziraphale thought that he needed it.
He did. But that didn't mean anything. He had needed it for millennia.
The only difference now, the burn in his chest had turned into physical pain.
The waistcoat pivoted in the air and he wrapped numb fingers around it before it could hit the floor. Despite the brave face the angel was putting on, he was shaking too, even as he was working his buttons hurriedly, even as he was sliding off soft cotton to reveal even softer skin. And Crowley should have stopped it, there was panic rising in his chest, suffocating him. But he was too far gone now, his hands already knew the feel of that skin, his lips had memorised the taste of it. He was a demon. And he was weak.
"Satan, you are beautiful," he thought or he said, he wasn't entirely sure. But Aziraphale gasped, pressed against him and it didn't really matter.
The clothes were gathering into a pile in their feet and Crowley shouldn't have been bothered by it. But he knew how much the angel cared and he knew... A snap of the fingers and they were folded in a neat pile on the sofa, waiting for them. Aziraphale blinked at him, a grateful smile trying to emerge from the horrors of his anxiety and Crowley felt the way his own heart leapt out of him, tried to crawl inside his angel, tried to finally become his.
And that's how Crowley finally got what he had dreamed of from the moment he knew what dreams were. Aziraphale, naked and shivering, pressed against his front door, eyes wide. Crowley should have stopped. He did stop, his own eyes widening in a sudden bout of clarity and he took a step back, let his hands fall off that delicious skin. But Aziraphale was reaching for him, hands curling around the nape of his neck, dragging him close until every one of his serrated edges was slotted against the angel's soft curves.
"Fuck, angel," he cursed, tried to wiggle even close, mouth already claiming soft skin. "Sorry. Need you so much that I can't- Can't stand it."
"Then have me," Aziraphale answered, as if it was simple, easy. As if it wasn't what Crowley had been trying to stop himself from wanting for an eternity.
As if he was already Crowley's.
The thought of it made desire squeeze at his throat, made more words, confessional and shame-bitten, claw at his mouth and he sunk his teeth into the angel's neck. Wasn't this what he had wanted, what whatever had been in the wine had wanted him to do? To have the angel pliant and soft in his arms, to drink from his gasps, to sully his warmth. His hands were already curled around Aziraphale's waist, rotten and dirty, talons digging into the meat of him as if ready to tear him to bits. Prepare him for the feast. The hunger in him twitched, roared, and he was sinking his teeth into beautiful skin and he couldn't do this. He couldn't- he had to be better. He lapped at the reddened flesh, lifted his head to apologise.
But the words were there, patiently waiting for him to emerge from the safety of Aziraphale's skin.
"So beautiful for me, so soft. My lovely angel. Satan I- I'm so sorry."
Bloody and raw, the words scratched out of his throat, left him breathless. Aziraphale twitched with a gasp, pressed against him, warm and insistent and terrifying. Crowley let his hand slide down, marvelling at the expanse of skin with an almost out-of-body clarity. He could have him now, he reasoned, he could touch and kiss Aziraphale.
Crowley let his head fall to one side, mouth lazily mapping the soft shoulder as he waited for the angel to nod his assent. Waited for permission he didn't need but very much wanted, his hand rubbing circles against a thick thigh, close enough to show his intent without actually breaking any boundaries. The pain was back, its touch familiar now, like a bruise from a lover, tingling and devastating.
It was absurd, of course. Whatever was happening had already broken every boundary the angel had placed so long ago, had shattered the fragile peace they had never had. It was just a matter of time, time and that wanton need in his ribs, for this to be over.
This. And their friendship.
Aziraphale, thankfully not privy to the hurricane of horror in his mind, finally nodded, before letting his head thump back against the door. His eyes were squeezed shut, had been ever since he had curled his hands around Crowley and dragged the demon close and Crowley knew he didn't have the right to feel nausea as the realisation stabbed at his heart. But he did, the claws of it- sharp and venomous.
Aziraphale wasn't looking. He had to look, he had to- Crowley's hand stilled as he begged his own body to step back, to release the angel from its clutches. It wasn't too late now, Aziraphale could still leave. Nothing had been broken, yet, please God, don't let anything break between them.
"Please," Aziraphale gasped, voice strangled and desperate and Crowley had to sink his teeth into the flesh before him to stop his own answering plea.
Then warmth was wrapping around his hand, guiding him to the angel's length and he- He let it, eyes never once leaving that beautiful face. Tracking the way lips fell open, the little upturn of the angel's nose lifted even higher as Aziraphale pressed his head against the door again. It occurred to Crowley, vaguely but with undeniable sharpness, that the angel deserved more than this. A quick tumble in the hallway. Desperate and humiliating and given not out of love but necessity.
He was so beautiful like this, so perfect. He deserved more. Better.
Better than Crowley.
Aziraphale's breath hitched, then shuddered out. "I don't mind, my dear. I-"
Crowley could feel his heart skid over black ice right into his stomach.
"I'm sorry." He wasn't sure what he was apologising for, only aware that it wasn't enough. It would never be enough, nothing would be able to erase the dirty claw marks he was leaving on the angel's soul.
Finally, Aziraphale was opening his eyes. Twin icicles pinned the demon down.
"No. Don't. I understand- You need this." The angel bit back a sob, eyelashes fluttering but his eyes stayed open, Aziraphale never once letting his gaze skirt away. "Anything you need, my dear."
And the thing was, Crowley wasn't sure he did need this. Yes, the pain was almost gone now, a soothing tingle having replaced the burning sting of not having the angel next to him. But was that reason enough to do this, to take something the angel wouldn't have given him in any other case? To mark him like this, to sully his divinity with all that rot inside him? And could he guarantee this would prevent it from coming back once it was over? Once his angel had given himself to him.
Hell knew, he couldn't ask him to do it again.
Despite the turmoil in his head, a very basic, very raw need had taken a hold of his body. He was pressing against the warmth of the angel, hips pulsing against a firm thigh and he knew he wouldn't need much more than that, millennia of longing turning each brush electric.
"Angel." He pressed his head into Aziraphale's shoulder, chased at the shudder with a slide of lips. "I can't- Not long now. I'll try to be quick."
He wanted to kiss him, wanted to taste him again. So much he could almost feel it, phantom lips against his own, opening against him, for him. He wanted to kiss him until he could no longer remembered what anything else tasted like, until the useless air in his lungs had been replaced with Aziraphale's essence. Until he was gone and buried and done for.
Crowley could feel the angel nod against him, the way he leant into him, the flex of his muscles against Crowley's erection. It was almost enough and he curled a hand around himself, desperate for this to be over. Desperate for it to never end. Just... desperate.
Aziraphale's breathing was getting more laboured, body shaking underneath the demon's deft fingers and just that could have probably brought Crowley to the brink of insanity.
"'Ziraphale," he gasped. Every flicker of his hips made him rub against flushed skin, made the fragile hold he had around his control slip even further. "Please, angel, I- Say that you are mine. Doesn't have to be the truth, just please- Please, say it?"
He held his breath, certain that he had done it now, he had finally overstepped. Aziraphale, too, had stopped breathing next to him.
And then fingers were wrapping around his jaw, dragging him closer and that was enough. A kiss, when what he had asked for had been too unreasonable was more than enough. He let himself sink into it, opened his mouth to swallow the angel's gasps. Told himself it was enough.
When they separated, Aziraphale leaned his forehead against him, warm breath tickling at the demon's cheek.
"I am yours," he whispered, gaze flickering over the demon's face before settling onto serpentine eyes. "I have always been yours."