Chapter Text
“You have to understand, Crowley, people have been very concerned about… bits for the past few centuries.”
This was not a conversation he had ever expected to have with Crowley, certainly not without an obscene number of bottles of wine split between them, and absolutely not anywhere even remotely public.
They were on their bench in St. James’s Park and Crowley had just caught Aziraphale staring while he… adjusted himself. Crowley, Aziraphale knew, made an effort for aesthetic reasons and did so at any point in history when fashion demanded that male-ish individuals wear close fitting trousers. It was, in point of fact, an effort that Aziraphale always appreciated. Crowley always filled out his trousers quite nicely.
“They have very queer notions about what is and isn’t appropriate,” he rambled, explaining though, doubtless, Crowley already knew.
“Feels trapped, sometimes, you know?” Crowley had muttered, slouching lower on the bench. (He never sat properly. No, that wasn’t fair. He never did anything properly.)
Aziraphale hadn’t known how to respond. He hadn’t dealt with a cock of his own in nearly two hundred years.
Crowley looked at him over the tops of his sunglasses, which had slipped down his nose entirely for dramatic effect. Stared at him, which, considering how this started, seemed only fair, somehow.
“And, well…” Aziraphale stuttered. “I’m sure you know that I’m much more interested in the male form than the female one.”
Unlike Crowley, Aziraphale only made an effort for practical reasons. He loved the world, and all the joys human life could bring, and he had, at one point, decided to try all of it. That included sex. God, he had reasoned, had created human bodies to enjoy sex, so there could be no real sin in partaking in the gifts She had given.
Normally, when he made such an effort, it went one particular way. He preferred the male form not only for partners but also for himself. Cocks were, he thought, one of Her finest creations. And, like something precious, he put his away when he was done with it. Until he wanted to use it again.
But the last time he had made an effort, in 1915, it had gone the other way. The handsome young man (tall, red hair) had not noticed anything at all unusual about Aziraphale’s form when he had been thrusting into him and panting against his neck. He had called Aziraphale his pretty girl, and Aziraphale had done nothing at all to disabuse him of that notion.
Jump ahead more than one hundred years later, and people in much broader circles were far less concerned about bits than they had been. Some people still raised a fuss, and it was growing wider spread again, but the notion that it didn’t really matter had taken root and would not be weeded out.
So, even though he could have made a different effort, Aziraphale hadn’t bothered. He hadn’t even thought about it, really. There had been so much conflict, there still was so much conflict, that he was too busy to think about his effort much at all.
Until Crowley, on their bench at St. James’s Park, made an off-hand comment about a cock that Aziraphale didn’t currently have.
“Right,” Crowley agreed. “I know you have sex, angel. I was at one of those… those thingies, those sex parties they had back in Rome. Or was it Greece? Way back.” He had to mean an orgy. Crowley had seen him at an orgy. If spontaneous combustion were physically possible, Aziraphale would have done it by now.
“Hold on.” Crowley sat upright suddenly. (Well, slightly more upright.) “Aziraphale, do you have a cunt ?”
He didn’t shout it, thank Someone, but even the gasp sounded too loud to Aziraphale, who felt incredibly embarrassed and not entirely sure why.
“I’d rather not talk about that here, if you don’t mind,” he replied, falling back on prim and proper. When one understood socially acceptable responses one could rely on them in even the most uncomfortable of situations.
“Come on then.” Crowley got to his feet, grabbing Aziraphale’s hand and tugging him up.
“Wait, what?” He stumbled after Crowley, frowning. “Crowley, wait. What’s going on?”
“We’re getting in my car,” Crowley said slowly, turning to face him. “And I’m driving us to your bookshop. And there we are going to talk about it. Because I am very interested in hearing this story.”
Aziraphale was not interested in telling the 1915 story. The encounter had left him feeling as though he’d taken advantage of the poor young man, a displacement for what he actually wanted. But Crowley was walking away and Aziraphale didn’t feel like making his way back to the shop by himself so he caught up and fell into step with Crowley. (Something only possible because Crowley adjusted his gait to match Aziraphale’s.)
“It really isn’t that big a deal,” Aziraphale told him. “I could just as easily change it, now.”
“Thought you didn’t want to talk about it in public, angel,” Crowley murmured, voice low and tense. He only ever sounded like that when he was holding something back. Behind his dark glasses, his eyes would be more serpentine than not, if Aziraphale had to guess.
They were beautiful eyes, he thought. Whether they looked more human with just the slit of pupil giving him away or they were filled by the golden iris and decidedly not-human. All of Crowley was beautiful, outside and in, though Aziraphale would never admit that out loud. Crowley didn’t like being told that there was goodness in him, but Aziraphale could see it clearly.
He got into the Bentley with Crowley, half expecting a dozen or more questions the moment the doors closed. But Crowley was silent, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. They drove in a horrible, uncomfortable silence all the way to Soho and the bookshop on Whickber Street.
In his head, Aziraphale pondered at least a dozen different scenarios. Pondered, and fretted about. Ones where he told Crowley everything and Crowley, disgusted with him, walked out the door. Ones where he explained everything, but this time they laughed about it over a bottle of wine or three. Ones where he told Crowley very firmly that it was none of his business and Crowley shrugged one pointy shoulder and they went about their day.
“We’re here.” Crowley’s voice snapped him out of his racing thoughts. How long had they been sitting there, in front of his shop, he wondered.
(Maybe when he got out of the car, Crowley would drive away, and they wouldn’t have to talk about anything. And why was he so bothered about it, anyway?)
“Jolly good,” Aziraphale murmured, pushing open the passenger door and placing his feet firmly on the street. Crowley did the same, moving with a sinuous grace that never failed to elicit feelings from Aziraphale, whether he had made an effort or not.
“You’re coming in, then?” he asked, rounding the car, carefully not looking at Crowley on his approach to the door.
“Course,” Crowley agreed, following him in, as he had done so, so many times before.
The shop felt smaller, walls and shelves too close for comfort when Aziraphale needed to put as much distance as he could between Crowley and himself. When Crowley threw himself into a chair, sprawling as though he didn’t know what the chair was for, Aziraphale went to fetch a bottle of wine. It was what they did . Familiar. Routine. He ignored the warmth coiling in him, the dull throbbing between his legs. He would take care of that just as soon as Crowley left, and then he would stop making any effort at all. At least until the next time the fancy struck.
“Here,” he said, placing the bottle, a smooth Chianti, something different for them, and two glasses on a side table. Crowley uncorked the bottle, as he did, and Aziraphale poured for them both, passing one of the glasses to Crowley before taking his own to his desk chair, several feet away.
They sat in more uncomfortable silence, each of them sipping their wine. Aziraphale waited for the questions, not sure what Crowley was waiting for. If he thought Aziraphale was just going to… to confess everything. Well, he would be waiting a long time for that.
“So,” Crowley said, cleaning his throat. “You don’t look, you know, female .” Aziraphale just arched an eyebrow at him. “I mean… you look like you ,” he tried again.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Aziraphale asked. “I am, as always, myself.”
“Right, but…” Crowley shrugged. “Only ever seen you with a cock, I suppose.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “And you never seemed this interested when I’ve made an effort in the past.” That, he realized, was the part that bothered him. Crowley had never taken an interest in Aziraphale’s effort in the past and now, all of a sudden, he was.
Aziraphale had wanted Crowley from the moment he understood the difference between enjoying the pleasant sensations that a human body could bring and wishing to experience those sensations with one particular person. Or being. But Crowley never seemed interested, and so, when the fancy struck Aziraphale, he would simply seek out like-inclined individuals to satisfy himself. And through much of history, it remained as simple as that, until some people decided that other people were doing love wrong, and then it all became a mess.
“Not not interested,” Crowley replied lazily. “Just hide it better than you do.” He shifted in the chair and his interest became suddenly a little more obvious to Aziraphale, who was very politely trying not to stare this time.
“I’m not… not some virgin for you to tempt, Crowley,” Aziraphale protested. He wanted it - oh how he wanted it. But Crowley could bugger right off if he thought he could toy with Aziraphale like that.
“We both know you’re not that, angel,” Crowley replied fondly, a teasing smile shaping his mouth into something that Aziraphale wanted to kiss. When he slowly, deliberately, removed his dark glasses, Aziraphale could see desire in those yellow-gold eyes. Answering desire rushed through him. He ignored it.
“But why now ,” he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest, putting up a barrier between them.
“Didn’t know you were making an effort until just a few minutes ago, did I?” Crowley asked with a graceful shrug. “Seems as good a time as any, since we’re both making an effort.”
“But… but… in the park, you said…” Aziraphale sputtered and protested.
“I said it feels trapped sometimes,” Crowley repeated. “I know you’ve had a cock before, figured it was something you’d be familiar with.”
“Oh. Oh dear.” Crowley hadn’t been making an assumption. He’d been making… conversation. Crude and entirely inappropriate conversation for a park bench, but Aziraphale had entirely missed the point of the comment.
“Aziraphale, you idiot,” Crowley sighed, though he sounded fond and frustrated in equal measure. “Did you think I only wanted you now because you’ve got a cunt?” The heat that spread up his neck and bloomed in his cheeks was answer enough, because Crowley sighed again.
“I don’t care what bits you have, or if you have none at all,” he said, getting to his feet, glass still in hand. He started pacing - which was just what Crowley did when he was nervous or upset about something. Aziraphale couldn’t tell which it was, this time.
“I’ve wanted you for a while,” he continued, scowling at Aziraphale. “But you always were too scared, or, or something , so I never said anything. Never wanted you to worry about Falling because of me. But now , angel, we’re our own side. Don’t you see. Now we can have… whatever we want. And I want you.”
It was a remarkably clear and straightforward declaration from Crowley, who tended to spin himself in circles. (Aziraphale assumed that was the pacing - difficult to keep a straight line of thinking when one’s body was moving in circles.) But the reaction inside him at the simple words “I want you” brought him to his feet. He crossed the short space between them and pressed his mouth to Crowley’s.
The first thing that Aziraphale noticed was the flavor of the wine, far more enjoyable off Crowley’s tongue than it was from the glass. He stepped close, into Crowley’s physical space, wanting - needing - to be as close as it was possible for two clothed beings to be. His effort clenched with echoing need and want, and he felt an answering pulse from Crowley’s.
Suddenly they were not close enough. Not nearly close enough. Only the thought of someone walking by and sneaking a glance through the window of the closed shop prevented Aziraphale from ripping off his clothing at that very moment.
“We are not doing this down here,” he muttered, taking a rather difficult step back. Crowley’s hands around him, warm on his hip and back, tried to pull him close again, but Aziraphale could be quite unmovable when he chose to be.
“Not down here,” he repeated, and Crowley growled.
“Then you’d better take me upstairs, angel.” Aziraphale smirked. It was so rare that Crowley gave him such a perfect set up.
“I believe you’ll be taking me upstairs, darling.” He felt a rush of satisfaction at Crowley’s groan, but Crowley smiled and shook his head at him.
“You’re terrible,” he said fondly. “Don’t ever change.”
Aziraphale did lead him up the spiral stairs to the flat above the shop, then, but Crowley pushed him against the door before they could go in.
“No one can see us, up here,” he whispered into Aziraphale’s ear. “And I don’t want to wait.” He dropped to his knees and began unbuttoning Aziraphale’s trousers with surprisingly gentle fingers.
Not surprising, not really. Crowley was almost always gentle with him, in a way that, Aziraphale realized, was reserved for him alone.
Tantalizingly long fingers caressed his hips and then his thighs as Crowley slid Aziraphale’s trousers down his legs, exposing him. He felt a strong urge to cover himself, to hide the indecency of it, even if only from Crowley’s gaze.
“Don’t even think it, angel,” Crowley growled, low, menacing in a way that certainly did not scare Aziraphale in the slightest. “I want to look at you. And touch you.” A thumb caressed the soft skin at the juncture of his thigh and pelvis.
“And taste you.” Two fingers brushed over his thatch of pubic hair, already matted with his slick. Aziraphale watched with growing arousal as Crowley then slipped those two fingers into his mouth.
“Crowley,” he moaned, fingers tightly gripping Crowley’s shoulders to try to hold himself upright. He could imagine, whether he meant to or not, how those fingers would feel inside him. His sex throbbed with wanting, clenching around nothing but the promise of being filled later.
“You smell amazing,” Crowley said casually after sliding his fingers free of his mouth. “And you taste even better.” There was nothing that Aziraphale could say to that, no quick response that he could give. No words at all left on his tongue when Crowley used his two spit-slick fingers to spread Aziraphale’s folds and expose his clit to Crowley’s hungry gaze.
He had no warning other than a flick of Crowley’s tongue over his lips, almost too fast to see, before Crowley’s mouth was on him. Crowley’s tongue was gentle against his clit, swirling around, and he moaned, a soft, greedy little noise, at the taste.
Aziraphale’s knees nearly buckled. He remained upright only because of his grip on Crowley’s shoulders and Crowley’s hand on his hip, pressing him against the door.
Closing his eyes, he tipped his head back, leaning and trusting the solid wood door behind him to hold him. He couldn’t watch. Couldn’t, because the vision that was Crowley on his knees, head bowed between his legs, was more than he could endure. Far easier just to feel Crowley’s tongue tasting every slick bit of him and hum in pleasure at the taste.
Crowley trailed those two teasing fingers, still damp from Aziraphale and from his own saliva, along the inside of Aziraphale’s thigh, a gentle touch. His tongue kept up those eager caresses, but then his fingertips teased, too, gentle at sensitive folds of flesh. Aziraphale whimpered, and Crowley pressed in, lightly, exploring touches. Teasing, testing.
“Crowley,” he moaned, shifting, rocking on those lovely fingers. Muscles clenched, trying to draw them deeper while his fingers squeezed Crowley’s shoulders, nails biting skin. He would have to apologize later, he thought. Right now, his mouth wouldn’t form the words.
Crowley took pity on him, slipping his fingers inside properly. “Could spend all night at this,” he murmured, his breath a teasing touch all its own. “You’re delicious, angel.” And then his tongue was at work again, quicker circles with that same perfect pressure, while he thrust his fingers slowly, working them in and out of Aziraphale’s body.
Dimly, Aziraphale was aware that this could be even better, but he couldn’t think of how at the moment. Crowley’s tongue was hot and slick and his fingers pressed deep into him, touching a place that had Aziraphale practically sobbing his name, begging for just a little more. He had never felt a need like this, so overwhelming - never once, in all of the times he had indulged in the pleasures that a physical body could bring.
When Crowley’s lips wrapped around his clitoris, Aziraphale saw stars behind his eyelids. He thrust down on Crowley’s fingers and nearly collapsed on top of him, he came so hard. His entire body felt heavier than usual, and lighter at the same time. Boneless, his hazy mind supplied.
Crowley scooped him up - it felt like an impossibility - and carried him to the bedroom, crawling onto the bed after Aziraphale, fingers gentle against Aziraphale’s cheek.
Aziraphale turned his head toward the touch, pressing a light kiss to Crowley’s palm. Slowly, thoughts returned and words with them, and he could tell Crowley how wonderful that was.
“Hello,” he said with a little smile. No. That wasn’t quite right, but it was all he could manage, at the moment.
Crowley laughed softly and kissed him gently on the lips, his forehead, eyelids, little kisses all over his face.
“Hello, angel,” he greeted, voice as soft as kisses. “That was so good.”
Aziraphale nearly laughed at the praise. He should have been the one telling Crowley how good it was. Better than good. Sublime. But he still couldn’t quite manage. He didn’t want to shake off this pleasantly fuzzy feeling.
“Yes,” he agreed. Agreement was easy, just a single word. And then, “It was good.” Using the words that Crowley had so generously provided.
“Don’t have to be done, angel, if you don’t want to,” Crowley said, the words light. “I meant what I said when I was indulging in the hallway.” All night. Crowley had suggested that he wanted to taste and touch Aziraphale all night.
He forced his mind to clear enough to form a more coherent response. It wasn’t terribly difficult to do. The buzz of climax was slowly wearing off on its own.
“It would be rather inconsiderate of me to leave you in that state.” He gestured with one hand toward the evidence of Crowley’s effort, straining against his fashionably slim-cut trousers.
Invoking it made Crowley shiver. “Don’t care about that,” he replied. “‘S fine. I care that you’re happy.”
“I would be incredibly happy,” Aziraphale said slowly. “If you fucked me.” He used a miracle, just this once, to remove his clothing. (It was easier than fighting with his trousers that were still around his ankles.) Suddenly completely nude in front of Crowley, he spread his legs a little wider, making room and making his point.
“Ngh,” Crowley said, and then, softly, “shit. Yeah. Yes, of course I will.” He shifted, wriggling out of his jacket, tugging scarf and shirt off over his head in a single movement and giving Aziraphale an exquisite view. He fought with his belt for a moment, then gave up and snapped all the rest of his clothing off and away. Aziraphale could hear it fall to the floor, boots and all, but Crowley’s hands were on him, now, gentle over his chest as he settled between Aziraphale’s legs.
“I love your hands,” he admitted, placing one of his own over Crowley’s. He applied just a little pressure to encourage Crowley to use his entire hand, not just his fingertips. “I have for a very long time. And now - now I know what they can truly do.”
“I’m happy to give you a more thorough demonstration later,” Crowley assured him, caressing with a firmer touch. “But at the moment, I’ve been told you’d like me to fuck you.” He shifted, still bearing most of his weight on one hand as he settled. Aziraphale could feel the head of Crowley’s cock, pressing, not quite yet pushing in.
“Yes, darling. Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, begging quietly, hooking a leg around Crowley’s hips to try to pull him in. Fingers and tongue were all well and good, but here was something even better.
“I’ve wanted - oh - I’ve wanted this for centuries,” he admitted, trying to urge Crowley on.
“Centuries, have you?” Crowley asked, and then he was rocking in, slowly, little thrusts of his hips as he worked deeper. “Oh, angel. I’ve wanted you longer than that. But I didn’t know you’d be quite this slick and hot and eager for it,” he said, leaning down to kiss along Aziraphale’s jaw. “Feels perfect.”
It did feel perfect. Better than anything Aziraphale had ever experienced or imagined. Crowley fit , as though they were made to be together like this - though that was probably just his mind waxing poetic in the heat of the moment. His body knew what to do, even with his mind distracted by the liquid-heat pleasure of being filled.
His other leg wrapped around Crowley’s other hip, allowing him a little leverage to lift and pull Crowley in, a little faster and a little harder than his darling seemed inclined to go.
“I won’t break,” he murmured, turning his face so that he could kiss and be kissed.
“We’ll get there,” Crowley said, the words soft against Aziraphale’s lips. “Let me savor you a little, yeah?” He’d settled, fully inside Aziraphale, his hips pressed against Aziraphale’s own. But then Crowley did draw back, out, and thrust in with a swift, steady motion that sent pleasure skittering through him.
“I - ah - I thought that was what you were doing in the hall,” Aziraphale replied, words coming out as moans. He clung to Crowley, trusting him to set a pace that would satisfy both of them. His fingers tangled in his lover’s hair, but just for touch. He didn’t pull when Crowley’s lips traveled back to his jaw, though he did give a little tug when Crowley nipped at his throat.
“Yes, oh, yes please,” he begged. “Harder, there, darling.”
“Oh,” Crowley breathed, and then he bit, bit properly, sucking at the spot as he settled into a rhythm, quick and hard enough to satisfy but still controlled, something Crowley would be able to keep until Aziraphale had come again, this time on that elegant cock.
Now that he had permission, it seemed that Crowley was perfectly willing to leave little marks all over Aziraphale. Each bite, each bruise sucked into his skin sent another jolt of pleasure to his core, making the slide of Crowley’s cock in him slicker, easier. And when he met each thrust, canting his hips at just a slightly different angle, he felt glorious heat building from deeper inside him.
He held Crowley tightly, trying to keep him in, to keep steady pressure on that spot. Crowley understood, changed his approach. Hard, shallow thrusts pounded into Aziraphale, almost enough to force his breath from him. He started to tremble, and Crowley kissed his way to Aziraphale’s ear, whispering quiet, filthy encouragement and praise - how good he felt; how tight; how wet; how good it would feel when Aziraphale’s cunt milked his cock.
It was the words, shocking and embarrassing in any other context, that tipped Aziraphale over the edge, coaxing him to climax.
“Fuck, you’re exquisite,” Crowley breathed, his words another brush against Aziraphale’s ear. He’d slowed, fucking Aziraphale more gently through his climax. And only then did he chase his own pleasure, thrusting into Aziraphale as Aziraphale still twitched with the aftershocks, a handful of thrusts before Crowley spilled in him, Aziraphale’s name on his lips when he came.
Aziraphale sighed, even more content from that than from his own release. He pulled Crowley down on top of him, wanting, needing, to keep him close.
Crowley didn’t object - he settled into touching Aziraphale, light caresses of his fingertips, up over his shoulder and then ever so light over the spots - the bite marks - against his throat. “So pretty,” he said. “So eager to be mine .”
“I am yours,” Aziraphale agreed. “I always have been, I think.” Even from before he had realized he wanted to share this intimacy with Crowley.
“It’s mutual, angel,” Crowley said, and then he smirked, ever so slightly. “Even if you have been so sweet for me, this time. Letting me mark you and taste you and fuck you full.”
Aziraphale shivered, both delighted by and resigned to the fact that Crowley had figured him out so quickly. “I think I’ve rather been a bit pushy,” he argued to cover for the thrum of renewed arousal he was already feeling. “Not sweet at all.”
“I like you bossy,” Crowley assured him. “And eager.” He let his fingers trail down, deliberate, and then brushed them against where they were still joined. “It’s fine with me if you’re insatiable.”
“It’s never been like this,” Aziraphale whispered, swallowing a moan. Sex had never been this good. This satisfying. The difference was obviously his partner.
“Mm. One of the main advantages to a cunt, isn’t it?” he asked, and the next caress was deliberate. Aziraphale clenched, and Crowley’s breath caught in turn. “That I can spend the entire night seeing to you. Not that it won’t be a little sore in the morning - just takes longer for it to all be too much.” Crowley’s tongue flicked over his lips, an unconscious motion that was somehow unreasonably alluring.
“I’m aware of how it works , Crowley.” It was hard to argue, though, when Crowley’s fingers slipped over his slick folds and up to his clit again. And, oh, the smug bastard knew exactly what he was doing.
“Spent a lot of time working it yourself, have you?” he asked, and that smirk was firmly in place, now. “Maybe thinking about me?”
It wasn’t completely untrue, but Aziraphale wasn’t going to admit it. “No,” he lied. “I let men fuck me while wishing it was you,” he replied instead. That, unfortunately, was also not untrue, though it had only been the one time.
“But none of them were me,” Crowley replied sweetly. “Filthy angel. There won’t be any more of that.” His fingers were settling into a rhythm, now, slow, steady over Aziraphale’s clit. “I’m the only one that gets to make you this wet now.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, letting his moan out, not holding it back. “Fuck, yes.” He rocked his hips, his whole body, arching into the touch. He was sensitive, yes, more than when they had started, but it wasn’t too much, and Crowley seemed to know exactly where that line was. His steady touch never crossed the line to too much, and soon he had Aziraphale trembling again.
“Crowley. That’s - I…” It hardly seemed fair, that he was about to come for a third time. For reasons he could not quite understand, Crowley appeared to enjoy just bringing him pleasure. And he did so expertly.
Aziraphale clung to his shoulders, fingers digging in, as Crowley brought him to climax again. His fingers slowed, then stilled when his touch made Aziraphale twitch.
“So pretty,” Crowley praised. “Will you let me come on you, angel? I’m close at the smell of you,” he admitted, and oh, the words made Aziraphale shiver. At Aziraphale’s shaky “yes,” Crowley shifted, settled back on his knees and dragged his hand - wet, his fingers were wet from Aziraphale’s slick - over the head of his cock before wrapping his hand around it properly and starting to stroke himself.
Aziraphale couldn’t take his eyes off Crowley, watching the movement of his hand on his cock, mostly. But when he glanced up, meeting Crowley’s eyes, he saw far more than the lust implied by the filthy, crass language he used.
“Darling,” Aziraphale said softly, licking his lips. “If you are the only one who can get me wet, I’m the only one who can get you hard,” he said, a poor imitation of the way Crowley used dirty talk. But he had to say it - Crowley had to hear it. This was not one-way. “Soon, I’m going to - to ride that gorgeous cock of yours and leave my marks all over you, so that you don’t forget that you’re mine.”
The words were enough - Crowley gasped, and then he came, his own spill adding to the mess between them, that lithe frame shuddering with the force of his climax.
He settled, then, still in the cradle of Aziraphale’s thighs, but lower down the bed, now, so that sleek ginger hair and Crowley’s cheek rested against Aziraphale’s chest. “Yours,” he agreed, like even the single word was enough to overcome him all over again.
“Indeed,” Aziraphale agreed. “It is mutual.” He ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair, petting gently. He felt content as he never had before. Satisfied, certainly. But also protected and loved.
“I love you, darling,” he said softly, but in the words that made it perfectly clear how he felt.
“Oh,” Crowley said, soft, as though the words somehow surprised him. Perhaps it was hearing them so directly. He’d said want and wanting, careful words even still. But then he smiled. “It’s - we can say it now.”
“We can,” Aziraphale agreed. They didn’t have to keep looking over their shoulders, waiting for the other shoe to drop, as it were. It was just them and the eight billion or so inhabitants of this planet.
Crowley shifted, wriggled up the bed to drop a light kiss against Aziraphale’s neck, breathing in his scent. “I love you too, angel,” he murmured.
Aziraphale sighed softly, wrapping his arms around Crowley, holding him tightly. “It is very nice, hearing that,” he admitted. Not to have pine any longer, thinking his love was unrequited. And Crowley had, apparently, feared the same. How foolish they had been.
Crowley smiled against Aziraphale’s skin. “I knew - I hoped you cared about me, wanted me the same way,” he admitted. “It is different, hearing it.”
It was very different, hearing it. Being able to say it. They had to be careful, in the past, but it felt, right now, like so much wasted time.
“I’ll say it as often as you would like,” he promised Crowley. “I love you.”
“Let’s have a little rest - I’ll get you to sleep someday,” Crowley teased, gentle. “Turns out I like this, too.” Cuddling, not that he’d ever admit that .
“Maybe you’ll be able to wear me out,” Aziraphale suggested, gently stroking Crowley’s hair. He would be more than happy to let Crowley have a nap while sprawled on top of him. He could think of far worse ways to spend some time.