Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PART TWO: REVELATION

For you have forgotten the God of your salvation

And have not remembered the rock of your refuge.

Therefore you plant delightful plants

And set them with vine slips of a strange god.

In the day that you plant it you carefully fence it in,

And in the morning you bring your seed to blossom;

But the harvest will be a heap

In a day of sickliness and incurable pain.

 Isaiah 17:10-11

“What do you want to do to him?”

At the time, as he’d sat in the little shadowy box across from Father Fell, separated from him only by a latticed screen, Crowley had questioned whether he’d managed to actually propel the words from his throat into existence or if he’d merely spoken them in his mind. Every bit of air in his lungs had been suspended in his sternum where all of his heart birds had also stilled into complete and utter silence, not a single feather out of place as they listened and waited with bated, trembling breath.

Crowley had been frozen within that strange, disorienting reality of not knowing whether he could trust what he was hearing, he’d been caught in the back and forth of is this happening, is this real, or is this just a dream?

It had been as if the confessional were removed from the rest of the world, and Crowley supposed in a sense it had been as Aziraphale had began what turned out to be an unforeseen but very real confession, and the pleasantly wine rinsed haze that had been surrounding Crowley’s head had disappeared like fog does once the sun crests over its gloomy hold on the world.

It so easily could have been a dream, Crowley had reasoned with himself as he’d hung onto every hushed, improbable word floating over to him through the confessional; after all, there was nothing he wanted more than this, nothing he’d ever longed for with such desperate, cell deep want, but he’d fully expected his query to Aziraphale to go unanswered either because he’d only imagined saying it, or because this truly was all happening in Crowley’s head that was, for once, being kind to him.

And then he’d answered.

“I…I want to break him, I want to break him apart so I can put him back together so gently and with all of the care he so deserves. I want to uplift him and deliver him, and to give him everything. I want to venerate and sanctify him, and I want to own him.”

Aziraphale had answered what turned out to be Crowley’s very real question, and the next few minutes were a mingling blur of passionate, disbelief-glazed pleasures and moments that Crowley remembered every split second of with alarming clarity, that his body had latched onto in order to commit them to his mind for fear they would disappear somehow. And as he’d listened to Aziraphale’s confession (“I want to worship him; fuck, I already worship him; I’m more loyal to him than I’ve ever been to God”), he and his feathered menagerie had been overwhelmed, the birds within the walls of his heart been overcome with hope and joy and things that only Aziraphale had drawn from them in recent memory, and when Crowley could no longer stand the distance, when he’d been certain enough that Aziraphale wanted him like Crowley wanted Aziraphale, he’d stepped into the other side of the booth, buoyed and encouraged by rapidly beating wings, straddled the priest that was in complete command of his heart and made his own confession, first with words and then with how his mouth preferred to communicate— by kissing— and then Crowley knew, all of him knew, that this, the warm lap of Father Aziraphale Fell and in the grasp of his devout hands was where he was truly meant to be.

Crowley hadn’t ever been kissed or touched with anything remotely resembling reverence; he had been made to be touched without consideration, he’d come to know that right up until that revelatory moment, and he had sold himself to those who convinced him he was devoid of worthiness with their carelessly hungry handling and casually vicious hands, but tonight, he had been sanctified, the fingertips of an angel had declared the angles and curves of him holy with a trembling hesitance that had soon bloomed into a gloriously seeking surety. Even when Crowley had begged for Aziraphale to break him and to not hold back, the strength behind his grip had been a suppliant one, and Crowley was not a religious person, but he knew what worship was; he’d recognized that the priest’s hands had been prayerful as they’d staked their consecrated claim over him, and he fervently hoped they’d left behind marks of their devotional on his body just as that pious mouth and tongue had graced his neck with their ardently bruising benedictions.

It was an odd thing, to absorb the holiness that the priest had suffused though Crowley’s skin; it was like he’d made a cathedral of him, like he’d cleansed the endless unworthy parts inside his being and made Crowley into something Aziraphale seemed to deem worthy of worship and blessings. He had done the impossible; he had made something out of nothing, he’d breathed life back into Crowley’s long constricted throat and shriveled lungs, and Crowley was convinced that Aziraphale’s namesake being an angelic one simply could not be coincidence. He had wrought a miracle right there in the confessional, in the last week, in the last few months— he’d made Crowley into something by beginning to erase the conditioned certainty that Crowley was nothing.

He had wished he could somehow make Aziraphale realize the depth of that transformation as he’d sobbed into the priest’s shoulder once he’d come on his lap, as Aziraphale had held him close and soothingly talked him through his orgasm with the sweetest of praises. Crowley had tried to tell Aziraphale before he’d asked to kiss him, he had done the best he could through his nervousness and hope and tightly wound, tangled taut vine desire; he’d attempted to impart to the priest that he’d made Crowley feel what he’d been so sure was no longer in the cards for him to feel, that had been systematically taken from him, and Crowley just hoped that maybe some unconscious element of Aziraphale knew, or would be able to know eventually, or that Crowley would be able to explain more clearly at some point, because he needed him to know.

He needed Aziraphale to know that he was the first beacon of sunlight Crowley did not need to fear or shy away from in years, that he had revived what had been caged and beaten into dust, that he’d begun tenderly reversing the atrophy of Crowley’s trust so much so that he wanted to ascend to golden heights with him despite the lingering shame of how easily he leapt into that space, and that part of him, a tiny yet bravely blooming, winged part of Crowley that was nurtured by Aziraphale’s warmly honeyed, lovingly given insistence, might just believe that was good.

And Crowley really needed Aziraphale to know that he was, for the first time in six years, no longer constantly afraid, that he felt safe.

Safe, safe, safe.

When Aziraphale had softly asked if Crowley wanted to go home with him as they both continued to come down from their respective euphorias, it had been all he could do not to dissolve into more tears. He hadn’t known what he expected in the after of their confessions, but somehow, it hadn’t been that. Crowley had become so used to being alone after sex, he’d been made to accept it as a part of his last serious relationship as either the status quo following a session or even purposeful denial, and also as a common occurrence of his sex work, so he’d been surprised. He’d been surprised, and he’d been relieved, so much so that he did need to further bury his face into the damp fabric of Aziraphale’s black shirt, silently trying to accept that he’d not be sleeping alone tonight for the first time in he didn’t even know how long.

When they’d stumbled out of the confessional— Crowley clumsily getting to his numb feet only to be bolstered by Aziraphale’s strong hands and an arm curling around his waist once they both were stood outside it— there had been an offer from Aziraphale for Crowley to change into some spare trousers for their drive home, citing the extra clothes in the rectory and worrying for Crowley’s comfort. Any other time, Crowley would not want to be such a bother, but the opportunity to be clothed in fabric belonging to the priest was far too enticing to pass up, even though he barely registered the come clinging to his thighs and leggings. They’d walked hand in hand through the darkened church, inhaling the festive scent of pine and cedar as they went, quiet but not at all distant, Aziraphale only relinquishing his hold on Crowley’s waist once they made it to their destination.

Aziraphale had disappeared from sight for only a minute or two and returned with two folded pairs of black trousers, one of which he handed to Crowley with cheeks still flushed and a smile so warm and so dizzying that Crowley worried his knees would give out as they so often longed to do in front of the priest. Aziraphale had shown him to the small bathroom for Crowley to change, promising he’d return after he’d done the same in the restrooms beyond the sanctuary of the church, and there was something so charming in that, in the priest wanting Crowley to have privacy as he divested himself of leggings that were soaked as a direct result of Aziraphale himself. Crowley would have gotten naked right there in front of him if he’d been given the chance, but as he’d peeled off the cotton and pulled the fine wool of the trousers up over his hips, pondering the last time this particular pair had been worn by Aziraphale, Crowley had reminded himself that the priest had likely not seen anyone in such a state for at least nine years. He’d needed to remember that Aziraphale hadn’t done anything he’d just done in the last half hour for nearly a decade, if what Crowley believed was true, and it truly did feel like Aziraphale was not the sort of priest who did not take celibacy seriously. He’d wondered if that had to do with a (previously) unwavering devotion to God, or if it had far more to do with the ghosts that hung in the air around Aziraphale and had made themselves very known to Crowley in the last few days.

He’d had a distinct feeling it was more the latter than the former, and Crowley resolved to keep a hold on his natural curiosity for as long as he could. Aziraphale had been wonderfully encouraging when it came to his questions, it was true, but the last thing Crowley wanted was to pry into cupboards before Aziraphale first unlocked them for him despite the nagging suspicion and growing certainty that the priest had, at some point, suffered something unimaginably terrible. People did not go throughout life so haunted without reason, and Crowley should know: as he’d told Aziraphale, his ghosts recognized his, and eventually, he hoped he would be trusted with meeting them.

There had been a tiny mirror hanging above the old porcelain sink, and Crowley had been shocked at the brightness that shone from his eyes as he studied his reflection. His hair was an utter mess, his cheeks were starkly pink and his expression was slightly dazed, but his eyes— they looked as alive as he felt, and Crowley was not used to that. It felt like only yesterday that he’d stared disdainfully at himself in the mirror of his flat before showering ahead of the Rivoli with Aziraphale, when he’d looked the opposite of alive, where he’d looked sucked dry of anything pretty or alluring or enticing, and the echo of his ex’s voice mixed with Crowley’s own had only driven home that his appearance was lacking— a voice which, Crowley had noted with cautious interest, had been silent since Aziraphale had returned to the sanctuary earlier to tend Crowley’s thigh.

He dared not dwell on that too much for fear it would return in full force.

Crowley had done up his boots once more and folded his leggings before stepping back out into the rectory, the skin of his thighs relatively clean and dry after he’d wet a flannel and went at them with as much attention as his fucked-out-but-still-needy state could handle, and Aziraphale had been standing there, waiting for him.

They’d stood there for a moment as Aziraphale’s gaze, which was darkly shadowed sapphire in the dim glow of the warm lamp he’d flicked on in the room, slid all over Crowley just as his hands had done only minutes ago, his smile turning hungry as his eyes settled on the trousers that hung off of Crowley’s hips, and he knew that Aziraphale was appreciating the fact that Crowley was wearing his clothes, just as Crowley had been doing. He’d been half hard as they made their way outside of the church, and his leather jacket and scarf would not have provided enough warmth any other time in the frigid chill of the December night, but right then, Crowley had been boiling, his thighs and calves had been on fire as they were caressed by that which at some point had hugged Aziraphale’s legs…

And now, here they were, sitting in Aziraphale’s unassuming Volkswagen Golf (this was the car Crowley had always seen the priest drive up until last week, and why he’d been so utterly shocked by the Bentley) as they set out to his home which, he assured Crowley, was not far. As they drove, Crowley’s hand was not left alone for even a second, and although they were quiet still, it was the opposite of an awkward silence, what swirled around the two of them; this was the sort of solitude that serenity was the architect of, and Crowley hadn’t consistently lived within anything that could be called serene since he was very small. For the last six years especially tranquility had been, until this past week, rare and fleeting at best, but when Crowley glanced down at his fingers interwoven with Aziraphale’s and saw how content and guarded they looked, how safe they were in that tender firm grasp, he relaxed into the seat, he relaxed into the care of the softly humming priest, and he savored the this feeling—

—the feeling of being safe.

Any other time, Crowley likely would have not been able to keep his hands off of someone who he’d just come with and devoured for the first time after wanting it for so long, and his lips begged him to raise Aziraphale’s fingers up to kiss and suck into his mouth, his hand pleaded to slide over a thigh that Crowley now had the confirmation of being thicker than his own waist, but he did none of these things. Instead, Crowley satisfied his hunger by simply looking at Aziraphale and memorizing the way he was holding his hand, he counted the amount of times his thumb stroked along his index finger and realized that at least once every minute, Aziraphale would gently squeeze Crowley’s palm with his own and would glance over at him, the Cupid’s bow of his mouth drawn into a content, subtle smile, his eyes glinting under the moonlight and the soft ambient glow of the car dashboard.

Don’t misunderstand him; if Aziraphale would have pulled over on the secluded roads at any point, Crowley would have been in his lap before they came to a full stop, but in the absence of that, he was simply grateful to be touched by Aziraphale, to have his hand safely nestled in his larger one and to hear the sweet hum of his voice— he couldn’t make out the tune, but whatever it was, it was lovely— and such contentment even tempered the growing anxiety in his stomach that thumped to the tune of oh fuck, I’m about to be in his house for the first time and fuck, what happens then, what will happen then, what then—

Crowley hadn’t looked at the time and therefore had no idea how long it took them to reach Aziraphale’s home, but suddenly, they were there, and it was hard to see much out here so far from the city in the dark of the countryside, but whatever the moon was helpfully illuminating showed Crowley that Aziraphale’s house was indeed closer to the country house sort and therefore, big.

Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s hand to his lips for a kiss before he stepped out of the car, reassuring and comforting and ridiculously romantic in a manner that somehow was the opposite of cliché, and when he opened Crowley’s door for him, he held out a hand. Crowley took it gratefully, and as a gust of winter breeze surrounded him, the very normal and expected nervousness of entering someone’s home for the first time (let alone a very new…lover’s? Is that what they were, now?) began to creep up into his lungs with every breath as Aziraphale led him up the path to his door, their fingers laced. Crowley couldn’t help but notice all sorts of shrubs and plantings surrounding the stone walls even in the night, but he was pulled from his gardening observations as another change in the air pulsed around him; Aziraphale had opened his door, and was holding it open for him.

The remaining unspoken desires of the last week and longer fluttered between the spaces of Crowley’s teeth as he entered the foyer and stood there with Aziraphale, and all of the withheld whispers of want that had crawled into a deafening, sustained crescendo these past months throbbed in his jaw, the ones he’d not gotten a chance to utter in the confessional. God, to be standing here, in the home of the priest who was in such total yet gentle command of Crowley’s heart, who had stirred the blood within him back to life from its hibernation of self contempt and anxiety and debilitating fear— it was nothing short of dreamlike.

Crowley would’ve said he’d felt nothing so surreal before this moment if not for the confessional earlier in the evening, which had been his first but not last descent into wondering if the evening was a dream that his starving, fiercely needy brain had concocted around him after being without nourishment for too long. Had his blossoming feelings for Aziraphale woven a lattice of walls around them, had they built their own confessional booth with the strength of their ardor for the priest? Aziraphale had dismantled that theory with his mouth and his hands and his utterly devastating dirty talk, but that didn’t mean that this part was not a fantasy.

There was a storm of a thousand questions in Crowley’s head now as the imminence of what was likely about to happen slammed into him along with the reality of the situation; how long had it really it been since Aziraphale touched anyone like he’d touched Crowley tonight, how long had it been since someone touched him, and— was it even alright to touch him now? Had it only been the suspended energy within the church tonight that had made Aziraphale succumb to the pleasures of the flesh, or could Crowley reach out to him now and feel him again, God, how he was already fucking aching to feel him melting against his body once more; he’d been held by Aziraphale only two nights out of his thirty two years of life, but now that state of being had been set into his bones and skin as if he’d always been cradled in those arms, as if he’d been made to be held always by them, and he needed to go back into them, his body needed to go back home but didn’t know if it was allowed, fuck, what if Aziraphale regretted what happened, what if—

The metallic fiddling of a skeleton key in a tricky lock ceased with a final click, and the cool air in the foyer shifted again as Aziraphale turned around to face Crowley and fuck, he was so close once more, the silvery glow of the moon through his front door highlighting a sliver of his face just enough that Crowley could see the glittering glint of want in his eyes wrapped in hesitation, and as Aziraphale murmured, tremulous but urgent, soft but honeyed, so fucking honeyed, his chilled palm clasping Crowley’s cheek and the edge of his thumb tracing the kiss swollen swell of his lower lip, “darling, I— may I—” Crowley cut him off by closing the distance between their mouths and snaking his arms around his neck, his fingers quickly finding the pattern of curls they’d become so vigorously fond of as he kissed Aziraphale with the fervent, ravenous reach of the sun starved heliotrope he was.

Yes, you fucking may, he wrote with his tongue and his mouth, hoping Aziraphale got the message.

He knew he could kiss Aziraphale for an eternity, if such a thing were physically possible; he’d known that as soon as their lips met earlier tonight. There was nothing Crowley had ever wanted more in that moment than to know what that plush mouth would be like against his, and the answer was ‘everything’.

It was everything— searing in its hot seal and expertly searching yet elegant tongue, the delicate licking inside of him wrenching agonized, pleading whimpers from Crowley for more, more, more; Aziraphale kissed with the same smoldering smoke that clung to his sensuous words and decadent flirtations that had been sweetly torturing Crowley for a week, he moaned just as obscenely as he had done when tasting the oysters at the Rivoli, like Crowley was some rare delicacy to be savored and taken in with totality and abandon— he was lavishing that gleaming, pulsing pomegranate center of him again, but not with his gaze this time, and still he seemed to joyfully devour what he was finding, he wasn’t put off by however Crowley tasted or sounded or felt against him, and what a fucking relief that was, to not be found wanting by his keeper in that moment, to have the rigid proof of Aziraphale’s pleasure pressing against Crowley’s thigh as their pelvises met and did away with their respective shyness, as strong hands fused to his waist like they did not an hour ago to splash more bruises over those developing from their previous claiming.

“Hnnng, f-fuck, p-please,” Crowley’s rasping whimper into that mouth as he tasted Aziraphale’s divinity was stuttered and uneven, his hips bucked forward in a needy drive towards his priest in a plea to be taken, to be consumed by him.

“What is it, my sweet lamb,” Aziraphale’s simmering whisper was laced with so much concern, with so much worry that it did nothing to help Crowley in his crusade to hold back even more tears, God, even when he was in Heaven he was still bloody crying, “what do you need, my darling Crowley?”

When was the last time he’d been asked what he needed in this particular context other than tonight? Crowley couldn’t recall, and it felt wrong to say it, to admit what he wanted, but how could he not when an angel was gently asking him as if it was a privilege to do so? He wasn’t used to asking for what he needed, he was used to taking what he was given and being thankful for it, but the discomfort in his stomach was overshadowed by that massive, ever growing want for Aziraphale, by the need he’d finally succumbed to at last, and Crowley tried to answer as Aziraphale’s mouth journeyed down his jaw, which was a difficult feat indeed.

“I— oh f-fuck, angel,” a ravenous mouth found its way back to his neck, retracing its earlier bruising journey with the ardent intent of a zealot, and it kept stealing the words from Crowley lips, transforming them into breathy whines and stuttered moans as he tried to articulate what he needed, “I-I need you to keep going—”

Aziraphale’s answering groan against his throat was hungry, and Crowley was unraveling at the speed of stars falling, held up only by steady palms locked to his waist, the heady want that throbbed through the twisting stems of his veins and the force of the gust produced by the feverishly beating wings within his ribcage, “please don’t s-stop, need all of you— God, you don’t understand how badly I need all of you, angel, Father, please—”

He didn’t have enough hands, Crowley realized as his own palms skated over the contours of Aziraphale’s body, over his arms and back, and he certainly needed more than one body as well for all he wanted and needed to do simultaneously. The desire to drop to his knees in a lewd echo of yesterday’s communion to fucking finally receive the real sacrament he knew would save him, to worship the cock he’d been imagining inside him for months until it spilled down his throat in a font of depraved mercy warred with his equally insane need to be fucked open by said cock, to be split in half by the glorious thickness he’d felt between his legs in the confessional, that he’d rutted against with abandon until he came and needed to fill him until he overflowed with come; how was he to choose which he’d do first, how could be possibly decide, how does one pick one perfect version of Heaven over an equally divine one? Fuck, he needed so much.

“I need you to keep going,” he elected to say, pulling Aziraphale closer, tilting his head back to grant him even more access to his neck, “please, I need to take what you give me, I need all of you in all of me, Father, f-fuck—”

“Shhh, take a breath for me, my dearest boy, take a breath with me,” Aziraphale guided as he relented his gorgeous assault on Crowley’s neck, as he pulled back to instead kiss his forehead and cup his cheeks, and Crowley obeyed, sucking in a breath as he grabbed onto Aziraphale’s wrists, as he held onto them for support while he inhaled as best as he could through the tempest of his need.

“That’s it, good boy, one more,” oh God, that didn’t help Crowley at all, being called good boy, but he wanted to be good more than he wanted anything else, so he did as he was told, just as he had a few days earlier when Aziraphale had guided him to breathe for a very different reason; he took one more, centering, gilded edge breath, nodding as Aziraphale kissed his nose and pulled him into his arms, murmuring, “there we are, so strong and so beautiful; my beautiful, lovely dove.”

Fuck, Crowley wasn’t going to survive this, was he? Somehow, he was more than alright with that— he could not think of a better way to die, actually, than in Aziraphale’s embrace and punctured by his lethal adoration and what he now recognized to be prayerful, worshipping praise.

The fingers of Aziraphale’s left hand dropped from Crowley’s face to further pull at his already loosely wrapped scarf so they could more easily trail all over the tender contours of his neck, and he shivered as Aziraphale leaned closer once more and hummed just above his wildly thrumming artery, his words little bursts of fire seeping into Crowley’s skin and joining with his frantic, beating cardinal blood, “my goodness, I must ask you for forgiveness again for how I’ve marked you without asking, my darling,” the genuine remorse in that statement was evident even through its gravelly heat, and Crowley couldn’t have that, not at all. The last thing he could endure right then was Aziraphale regretting blessing Crowley with his touch, his mouth, his teeth; that would kill him.

“Mark me,” Crowley implored, reaching up to rearrange Aziraphale’s hand around his neck, pulling his palm flush with the jut of his Adam’s apple and meeting his eyes in the dark of the foyer, glittering opals cutting through the shadow of the first December night, “I want your marks all over me; I’ve wanted them for months. I’m yours to mark, yours to bruise, to use, Father—”

His eyes rolled back in his head as holy fingers tightened round the side of his neck, as a pious thumb pressed into his carotid and granted him a burst of stars in the black field of his vision before relaxing their hold, fucking Christ.

“Crowley,” oh, he sounded tortured, and Crowley loved to hear how affected Aziraphale was in the splintering syllables of his words, “you cannot have any discernible idea of how many times I have heard those words in my head in the last few months, uttered by the specter of your ghost in my thoughts all hours of the night—”

“Fuck, you too?” Crowley breathed, delighted by that; God, he’d hoped Aziraphale had been thinking of him in such a way, but to have such certainty was bliss, “I’ve thought of you so much, angel, Aziraphale, I—” his breath hitched further as hands dropped down to fondle his thighs and his ass, palming his cheeks and spreading them through the baggy trousers, fuck it made his hole twitch and tense and his cock gush, “I’ve come with your name on my lips so many times I lost count—”

“My name, or my title,” oh fucking Hell, but Aziraphale was wicked, wasn’t he, and his smirk betrayed that fact even in the shadow of the small space.

“Both,” Crowley choked as a thick, solid thigh pushed between his own and pressed against his cock, fuck, “b-both, fuck— please, Father—”

“Tell me,” the growl went straight into Crowley’s heart, silkily cloaking the birds there and lustily stroking their feathers, “what you want, Crowley.”

“You,” Crowley whined as the pressure increased between his legs and as his back was pinned into the wall, “fuck, I want you, I want your fingers, I want your cock inside me, fuck, I want it everywhere, I need your cock, Aziraphale, please, and I—”

I’m good at this part, much of him wanted to tell Aziraphale, this is the part I’m best at, it’s what I’m made for, you don’t have to worry or be afraid, you can do as you like to me and I can take it—

He yelped in surprise as Aziraphale stopped touching him in order to push his long black coat off and onto to the floor before lifting off Crowley off the ground, his legs catching on before his mind realized what was happening as they hooked around Aziraphale’s waist, who started walking with Crowley as he kissed him again, sucking on his lower lip and supporting his weight with his hands under his thighs while Crowley ripped his scarf and own jacket off, throwing them haphazardly to the ground as Aziraphale carried him; God, the casual strength in that, the show of it drove Crowley to even more frantic insanity. He loved being manhandled, he loved being picked up and thrown around, he loved feeling small and dwarfed, and it didn’t matter that Aziraphale was shorter than him as he set Crowley back down onto his feet in what he assumed was his bedroom, dark but calm, the large windows letting in the light of the moon in streaks across the floor and the wall— he felt utterly handled.

They stood there for maybe half a second before Crowley threw his arms back around Aziraphale’s neck and kissed him, whimpering into his mouth as warm hands found their way back under his jumper, delicately touching his bare stomach and back and chest, and it was all fucking incredible, it was all so bloody lovely and Crowley was so hard it was excruciating, but he regretfully broke their kiss, gasping for air as he tried to form the words that had begun to itch in his throat as the minutes ticked by without addressing them.

“Wait, w-wait,” he panted, and the hands beneath his jumper stilled immediately, “are you— are you sure, angel?”

He needed to hear Aziraphale say it, Crowley realized— he needed to know that he wasn’t pushing, that this was truly what Aziraphale wanted, and when the priest’s brow furrowed in a question, Crowley went on, uncertain, tentative, “y’know, because— because you’re a priest, because you’re breaking your celibacy for someone you barely know after so long, and I— is it worth it, am I worth that—”

He trailed off as Aziraphale pulled his hands out from under the sweater and framed Crowley’s cheeks again, holding him steadily as he kissed his forehead before laying his own against it, and Crowley sighed as the bubbling worry in his throat ebbed away, comforted by Aziraphale’s touch as he murmured lowly, like a promise, “I have never been more sure, my darling, sweetest dove, of anything in this world,” he punctuated every few words with a kiss to Crowley’s nose, and the juxtaposition of tender sweetness and boiling need between them was giving Crowley a gorgeous sort of whiplash, “but the fact you are even worried about such a thing— you astonish me, Crowley, and I do not deserve you.”

“Fuck, Aziraphale,” Crowley couldn’t take that sort of talk, not ever, “you— fuck, you deserve everything, and far better than me, I just— I needed to check, and I want you to know that I don’t care,” Crowley breathed as he pressed their foreheads together again, as he pulled Aziraphale’s hands down from his face and rearranged them back over his waist, humming in contentment as fingers instantly began pressing into the bruising skin, “I don’t care that you’re a priest, I…fuck, I like it.”

Aziraphale’s hands froze for only a moment before they slid down to squeeze Crowley’s ass again, his hips canting forward as he did so, their cocks rubbing against the other in a mirror of the same delicious friction from earlier.

“You like it?” Aziraphale whispered into Crowley’s ear as he bit the shell of it just enough to smart, enough to make Crowley buck into him and whine, “do you like that I am a supposed man of God,” two fingers came to rest on the seam of Crowley’s lips before they pushed inside, and Crowley welcomed them in fervently, sucking on them gratefully as Aziraphale’s iron grip moved to Crowley’s hip, gold beginning to flirt with the edges of his vision, “but all my mind has been filled with lately is committing the most deliciously depraved sins with you?”

Crowley nodded shakily as he licked Aziraphale’s fingers, laving them with his tongue and speaking around them, muffled, “y-yes, I like it, Father, God, I fucking love it, f-fuck, angel, please—”

“What a filthy little bird you are,” Aziraphale growled as he withdrew his fingers and used that hand to palm at Crowley’s cock while sliding his his own tongue over his snake tattoo, fuck, Aziraphale did not know that it concealed an incredibly sensitive scar but he somehow seemed to realize that touching it drove Crowley wild, “please what, my desperate darling dove, what do you need? Tell me.”

As Aziraphale straightened, Crowley wriggled as pulled his jumper off without thinking or ceremony, needing more of his skin to be under Aziraphale’s command, needing all of him to be under his command and preparing to say just that, but the trembling, stilted gasp that left the priest made Crowley freeze as he let the garment fall to the floor.

Aziraphale was staring at him so intently that it made Crowley feel shy, and wasn’t that something; he couldn’t recall the last time he felt anything akin to shyness in front of anyone. Nervousness that his appearance would be satisfactory, yes, but shyness was different, somehow. He’d gotten used to being naked with all manner of people for all manner of reasons, and he’d been comfortable in that for ages, but this was different, Aziraphale was different, everything about this, right here, was different.

“If I had any remaining, meaningful faith in Her,” there it was again, that awestruck tone heavy with veneration made light by its transcendent warmth and further supported by glowing, growl tinged want, “I would fall to my knees in feverish thanks for the privilege to look upon you,” the whispered statement hung in the air between them like a debauched psalm, sparkling in its blasphemy as Aziraphale lifted shaking hands and curled them around Crowley’s ribcage, that same uncertainty from the confessional returning in full force, the disbelief that he was allowed to touch Crowley making itself known again in tentative fingers, “are you really standing here, my besotted lamb, or are you an apparition born from my starving need for you?” Crowley hissed as a thumbnail ghosted over a peaked, hardened nipple, “it would not— it would not be the first time my eyes have so cruelly deceived me.”

“I’m here, angel,” Crowley’s voice was weak to his own ears, thready and spinning out of control, “I’m real, I— oh God—”

Aziraphale then bent at the waist just enough to suck Crowley’s other nipple into his mouth, flicking the bar there with the tip of his tongue as he pinched the other, his pleased groans resonating through Crowley’s torso as he explored and played.

“Oh, fuck, please—”

“Tell me exactly what you want, my dearest boy,” Aziraphale mumbled into Crowley’s chest as he lavished it with his mouth, his attentions ardent and focused and impossibly skilled, “I want to hear it, want to hear you ask me—”

“Your— your f-fingers,” Crowley wasn’t cold, he was scorching, but his teeth chattered viciously, louder than they had last week when he’d nearly frozen to death on his floor as Aziraphale toyed with him and called him his dearest boy, “please, I need them inside, need you inside—”

Aziraphale hands flew to the waistband of his own trousers that were falling down on Crowley’s hips as he murmured, “good boy, that’s it, so very good to tell me what you want,” but then he stalled, he hesitated as his fingers stilled, as his thumbs skated over the buttons of the fly, “I haven’t— I’ve not done this in over a decade, darling, and I’m—” he broke off into a strangled huff, one that had Crowley immediately alert even through as golden clouds gathered at being called ’good boy’, “I must confess that I am petrified of hurting you, my dear.”

Crowley’s heart had been through lot in the last few hours, from being so worried for Aziraphale as he’d decorated the church that it could barely beat to having to pummeled into dust by the priest’s tearful confession and then have it blown up by the realization that they both wanted each other, and now it disintegrated even more, leaving his chest a hollow, aching thing that wept as it absorbed the terror in Aziraphale’s voice.

He had first heard real fear in the priest after the communion yesterday, when he’d begged Crowley not to fly too far away from him, he’d picked up on a bit of it when Aziraphale had first seen the blood on his hand in the church, and then it culminated into something truly afraid in the confessional, and he was hearing it again now, whispered so earnestly, so softly that it was almost difficult to make out against the backdrop of the blood rushing between Crowley’s ears, but it was there, nonetheless. His heart had been broken in countlessly insidious ways in his life, but the way that it was splintering now knowing that his angel was frightened, was unbearable.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley said softly, blanketing the hands on his hips with his own, running his thumbs over the backs of them, “can you look at me?”

He was not used to asking questions like this, but as Aziraphale’s eyes flicked to his, uncertain despite the obvious desire filling them, he smiled.

“Thank you, angel. Listen— you’re not going to hurt me,” he dipped his head to kiss a round, warm cheek before nuzzling their noses together, hoping it would reassure Aziraphale, “I want this, I want you, Aziraphale. Just remember that I’m not delicate, remember what I told you to do, in the confessional— I meant it.”

Break me, bruise me, make it hurt, I like it when it hurts a little, he almost begs, I doubt you could even make it sting with just fingers, I’m such a fucking slut for this, but try—

“You told me to break you,” God, Crowley wanted that recorded on his mobile so he could replay it incessantly, “and how I long to do just that, but you— you will stop me though, yes?” Aziraphale murmured as the tips of his fingers brushed over Crowley’s hip bones, teasingly tentative, torturous, “if you experience any discomfort in the slightest, you’ll stop me. I need to know that you will, Crowley; I cannot have you endure anything you do not want, not for me, not for anything.”

That nearly did it, that almost demolished the perilously holding dam of Crowley’s tears just like the same words had nearly done so at the café a few days ago, when Aziraphale had asked to call him beautiful while citing not wanting Crowley to just…take it, if he didn’t enjoy it. Crowley had taken so much, he had endured so much in the past without a single care from anyone or even to the sadistic enjoyment of some, and this was— fuck, he couldn’t think about all of this, not now. He didn’t want to fall to pieces now that he finally was where he wanted to be.

“I promise, angel,” Crowley vowed as he brushed a curl back from Aziraphale’s knitted brow, nodding,“I promise that I’ll stop you if anything doesn’t feel good. But it will feel good, I know it will, I—” the flush that had taken up permanent residence on his cheeks and neck burned, “I do this a lot. I— I love being filled,” he groaned his approval as fingers finally unbuttoned the trousers, and he guided his own hands down to Aziraphale’s, pushing them, encouraging him to pull the fabric lower, “it feels so good, angel, fuck, do you have any idea how many times I’ve fucked myself wishing it was your fingers, wishing it was your cock inside me?”

An embarrassing amount, it’s bloody embarrassing—

“Oh, you perfectly filthy, wanton thing; I expect about as many times as I’ve touched myself while envisioning you wrapped around my cock instead of my fist. And as much as I adore seeing you in my clothes, my beauty, I do fear that I need to see you without them even more,” Aziraphale breathed as the trousers dropped to the ground in a whoosh, and Crowley shivered as his naked skin was bared to the air and to the priest’s observation, the shyness escalating as his hard, dripping cock bobbed free of the confining fabric, caught off guard as Aziraphale immediately knelt down before him and started unlacing his boots.

“A-angel,” he stuttered, glancing down at the pearly crown of hair, shivering sharply now, confused as his socks were also removed by careful yet quickly working hands, “what are you— oh, fff—”

Crowley stumbled as Aziraphale’s warm, seeking tongue grazed over the swell of his lower stomach and trailed over to slide down along the contour of his left hip bone, dipping into the canyon there slowly and methodically like it was carefully mapping the veins beneath his skin. He would have crumpled to the ground had Aziraphale’s hands not firmly locked onto his hips, and they kept Crowley standing as he continued to kiss all over the front of his thighs, as he nosed at them and unhurriedly sucked sharp little bursts of stinging rosebuds into the sensitive skin before Aziraphale’s tongue found its way to his cock and licked—

“Fuck, Aziraphale, f-fuck,” Crowley was nearly panicking as Aziraphale took him in his mouth, effortlessly swallowing him down into slick warmth and gently sucking as one hand settled on the small of Crowley’s back and the other curled around an inner thigh, and the moans spilling from the priest’s mouth were fucking obscene, they were so satisfied and pleased and filthy that it was as if Aziraphale had uncovered a previously unknown culinary delight, making his reaction to the oysters at the Rivoli very tame indeed.

No one had gone down on him in years, and it wasn’t something Crowley minded particularly— he much preferred to be the one doing the sucking— but holy fuck, apparently he’d forgotten how lovely it could be, or perhaps it was just because it was Aziraphale doing it, that it was a priest kneeling in front of him, servicing Crowley with a mouth that had only been used for prayer for so long but that was now engulfing him like Aziraphale sucked cock for a fucking living. Crowley laid his hands on Aziraphale’s broad shoulders, unsure what to even do with them as the suction increased and his toes curled into the soft rug below his feet.

And then it came, the inevitable freeze as Aziraphale’s tongue slipped over the underside of the head Crowley’s cock, as it made the discovery that his nipples were not the only piercings Crowley had.

“Oh, you delectable, sinful little fiend,” Aziraphale’s purr felt as good as his mouth, fuck Crowley loved the little taste of degradation, it was so rare that anyone could deploy it with the right balance of praise, but it seemed Aziraphale had it down to a science, and Crowley wanted more, “such a pretty cock made even prettier with this—” the tip of his tongue flicked over Crowley’s pierced frenum, who had to bite his cheek to keep from screaming, holy fuck—

“Do you have any idea,” oh fucking Christ, Crowley felt that growling, nearly snarling tone reverberate through his cock even as Aziraphale pulled off of it and kissed the dripping head, “how badly I have ached to have you like this, how fiercely I have needed to know how you taste? How many times,” Crowley wailed as Aziraphale wrapped his hand around him and stroked him from base to head, his eyes gleaming as he stared at Crowley’s cock like it was a work of art, his mouth swollen and shining as he sucked two of his fingers past his lips, wetting them and then snaking them around Crowley’s hips to nudge at his hole, massaging the muscle there delicately but not shyly, thoroughly spreading his saliva over the rim, Jesus, “I have tasted myself over and over again, just to pretend it was you, just to perhaps know even a hint of what you might feel like on my tongue—”

“Jesus, Aziraphale, fuck—”

The first slippery finger pushed past the slight resistance easily, and Crowley did his best not to buck into Aziraphale’s mouth, not wanting him to choke as he started sucking him again, and Aziraphale must have felt how relaxed he was, because a second finger followed his first within a minute, the stretch of them pleasant but not nearly enough, but as the tips of them gently scissored inside of him, they found his prostate, and he did cry out, then, his keen mixing with the guttural rumble of Aziraphale’s groan.

“Is that good, darling,” Aziraphale asked, craning his neck to gaze his teeth over Crowley’s hip as his fingers fucked him open, as his cock twitched and poured and dripped, Aziraphale licking up each drop of precome without fail.

“Yes, it’s good, holy f-fuck it’s so good, look,” Crowley whispered breathily, nodding down as he inhaled, dizzier by the second, “look how fucking wet you’re making me with your fingers, angel, fuck it’s so good, more, please, Father, please take me—”

Daddy, daddy, daddy, pealed between his ears, and he dare not let it slip out, but it was a close thing as Aziraphale stood and one of his arms protectively and possessively curled around Crowley’s waist, pulling his nakedness flush to his still clothed body as his fingers delved deeper and deeper, experimentally curling and sliding and spreading him so naturally it was as if he did this every day; Crowley knew logically that Aziraphale had not had sex since becoming a priest, but apparently his fingers remembered, his hands latched onto muscle memory because holy fucking God, Aziraphale knew how to touch him. He knew how to suckle bruises into Crowley’s neck and collarbone and shoulders, he knew how to make Crowley whine and tremble with the sharpness of his hungry teeth and soothing passes of his tongue over brutalized blood vessels; he knew how to lick and suck his cock, and his fingers knew how to find his prostate almost as fast as Crowley’s did—

“Crowley,” Jesus, he sounded so fucking wrecked, Aziraphale did, his voice strained and thin yet thunderously deep at the same time, and so reverent, as if he were praising something sacred and pure instead of whatever Crowley was— filthy, debased, the opposite of holy— but somehow, Aziraphale made him feel like he was something meant to be cherished, to be treasured, to be uplifted; something, and not nothing. Something worthy of pleasure as his thick fingers stroked the most secret and sensitive parts of him, something worthy of fiercely tender touch and care, something, something, something—

“A-angel,” Crowley whimpered as his knees began buckling, as Aziraphale slid a third finger inside him, fuck he’d known those sturdy fingers would feel blissful as they stretched him, he’d known it in his soul, and he didn’t want this to stop, he didn’t want any of it to stop, but he was torn. He was torn between dropping to the floor in order to finally take Aziraphale in his mouth, to bruise his throat with his cock and to swallow down whatever come he could milk from him and to allow the priest to do as he pleased with him, to continue fucking him with his fingers until Crowley broke and would beg him to please, please fuck me properly, please put it in, please force your fucking perfect sacred cock inside me, Father, please take what’s yours and mark me inside and out with your holiness—

“Do you want to come again, darling, hmm?” oh God, God, God, there it was, the teasing, dominant growl that had been torturing Crowley’s dreams and fantasies, that he’d been obsessed with since he’d heard it in little hints months ago and in such gorgeous amounts this past week, and Crowley couldn’t even nod coherently as Aziraphale increased the pace of his fingers, “do you want come on my fingers and down my throat, my needy cardinal, my sensitive sweetheart— oh, you’re so warm, so warm and tight and slick— or do you want to come around my cock? You’re going to take my cock so well, aren’t you, I can tell; you’re going to take it all—”

“On your cock, please,” his babbling was so fucking high pitched he would have been mortified if he wasn’t awash in agonized pleasure, “please, I need you inside, please give me your cock, Aziraphale, fuck me, I’ll do anything, fuck I’ll do fucking anything you want—”

“Shhh, my lovely, lovely little bird,” Aziraphale was still holding Crowley up by his waist, the tension in his arm hadn’t lessened in the slightest, as he kissed Crowley thoroughly, promisingly, “I will, Crowley; I’m going to be inside you, I’m going to take you in my bed and not let you leave until you’ve had your fill of me; trust me, sweet thing, and breathe—”

“Fuck, I can’t fucking take it that you aren’t in my throat right now,” Crowley gritted through his teeth as he forced himself to inhale and exhale, “and you’re wearing too many clothes, angel— can I—?”

Aziraphale nodded, “you may, darling,” and he hadn’t even finished that sentence as Crowley started fumbling with his trousers, unbuttoning them as he kissed Aziraphale and let them slide to the ground, groaning as he realized the priest wasn’t wearing anything underneath, but that made sense; he’d likely changed out of whatever he’d had on after the events of the confessional. Crowley, who rarely wore underwear unless it was some sort of lingerie, had avoided that problem.

He glanced down, and even in the darkened room he could make out that Aziraphale was wearing fucking sock garters— something Crowley had never seen anyone wear but with which he was swiftly enamored. They suited Aziraphale beautifully, they were that perfect touch of old fashioned charm that he somehow was able to make devastatingly hot and kinky at the same time, the black straps showing off his shapely calves to perfection, but oh, that cock, that fucking cock.

Good. Fucking. God.

Crowley’s body reacted in a predictably slutty manner, his hole throbbing and convulsing around nothing, wanting something more inside again, protesting the emptiness as Crowley noticed something else besides the considerable length and girth of the priest.

“You—” curved inner thighs were shining as wet as the shapely head of Aziraphale’s cock, but he was mostly erect, too—

“Yes, I’m afraid that tasting you was enough to send me over the edge again, dove,” God, that was amazing— no one had ever come just from going down on Crowley before, it was usually him spilling from having his throat fucked— and Aziraphale was the one emanating shyness now, his hands hanging stiffly by his sides, “but I— o-oh—”

Crowley hadn’t been able to wait a minute longer, not one more second to take Aziraphale in his mouth, so he’d dropped to his knees like he did yesterday, but much faster, desperately, spreading them and arching his back as he curled his hand around the base of Aziraphale’s still hard cock (was his stamina always like this, or was it because he hadn’t had sex with anyone in so long, Crowley wondered? It was incredible, such a short/non existent refractory period, and his own cock throbbed greedily at the prospect of Aziraphale being so tireless) and guided it past his lips, already whining his exultant pleasure as he began doing what he’d imagined doing for months, what the thought of had made him come like a whore over and over and over.

He knew how to worship, too— it wasn’t just the priest who was skilled at such things — and Crowley had never been as content and dedicated a disciple as he was right now, kneeling as expertly as he could without completely losing himself in the act of going down on Aziraphale and sucking every sacred inch of him back to full hardness, not worrying about his form in the slightest, simply sinking into the exaggerated bend that his body always ached to be in without concern.

And what a glorious thing it was, to kneel for a god he did not fear.

Tears gradually spilled from his eyes as he whimpered and moaned around the thick, slightly curved length, thankful tears, renewing tears, and he swallowed all of Aziraphale into his throat, deftly avoiding gagging as the head bumped into his soft palette and his nose bent into the short curls nestled at the base before pulling back slowly, letting the seal of his lips glide over silky skin before diving back down and starting the process all over again, reveling in the growing tension of Aziraphale’s quivering thighs and the uneven, anguished timbre of his moans as Crowley sucked and serviced and devoured. As he luxuriously licked up the spend clinging to velvety skin, as he savored the purely sublime taste of his priest’s come while longing for more of it, he glanced up through lowered lashes, utterly drunk but needing to look his deity in the eye as he glorified him, as he gave him everything he could, and what he saw was an undone pair of eyes as deeply grey as polished pewter, looking down at Crowley like he was an impossibly wonderful thing to behold.

Like he was marvelous.

“Look at you,” Aziraphale’s hands seemed to find their bravery again as he slid his fingers into Crowley’s hair and gently tugged, as they explored his scalp and sent shivers down his arched spine, “what a marvelously shameless little thing you are, and your mouth, fuck—” Crowley whimpered as Aziraphale continued to spin out a beautifully filthy song for him, and he had to choke back a sob as he heard the priest say ‘marvelously’ especially. He also adored hearing Aziraphale say ‘fuck’, he loved how it sounded in that posh accent and the way he felt it in his cock each and every time it slipped from the priest in a filthy litany.

It was when Crowley began pumping his fist up and down Aziraphale’s cock in time with his bobbing head, when he started twisting the slick length of it and sucking in tandem that he tasted the rainwater sweetness of precome that Aziraphale’s hands tightened suddenly in his hair, effectively halting Crowley’s movements as he gasped, “darling, wait; you’re going to make me come, your mouth is too good—”

Crowley tried his best not to whine petulantly as he released Aziraphale from his mouth, but the anxiety in the priest’s tone was apparent, and the last thing Crowley wanted to do was to make him come again before he was ready to. He was lifted to his feet by Aziraphale’s hands hooking under his arms and helping him up, and Crowley began unbuttoning his shirt as he leaned in for another kiss, fuck how he loved kissing Aziraphale, who walked them closer to his bed until the backs of Crowley’s bare knees knocked into the foot of it.

“I don’t— I’m afraid I don’t have any, er— lubricant, or means of protection,” Aziraphale anxiously muttered into Crowley’s mouth as he shrugged his unbuttoned black shirt to the ground, and it was difficult for Crowley to focus on anything by Aziraphale naked form finally being revealed to him after months of wondering just how he’d look (perfect, was the answer— plushly covered muscle and pleasantly thick, strong, sturdy and steady, a fine dusting of what looked to be grey or white hair scattered over his chest and stomach and arms, fuck he was gorgeous), but he bit his lip to try and force himself to answer in some coherent manner.

“At the risk of sounding mad,” Crowley began, flattening his palms over Aziraphale’s chest and slowly gliding them down, drinking in the priest’s feathery, whimper peppered respiration, “and of course we don’t have to, but— I do get tested regularly, my last test was last month and I’ve not— I’ve not been with anyone since, I’ve not been with anyone in awhile, and I—” he swallowed, “that’s fine about the lube; spit works well, and I, um, sort of prefer that, sometimes—”

Aziraphale said nothing as Crowley danced his fingertips over the curve of his waist and hips, and a flicker of nervousness reignited in his stomach at the silence, which he hastened to fill, “shit, sorry, that’s probably far too much, isn’t it, I—”

“You would want that?” Aziraphale’s query vibrated with what Crowley recognized to not be offense, but a barely suppressed craving, “you would allow me inside of you, bare?”

Holy fuck, it wasn’t right how obscenely hot it was hearing Aziraphale say such things, it defied logic, and Crowley nodded.

“It’s all I’ve wanted for m-months,” he admitted, arching into Aziraphale’s warmth as two fingers again returned to his entrance and slid inside with the slutty submission of a fucking fleshlight, “and I want you to come i-inside me t-too, if you’d want, fuck, please, angel, please fuck me, please fill me—”

In another flash of rapid movement and a whirlwind of being picked up, the delicate cross necklace he’d forgotten he was wearing flying along with his hair, Crowley found himself on the bed, already missing the digits that had been inside him as Aziraphale pulled him onto his naked lap, as their bare legs (well, mostly; Aziraphale was still wearing his socks and their garters, something Crowley enthusiastically approved of) tangled together and the priest kissed his jaw, his neck, his shoulders, as their cocks slid alongside each other and as Aziraphale muttered the prettiest things into Crowley’s ear, as he whispered how gorgeous he was and what a good boy he was, fuck, the gold was getting thicker, the solidity of the soft mattress under Crowley began to fade away as it started.

“Fuck, I might—” Crowley really should’ve said something earlier, fuck, did Aziraphale even know what subspace was; it had seemed like maybe he did when he’d been so attentive at the Rivoli last week and after Crowley had taken communion, but how could he be sure, “I-I don’t know if you’ve noticed it, how I can— s-slip into subspace, and I don’t even know if you know what that is, but it m-might happen, it’s already s-starting a bit and I just— I—”

I don’t want to fall.

Please don’t leave me while I’m under.

Please don’t leave, I don’t want to wake up alone—

“Shhh, breathe, my lovely,” Aziraphale reminded him against his forehead, his lips pressing gentle kisses all over Crowley’s brow now, “I know, and I have noticed. I do know what subspace is, and it’s alright, my dear one; it’s more than alright. If you do, I’ll be right here to guide you through it, through all of it, and you’ll be so safe, right here in my arms, hm?”

“I— okay,” Crowley whispered, and not even the combination of anxiety and shame and fear could totally dampen his need in that moment, especially not with such fiercely grounding reassurances from the man he trusted more than he’d done anyone for years.

“You’ll be right here,” Crowley repeated to himself as his eyes fluttered closed, the slippery slide of a thumb slowly swiping over his slick frenum piercing sending shocks through his inner thighs and drawing little bucking motions from him as he chased the friction, as he allowed his head to fall back, moaning at all of the current sensations painting his veins and skin with sunlight.

“I will be right here, yes, that’s right, my lovely boy,” Aziraphale’s hand then fully wrapped around his cock as his lips brushed over the plethora of bruising over Crowley’s neck, as his nose nuzzled against his Adam’s apple and his mouth ghosted along the chain resting on his sternum, “right here, holding you through anything that comes.”

“F-fuck, angel,” Crowley breathed as Aziraphale stroked him languorously, and his hand was so broad, the power within it evident in his firm grip around him and its measured movements over impossibly sensitive, slippery skin, “fuck, that feels so good, God.”

“Good, my dove,” Jesus, whenever Aziraphale said ‘good’, it was like flakes of gold leaf materialized inside Crowley’s head and further blanketed his psyche, “I want you to feel so good; you deserve to feel so very good, my dearest Crowley, and the second anything doesn’t feel good, you’ll tell me, yes?”

Crowley wanted to counter that he couldn’t imagine anything not feeling good right now, that he could not make sense of the idea of anything not feeling good with Aziraphale, but he nodded, knowing that was important to the priest, remembering the seriousness in his eyes as he’d asked this same thing a few minutes before.

“Thank you, my sweetest heart, and I know we’ll need to discuss this further at another time, Crowley, but— do you have a safeword, just in case?” Aziraphale stopped touching him then, and Crowley opened his eyes, searching for Aziraphale’s gaze in the dark and seeing the lapis glint of them just enough that he could focus on the flash of blue, “I need to keep you safe, in every way that I can— what word should I listen for?”

“I—” at first Crowley could only think of a previous safeword he would never use again; he needed something new, something free of the dark, jade veil of the past, and suddenly it came to him in a wash of clarity through the throbbing, rapidly gilding glow of his arousal, “what about ‘ivy’?”

It made sense to him in the moment— what better thing to think of when he needed to feel safe than what Aziraphale effortlessly showed such kindness and care towards last week, what he’d fretted over not lasting in the church if it was cut too early? It was something Crowley had recalled many times throughout the last week, the easy and automatic concern for something small and delicate and what others likely wouldn’t give a second thought to, and it was a different shade of green than he was used to; it was brighter, it was playful and full of life, it wasn’t at all weighed down or covered in sharply shadowed hues.

“That’s perfect, my dove; ‘ivy’ it is,” Aziraphale’s voice was wrecked again, thicker than normal and as deep as Crowley had ever heard it, quaking and rough, beautiful, “are you ready for me, Crowley?” He lifted his hand to his mouth before lowering it to his own cock, and Crowley’s heart skipped as he realized that Aziraphale had likely just licked it or spit into his palm to ease his way inside of him; Aziraphale didn’t know it yet, but using saliva as lube wasn’t just something Crowley preferred some of the time— it was actually one of his most favorite things.

“Please,” Crowley managed as his clumsy fingers dug into the solid cushion of Aziraphale’s hips and tried to pull him closer, spreading his thighs wider, wrapping his ankles around Aziraphale and whining as the slick head of his cock nudged at his fluttering hole, lifting his hips up just so as he pleaded, “want you, need you, angel, now—”

He hadn’t fucked anyone face to face in so long, so long that he couldn’t clearly remember who the last person was even if he could likely guess, and Crowley actually couldn’t recall if he’d ever had sex in this specifc position before— the lotus, he thought it was called— maybe he’d done something close to it, years and years ago, but the intimacy of it was staggering.

He was already so close to Aziraphale, so much of their bare skin was already touching, but as he slowly sunk down onto that absurdly thick, gorgeously shaped cock, as his thighs trembled and his body relaxed to accommodate the girth with only some slight difficulty, as he settled himself into Aziraphale’s lap and onto his strong, thick thighs amidst lowly murmured directives of “slowly, my darling, slow”, fuck Crowley knew he would never stop marveling at the fact that said thighs were thicker than his waist, they grew even closer. As Crowley melted with and into the priest, he grabbed his shoulder with one shaking hand and slid his other into ivory curls, and Aziraphale’s arms snaked around him to pull him impossibly closer, a hand threading into his own hair, too as their naked bodies came together at last, and gold mist seeped into every corner of Crowley’s sight before his eyes rolled back into velvet dark from the blazing, piercing euphoria of finally being stretched just how he was made to be, from finally being filled to the brim with what he’d been pining for and craving and needing for what felt like centuries, finally, finally, finally—

It was another miracle he didn’t come as soon as he was fully seated in Aziraphale’s lap, as the priest bottomed out and split Crowley what in theory should have been too widely, what should have been too much, but instead it was perfect, and Crowley was sure he’d never felt as content as he did the moment Aziraphale slid home and started throbbing inside him; he had never felt this right, this fulfilled, this destined  

“Breathe, Crowley,” Aziraphale’s murmur gently floated through the gilded wisps of ecstatic gauze weaving themselves around him in a bloom of amber honey— had he stopped breathing? Crowley hadn’t realized; all he could feel was burning, blistering bliss, everywhere, all encompassing, and Aziraphale sounded shaky, he was trembling too, Crowley could feel. His arms quivered around him as he laid his forehead against Crowley’s, again softly whispering, “breathe,” and what could Crowley do but try to obey that beautifully warm, seductive suggestion borne out of concern for his comfort and safety, not the gaining of power or control?

He nodded unevenly against the sweat slick plane of Aziraphale’s brow and sucked in as much air as he could through his still chattering teeth, but God he was so full that it was a struggle to take in anything else but Aziraphale, and he thought he might’ve even whimpered that out loud while trying to breathe; “‘m s-so f-full, angel, fuck,” which was met with an answering nod and the cock inside him throbbing thickening stretching him even more more more in time with a heartbeat that echoed the frantic, apoplectic flock of birds in Crowley’s chest, all of their vibrating wings outstretched and feathers spread as wide as his quaking legs, “I know, my lovely; you’re so full, and taking all of me so well, fuck—”

The golden pulse of his heart shimmered as Crowley cautiously started rocking his hips back and forth and and Jesus fuck that fucking cock, so good, so radiantly stinging.

“Angel,” he sounded so far away, he could scarcely hear himself, “angel, so good, knew you’d feel so fucking good inside me—”

“How I resisted you for so long, I will never know,” Aziraphale ground out between his own moans, and God they were beautiful, the sounds coming from him were beautiful, his body was beautiful, his touch was beautiful, and Crowley felt beautiful too, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful—

“Are you still with me, my darling Crowley?”

What was it about that phrasing that was so warm? Crowley didn’t know and really didn’t care as it sweetly parted the haze that was beginning to condense into glowing, sunlit clouds around him, but he knew he liked it, he knew it was like an embrace in the way that it held him.

“I— mhm, ‘m with you, angel,” Crowley slurred as he kept rolling his hips back and forth, as the slow, deliciously thick drag of Aziraphale continued to ignite golden tingling throughout his nerves clung into the peripherals of his fogging vision, “but ’m slipping, I— feels s-so good, ‘s too good, I’m— fuck, ‘m s-sorry—” a flicker of anxiety flared cold with the sheen of steel and iron and the verdigris echo of a contemptuous sneer, but it dissolved as it was waved away by the priest drawing him closer and kissing his temple gently, right over his tattoo and the scar tissue it deftly covered.

“Shh, don’t apologize, my dearest Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured into his ear, sonorous and deep and soothing, so soothing, as soothing as his hands cradling his back and further pulling Crowley into his sunbeam orbit with each drive of their hips, “it’s staggeringly beautiful, how you surrender so completely, you are so beautiful, my little cardinal. Slip as much as you like; I have you.”

And Crowley, to his muddled surprise, almost believed him, but still he worried that he wasn’t being clear, and he bit his lip in concentration as he shivered against the anchor of Aziraphale’s steady and solid body and tried again.

“But s-sometimes I—” how to articulate this when his tongue was clumsy and heavy and just wanting to lick, how to form the words ‘sometimes I have trouble coming back, I get stuck; can you stay if that happens, can you bring me back’ with a lax mouth that only ached to serve and suck, “— I go t-too deep into it, and it’s, ‘s hard to c-come back.”

He should have mentioned this earlier, fuck, he was careless, he was selfish and—

“That’s quite alright; you won’t slip so far that I cannot bring you back, my dear one, I promise. I’m right here, remember?” Aziraphale tightened his arm around Crowley as he brought his other hand up to cup his cheek, to slide his thumb through his tears and to delicately swath across his wet lashes, his touch lighter than the heavy humid air shared between their breaths and banishing the fear that had begun to slink in, “look at me if you can, sweet thing,” and Crowley did, he opened his eyes to that gentle request and saw nothing but warm tides surrounded by the tributaries of crow’s feet he’d been longing to trace with his own fingers, “good boy, so good, there’s my dove; oh, look at you, look at those stunning eyes, so blissful, so impossibly beautiful— I’m right here, my darling Crowley, I’m inside you, and I’m with you. You fly as high as you like; I won’t let you go too far,” Aziraphale leaned forward, and he was so deep now, so fucking deep and Crowley was so full, so completely and perfectly full that he could do nothing but sob in euphoria as the priest kissed his trembling mouth and whispered, “I have you, my little bird; I have you. I’m not letting go of you, not for anything, not now that I finally have you.”

He could feel it in his bones, the truth of that, and Crowley tasted his own tears as he cried into that holy mouth that seemed to bless him with each breath before he relaxed his cracking, tenuous grip on his control and let himself go, the last of his fear evaporating.

Crowley surged into the warmth that cradled him, he let himself melt into Aziraphale as he threw his head back and started fucking the priest with less caution, with less worry and instead with the ravenous exuberance of a soul starved, and again, each greedy thrust was a fucking revelation of where he was supposed to be, of how his body was supposed to feel in the embrace of another— firmly supported but not confined, skillfully bruised but not crushed, encouraged to soar but not forced to go higher than he wanted nor thrown to the ground.  

“Oh my God,” Crowley mewled as he undulated his hips in an increasing rhythm, his movements smooth and serpentine and fluid as he chased everything he’d been needing for so long, “oh my God, angel, f-fuck, Aziraphale, Father, your cock is s-so f-fucking good, fuck I f-fucking love it,” and there was a brief second where Crowley was concerned he was swearing too much, that he was too dirty for someone as elegant as Aziraphale, but that fear was very quickly put to rest by the priest growling against his throat that he’d once again been ravishing with his tongue and teeth, his hands tightening in his hair and on his bruised waist as he began fucking Crowley back, harder and deeper, rougher, “and you are taking that cock so well, aren’t you, my depraved little vixen, taking all of me beautifully like you were made for me; so tight but so pliant, so slick, so wet for me—”

He was right; Crowley’s drenched cock was sliding all over Aziraphale’s stomach, which was now slippery with his precome, he was leaking all over him. Crowley snapped his hips up against the plush swell of him before ramming himself back down onto Aziraphale’s cock, taking it as deeply and desperately as he did with his toys when he was alone, but God, to finally have Aziraphale buried inside him after fantasizing about it for months, after fucking himself raw and dizzy and bloody delirious until he nearly passed out— he knew nothing would ever compare to the real thing again. Aziraphale’s cock was as unfathomably divine as the rest of him, and Crowley was, to the surprise of no one, instantly and immediately, obsessed.

Aziraphale met Crowley’s thrusts with his own, bucking his hips up in sharp drives to sheathe himself deeper in time with Crowley slamming down onto his cock, and between his drawn out groans and strained panting he was constantly praising Crowley, the details of which were getting lost the higher Crowley ascended into his blissful orgasmic atmosphere but struck him no less intensely for their blurriness, and he could make out bursts of good boy, so good, Crowley, my good boy, you’re so very good for me amidst some heart stopping filth that Crowley hadn’t even dared to hope would ever come from the mouth of a man of God.

It snuck up on him, the crest of his orgasm; he was so awash in gold and warmth and rapture that coming was far from his conscious thought, and it made itself known in a burst of fiery, liquid metallic heat, pulsing and gathering in his lower stomach and his inner thighs.

“G-gonna c-come, angel,” Crowley could hardly form the words, he was trembling so violently as he struggled to keep snapping his needy hips as he kept taking Aziraphale deeper and deeper, every muscle and ligament frantically tensing in a full body shiver that rivaled the bone crushing vibrations from his frigid night on the bathroom floor last week, but this time from pleasure and not cold, “oh f-fuck, p-please, c-can I come, Father, ffffuck—”

He’d almost whimpered ‘can I come, Daddy,’ and Crowley had to accept, not for the first time, that miracles really did seem to naturally occur around the priest that he did not let that slip from his aching teeth.

“Yes, Crowley, my dear, dear boy, you may come,” oh fuck, fuck, my dear boy, his dear boy, ‘your dear boy’ Crowley wanted to scream, but he couldn’t, all he could do was sob and keen and wail into Aziraphale’s neck, all he could do was lick the sea salt skin there and suck it into his needy mouth as he cried, “be a good boy and come on my cock, darling, you let yourself go and come for me like the lovely, obedient little lamb are—”

He never came like this before, not exactly.

Crowley really did feel like a part of him died as his climax erupted and shattered him, and he drifted in and out of consciousness, the phrase la petit mort at last making sense to him as his cock convulsed and emptied in a relief of pressure bursting, as he clenched around the thickness of the bare cock buried inside him; he was completely outside of any Earthly awareness now, soaring in that burnished gold stratosphere without fear, as he vaguely felt the presence of someone else flying with him, comfortingly near and warm— Icarus redeemed and guarded by a sun that would not be his demise. Crowley thought that maybe he heard himself begging Aziraphale to come inside him through the mist as his entire body gave into ecstasy, and he stayed there without much effort at all, upheld by a balmy breeze, a pleasure that was as fortifying as it was devastating and unseen, protective arms. He knew he was still crying because of course he would be, and because the rainfall of his tears were being kissed from his cheeks— that he could feel as clearly as the pleasure blessing every atom of him— and at last came the next thing he’d been craving, spilling inside him and filling even the innermost parts of him with heat, claiming him and marking him as Aziraphale’s, whose voice Crowley could just barely make out through the vermeil vapor:

“I have you, Crowley, I have you—”

He really did, Crowley knew; he was the one holding him, he was the sun bathing Crowley in beams of carnal mercy—

“That’s it, my starling, you take it all, just like that, take your pleasure and luxuriate in it—”

Crowley didn’t begin falling as the afterglow of his orgasm swirled around him, no; he was gently and gradually floating downward surrounded by a massive pair of wings, he wasn’t careening to Earth and he wasn’t cold, he was so warm—

“You’re so good, look what a good boy you, so very good and lovely and utterly breathtaking; Crowley, Crowley, Crowley—”

“Angel,” Crowley slurred, his mouth heavy and clumsy as arms snaked around his back and held him close, as legs intertwined with his own and come slid between their torsos as a bed materialized under him, as what felt like a soft, cushy pillow slid under his wet cheek and cradled his head, “angel, angel, angel…”

“I’ve got you, my darling Crowley,” mmm, Aziraphale, Aziraphale was right here, and things were still glistening, the gold was still here and hugging Crowley along with the priest, “and I will have you, all night, right here, with me.”

Crowley missed the cock had slipped from him at some point, but the delicious ache left behind tempered the loss, the sweet soreness from being stretched and split almost enough to console him regarding the absence of a plug to hold Aziraphale’s come inside him; if he had any more energy left, if his limbs were at all capable of coordination in that moment, he would have reached back behind him to gather as much of the warm spend slowly leaking from him in order to taste it, but even though it hadn’t bloomed on his tongue, it wasn’t a sacrament wasted. It was still inside of him, where he knew it was supposed to be, saving him.

“Not g-going anywhere?” Crowley barely registered asking through the hazy elation that was fast morphing into pleasant sleepiness, and he nuzzled into Aziraphale’s dewy, scarlet marked neck, deeply inhaling his warm black tea, vanilla tinged leather scent, still shaking, still shivering but sated, finally sated and exhausted, every part of him content right down the the flock in his heart that bedded down between his ribs and tucked their heads beneath their wings, “staying here…”

“Not going anywhere, my lovely dove,” Aziraphale’s promise whispered into Crowley’s forehead was sealed with a kiss as his arms and legs further tightened around him, cocooning Crowley with his body as much as his words enveloped him in a reassurance so earnest it could not be a lie, his fingers grazing over his back and the dip of his waist and hips in a soft caress, “I will be staying right here, with you, exactly where I have been longing to be since I first set eyes on you, holding you close like I have been aching to do,” another kiss against his brow made Crowley smile drowsily, fuck it was just so lovely to be held like this, after, it was so wonderful to not be alone; dropping was not even a little close by, held at bay by Aziraphale’s body heat, consolations and embrace, “do let me know if you need anything, my dearest, anything at all; wake me, and I will fetch you anything that you need.”

Crowley drifted off into sleep with a smile still lingering on his face, his fucked out, tingling body singing its drained, ravaged joy at being pressed against the naked one of his priest, and for once, at last, even though it would take weeks for it to feel truly real— he already had everything he needed, and he was exactly where he was meant to be.

Chapter Text

Emerging from a snow mantled garden, a blooming wreath of claret stained roses woven with a glinting chain of gold— that's what Aziraphale’s sleep misted eyes first focused on through the unfamiliar haze of what he recognized must be the result of a profoundly peaceful rest.

That concept of finding sleep without struggling through the rhythmic ticking of his greatest failure was about as alien to him as the sensation of warmth that the garden emanated, but as Aziraphale blinked, it dawned over his groggy mind that he was not in an inexplicably cosy, snowy oasis; he was in his room, lying in his bed, and it was not cold because Crowley was nestled next to him. The blossoms Aziraphale had seen were actually the starburst splashes of wine rinsed, purpling bruises set against the ivory column of the gardener’s thoroughly ravaged neck, and amongst the nebula of scarlet hung a delicate necklace, weighed down by a little golden cross charm he could barely make out between their loosely intertwined bodies.

It was still mostly dark in his bedroom, but Aziraphale had been rendered back into his original form of a hedonist over the course of a few hours, because he needed to see more. With great care, he very gradually withdrew his arm from its resting place of Crowley’s waist and gingerly twisted his body, reaching back to switch on the vintage brass student lamp perched on his night table, fervently hoping he would not disturb the slumbering gardener in his arms. After fumbling for thankfully only a moment, he finagled the light on, and the bedroom was filled with a warm, golden glow that gently illuminated all within it— including the rose that Aziraphale quickly replaced his arm around once more and set about feasting his eyes upon.

Crowley’s own eyes were still closed, the fanned out splay of his dark lashes rested just above his freckle dusted cheekbones which were, Aziraphale was relieved to note, a faintly blushing pink. The air above the quilt draped over their respective hips was quite frigid, but Crowley was warm, he was so beautifully warm and tangled up in Aziraphale just as he had been when they’d fallen asleep last night, their bare legs woven together, Crowley’s slender ankles hooked over Aziraphale’s stocking clad ones, his long arms locked around the priest’s waist.

Aziraphale was still clutching him to his chest, his left arm curled beneath his shoulders and left hand loosely buried in tousled copper hair, his right bicep wrapped over Crowley’s upper right arm and tucked between his ribs and the bed, and as the last veil of sleep lifted, dull aches from laying in one position for hours made themselves known in Aziraphale’s back, his thighs, his shoulders and neck, sweetly tender reminders of the events of last night.

Not that Aziraphale would ever need reminding; he was certain, as he studied the still swollen, kiss bitten sheen of Crowley’s lower lip, as he committed the muted, deepened berry tint of his parted mouth to his memory (it was the first time he’d seen such a hue on Crowley’s lips, and it was with a simmer of heat curling in his belly that he realized he had been the one to paint it there) that he would remember every minute detail of the previous evening until time was irrelevant.

In his heart, Aziraphale knew that this was simply the beginning; he had been here before, long ago, and a scholar does not forget, a student of observation to the point of obsession never loses that ability to fall for a work of art so completely that it dominates your every waking thought, whether it be a painting or a sculpture or a book or an aria. He had just spread open the delicate spine of a rare novel he would soon commit to his memory, that he would study each vellum sheaf of so intently its contents would perfectly materialize behind his eyes whenever they closed, but instead of collections of words strung together to form sentences, he would picture nutmeg freckles that clustered together to form constellations in their exact configurations of their precise marble locations, in place of paragraphs he would envision curves and angles structured by the dancing, convex and concave meander of bones, and he would illuminate this manuscript by hand, annotating it with the meticulous nature of a devoted disciple, making note of what caused its supple physique to arch into sublime euphoria, what made it open all the wider for him.

His map of Crowley had merely been based off of what he’d observed up till now, but his gardener was not one simple map, not really; he was an atlas, there were endless pages of his topography to learn, there were countless banks of tributaries to chart and he cursed his need to eventually leave for church, he hated that their morning could not be the lingering, unhurried act of worship it needed to be.

As he counted the sienna speckles that swirled over Crowley’s naked arms and shoulders and studied their patterns meandering over the prominent contours of his collarbones, scrawling down all coordinates into his expanding star map of his dove, Aziraphale waited for the shame that did not come, he winced in anticipation of the certain blows that always followed his indulgence, but shockingly did not materialize.

No— there was no shame, nor remorse, nor regret present in any of Aziraphale, there was no darkly whispering inner dialogue detailing his sins in the quiet of the December morning; there was only the gentle, slow billow of Crowley’s breathing, only the tide of his bare chest expanding into Aziraphale’s own before it gradually receded, over and over, rhythmic and calm, the sea after a storm that had upended everything within its waters before all returned to tranquil, glassy serenity, and all so beautifully clear to Aziraphale’s ears in the relative silence that would have, before this past week, frightened him to his core.

Aziraphale had forgotten, along with what it was to be well rested, what it was like to wake up with someone next to him and to exchange mirrored inhales and exhales. Eleven years may as well be eleven lifetimes, an undefinable distance between himself and the last time he’d known the slip of bare skin against his own and the calm brought only by deep slumber, but here he was, experiencing both in glorious abundance, and Aziraphale was terrified would slip through his fingers. He wanted to draw Crowley even closer, he wanted to hold onto him for the entire day, for the remainder of the weekend and beyond. His bed was no longer a cold, empty thing made colorless by the despair of sleepless nights and the ache of loneliness; within hours it had been transformed into a sanctuary Aziraphale did not want to leave, a veritable Eden grown overnight, its roots and seeds planted by the elegant fingers Aziraphale was now tracing with his own. His first thought that he’d been stood in a rose flushed garden when his eyes opened hadn’t been so far off, after all.

He gave into temptation, something that was becoming easier and easier for him now, the relenting of control he’d forced himself to have dissolving particle by particle and with every freckle he touched and kissed; he pulled Crowley closer to him, savoring how errant strands of his hair tickled Aziraphale’s nose and cheek as he tucked Crowley’s head more securely under his chin, luxuriating in the splendor he was for all of Aziraphale’s senses, in the riches he offered via the silk of his skin, the spiced scent of his hair, the dulcet tones of his breathing, the lissome beauty of his body and the decadent taste of his skin, his mouth, his sweat. He had dreamt of moments like this with Crowley both during the precious restful hours he found as an insomniac and during the day; Aziraphale had wondered just how Crowley would be in the mornings, what positions he’d sleep and then wake up in, if he preferred more or less blankets, if he slept naked…

His mind wandered to the events of hours just past, and Aziraphale was sure that nothing he had said in the last nine, ten years shook with the sort of gravity of encouraging a dove to take flight when he’d taken Crowley last night, nothing had been as important, nothing had ever rung so true or so pure in its destination and intention. Talking Crowley through his fear of falling too deeply into an altered consciousness where he’d clearly been traumatized, reassuring him that Aziraphale was not going anywhere, that he would make certain Crowley would remain safe, was more monumental than the most fervent of prayers he’d dedicated to a God who never listened.

Crowley listened, though. He took Aziraphale’s words to heart, he trusted him and hesitantly outstretched his wings to catch the breeze below them that turned into a gloriously soaring flight, and Aziraphale wanted to do all he could to keep that wind a constant, wanted Crowley to be able to float on it whenever he wanted—

Just then, Crowley’s previously statue still hips twitched, his first movement of the morning a gentle curl of a thrust into Aziraphale’s thigh, and then again, and again, and again, gradual, smoothly rolling snaps of his pelvis forward as his cock hardened against Aziraphale’s leg. His breath caught, wondering what to do; Crowley was clearly not yet awake, he was seeking out contact in his dreams and although Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to return his touch, although he ached to reach down and take Crowley in hand before flipping him onto his stomach to sink back inside of him and fuck him into the mattress, he would not do any such thing, not without prior discussion and permission. Instead, he continued his delicate, light caressing of Crowley’s body he had been indulging in since waking, gliding his fingertips up and over his arms, shoulders and neck, biting his own tender lower lip as his cock throbbed and pulsed in want. He’d been hard when he had first opened his eyes, but that fact hadn’t even registered with him, so captivated he’d been by Crowley.

“M-mm,” the little, trembling burst of a sigh following the hum into Aziraphale’s neck was sweetly strained, and Aziraphale’s hand, on its way up to tuck back a shock of hair that had fallen into Crowley’s eyes, froze mid transit as it trickled off into a single, whimpered word:

“…daddy…”

Aziraphale forgot how to breathe as air held itself hostage in his chest. Did he really hear what he’d just heard, or was his greedy mind supplying him with that he’d been longing to hear from Crowley’s currant plump mouth? It was not the first time he’d heard Crowley talk in his sleep, and he did his best not to dwell on what this endearment could mean, dropping from Crowley’s lips in a pleading, wanton whisper, one Aziraphale had worked tirelessly not to hear in his own fantasies for weeks, something he’d rather successfully denied and was tempered by being called ‘father’, but still, ‘daddy’ was so, so different, it was more, it was loaded with so many layers and it was something Aziraphale wanted Crowley to call him with everything inside of him— fuck, he truly was so mired in covetousness, wanting even more than the myriad of treasures he’d been so graciously gifted in the last week and the last 12 hours, but now he knew how that word sounded, spilling from the mouth he’d bruised with his own, and he needed more—

Another roll of Crowley’s hips against him pulled Aziraphale back from the brink of what could have been losing consciousness due to a lack of air or perhaps even his heart stopping completely, the slick, heated slide of his cock dragging over his thigh maddening, but still he did not move, terrified of not respecting Crowley’s autonomy and consent, something Aziraphale knew had been viciously trampled over in the past, even if he did not yet understand to what degree.

Crowley’s lusciously undulating spine came to a stop, though, just when Aziraphale was certain he would die if things continued on as they were without the ability to take action, and the scarlet petal of his tongue unfurled from behind his lips, wetting them as he sighed, his legs elongating in a stretch before relaxing, his eyes finally opening the tiniest of slivers, miniscule sheaves of gold greeting Aziraphale through the frame of his lowered lashes.

He was so impossibly lovely; Aziraphale could not believe he was real, and here, in his unworthy bed of all the beds in the world, languid and liquid, wearing a ruby carcanet of Aziraphale’s starving, ardent affections round his neck and interwoven with the priest as if they’d always been just that— intertwined, fused together for longer than one night— and who was Aziraphale to say they hadn’t been? For all of its heart stopping novelty, for all of its newness and newborn discoveries, it did not fully feel like that was the first time he had woken up enmeshed in freckled limbs and scarlet hair; it felt too right for that, almost, too timeless. God was no longer a guiding force in Aziraphale, but Crowley had him considering the idea of Fate more than he had done so in quite a long time, and in a context that Aziraphale had not ever considered her before; kind, generous, and loving, not callous, cruel, and unfeeling.

He watched, spellbound, as Crowley’s awareness grew on his face, as his eyes blinked and cleared the mist of sleep that had been cloaking them. He shimmied his arm enough to withdraw his hand from its resting place of Aziraphale’s lower back, groggily cupping the priest’s cheek as he hummed again; fuck, what a darling thing that was, these pretty little vocalizations from Crowley as he woke up. Aziraphale had been treated to them the other morning in his office at the church, but not so many, and to say he was charmed was a laughable understatement; ‘pierce the sky with songs of gladness’, ¹ he silently hummed to himself, the lyrics coming to him unbidden as he drank in the sounds that lightened his heart.

That buoy of delight, the joyous experience of watching a morning glory delicately open to bare its beauty to the world as soon as the undeserving sun shone on it was struck by the heartwrenching blow of what Crowley whispered next.

“You’re still here,” were his first conscious words of the day, and they were so full of wonder, so awash in softly sleepy awe that Aziraphale bit the inside of his cheek, hoping it would be enough to aid him in willing away the tears that threatened to gather and to tamp down the geyser of replies—

Of course I’m still here, of course, of course—

Where else would I go, darling, there is truly no where else I would ever hope to be—

Who would ever willingly leave you alone, who in their right mind would heartlessly abandon you—

“Yes, my lovely dove,” he murmured instead, brushing the backs of his fingers over the crest of Crowley’s cheekbone, watching as his lashes settled just to the left of his fingertips, “I’m still here; still right here, with you.”

I would wake up with you every morning, he nearly confessed, and I want to thank you for being here, for letting me hold you for so long; what a gift.

Crowley’s delicate curve of a smile was a wonder, and when his eyes opened again, Aziraphale needed to remind himself that he required breathing in order to live, something that his body tended to overlook whenever that golden syrup gaze fixed itself on his own, drenching him in its richly lush sweetness.

Disperse the shades of gloom and sadness. ²

“Goodmorning, my darling,” he murmured, twisting his wrist in order to properly clasp Crowley’s face, letting his thumb stroke the soft skin of his cheek, still in disbelief that he could do so.

“Mmm,” Crowley’s eyes closed again (Aziraphale had to chide himself for selfishly wanting them to open again; his Greed was flourishing by the second), and he ducked his head to stifle a yawn before continuing, voice rough with the gravel of sleep and deeper than usual, “morning, angel.”

“Did you sleep well,” he was so hopeful that Crowley slept half as well as he did, and Aziraphale had to stop himself from asking a thousand other questions:

Were you warm enough, are you warm enough; is there anything I can get you, what do you need, let me get you all that you need—

“Still half asleep…but better than I can remember…you?” Crowley mumbled, his hand dropping to loosely curl around Aziraphale’s neck, causing him to shiver lightly.

“Much the same,” in a moment of unguarded honesty, Aziraphale could not help but go on; Crowley drew confessions from him like he coaxed life from previously shriveled shrubs, and he supposed that’s what he really had been for so long, a long dead verdure enticed to flower after years of blight, “do you know, I— I rarely sleep in here, I can’t even recall the last time. It’s usually far too cold, too— empty.”

Too much of a reminder of all I have lost, of all I have done, but look at me now, well rested and warm with a dove in my arms; look how you rewrite the worst of me, how you nourish what has been so starved—

Crowley leaned back then, blessedly opening his eyes once more as he hummed, cocking his head as his fingers twirled into the curls at the base of Aziraphale’s neck (an act Aziraphale was fast addicted to), whispering, “not empty now, though.”

“Not empty now, no,” Aziraphale agreed, throat thick, and the sweetness of it all was about to kill him, so much so he actually needed to look away, the sin of his avarice close to lethal after all. He wondered vaguely in the back of his head what time it could be and, not wanting the jolt of a harshly vibrating mobile alarm to startle Crowley, regretfully pulled out of his embrace, twisting and bending back over the side of the bed as he reached for the puddle of black fabric on the floor that was his trousers, “one moment, darling, let me just—”

He thankfully was able to retrieve his phone easily, and he checked the time (5:53am; his biological clock was incapable of oversleeping no matter the company apparently) before actually switching his morning alarm off. He placed the mobile on his bedside table, confident he would not fall back asleep.

“Sorry about, er,” Crowley nodded down toward his hips once Aziraphale settled back down into the bed and beckoned him close again, and Aziraphale observed how his flush darkened so rapidly it was truly ethereal, “grinding into you and all. Hope I didn’t bother you.”

Bother him? What a laughable notion indeed, but one that Crowley was clearly concerned for, so much so that Aziraphale did not even let himself smile; Crowley’s constant awareness of Aziraphale’s comfort was not something the priest ever wanted him to feel ashamed of.

“You did no such thing, my dear; in fact, I am quite certain that you could never bother me, Crowley. Please,” Aziraphale encouraged, allowing his hands to drop down to Crowley’s bare hips beneath the blanket, pressing his palms into the scant swell of their curves but not pulling them despite his body begging him to do just that, “grind into me whenever you wish.”

Grind into me again, if you like; right now, he was about to beg, take all you want from me, at any time, anything at all— let me give you all you could possibly want—

“Fuck, y’cant— you can’t just say things like that, angel,” Crowley breathed, sending a thrill through Aziraphale as his body shivered forward and he sucked his puffy bottom lip into his mouth; glorious, “m gonna start taking them to heart.”

“Excellent,” the depth of his timbre had tumbled south, the scarcest whisper of a growl crawling its way into Aziraphale’s voice, “hence why I don’t say things I do not mean, my dear boy.”

Crowley’s hips began to flutter in delicate, trembling little quivers, then, and he was still hard, they both were; fuck.

“Do you want me to touch you, Crowley?” Aziraphale murmured, unable to keep teasing completely out of his tone but wondering nonetheless. He could not bear it if he wrongly assumed what Crowley wanted, and had resolved days ago to ask whenever he was the least bit unsure of the answer. Everything in Crowley’s body language screamed yes, but until his mouth did, too, Aziraphale would wait. Guiding Crowley into asking for what he wanted was something he’d responded to so beautifully last night, and Aziraphale hoped that it would help him gain the confidence to eventually ask for what he desired, if he would ever feel safe enough to do so.

“I— ngk. Please,” Crowley whispered after a moment, still biting his lip and tentatively driving his pelvis forward, the hot slip of his cock hard and heavy against Aziraphale’s thigh once more, and the priest purred, delighted and proud.

“Good boy,” he leant in to kiss Crowley slowly but deeply, slipping his tongue into the hot, silken heat of his mouth as he let a hand drift towards his cock, “I love when you beg for my touch, Crowley; you needn’t hold back with me.”

He groaned in time with Crowley’s beautifully high pitched moan as he took him in hand, stroking him from the base of his cock to the leaking head, twisting his wrist as best he could at this angle and feeling his own cockhead twitch and drip; he had imagined this a thousand times, and not one of those fantasies adequately captured the splendor of the moment, the burst of sensual, carnal beauty that was Crowley when he was enraptured.

Not for the first time recently, Aziraphale was tempted to try his hand at his long lost hobby of drawing, wondering if he could even begin to replicate even a little of Crowley’s heart stopping beauty and already knowing that to be an impossibility.

“Is that all you want? Just my hand here,” oh, how he’d missed touching and teasing and dominating, how he had missed fucking someone with his words as much as his body, and the skill had returned to him with as much ease as if it had never left him, “or do you want something else?”

“I– f-fuck, angel, hnnng—” Crowley reacted so strongly to everything Aziraphale did, he was so sensitive, and now Aziraphale had been right to switch on his lamp, because he could see what he could barely make out last night— that Crowley’s flush bloomed not only on his face and neck, but also his chest and even his shoulders, an ivory rose blushing into a pink one right before his eyes and by his hand, making a gardener of Aziraphale in this landscape of his bedroom.

“Use this skilled mouth, dove,” he implored as he slipped the thumb of his other hand past Crowley’s lips, his cock pulsing as Crowley strongly sucked the digit and whined around it, fuck he was going to be doing this so often, playing with this mouth with his fingers, “I suspect there is no end to its talent; be a good boy and tell me what you want, lovely.”

“Oh Jesus, fuck, Aziraphale—” Crowley gasped as Aziraphale withdrew his thumb and retraced it down his neck, beginning to tremble in violent bursts as he chased Aziraphale’s hand.

“Do you like that, sweeting, like to be called what you are, hm?” Aziraphale danced along the question he’d considered for some time, wondering if Crowley would know what he meant.

“Y-yes,” Crowley was rapidly thrusting into his palm now, his figure beautifully serpentine in its willowy snapping; he really was made for this, wasn’t he, was made for fucking, was made for taking pleasure, “fuck, yes, I— I love it; call me anything, angel, I like—” he trailed off into a fractured whine as Aziraphale used his forefinger and still wet thumb to play with his nipples, lightly flicking and pinching, twisting the bars pierced through them as his own cock throbbed, obsessed.

“Hmm? You’re doing so very well, Crowley, such a good boy for me, so naturally good— what do you like to be called?” fuck, Crowley got so wet so fast; he was dripping into Aziraphale’s hand, and oh how he adored that piercing, too, one that was indescribably filthy. He took a bone deep pleasure in sliding the pad of his thumb over it, in how it interrupted the perfect flow of Crowley’s grinding with electric shocks of shivering.

“Oh fuck, I’m— f-fuck, I like being called th-hings, degrading things, but you don’t n-need—”

“You do?” Oh, how Aziraphale had hoped; he’d wondered and he had wished and had an inkling, and how marvelous to be proved right, “you like being called just what you are…good, obedient, pliant…a slut—”

The effect was prompt and dramatic.

Crowley’s back bent back into an arch as his whine flirted with a wail, as his cock gushed and his hands seized Aziraphale’s thighs, his fingers digging into the muscle as he begged, “oh fuck, fuck, yes, more, again, please—”

“Such a good little slut for me, and such a needy slut for my cock; you need it inside again, don’t you,” Aziraphale breathed, enthralled, Crowley nodding frantically as he whimpered and whined, “your desperate, gorgeous body is just made to take cock, isn’t it?”

“Please, Aziraphale, please. Fuck, I’m so empty, s-so empty, angel, F-Father, please, now—”

“Shh, breathe, my little lamb, breathe,” Aziraphale murmured as he let go of Crowley’s cock and instead rearranged both of his hands on his back, soothingly rubbing circles there as he kissed him, forcing himself to at least try to slow down, caught up in the frenzy of their explosive, pent up chemistry but still wanting to stop time in order to relish the splendor in his arms as well as monitor Crowley’s state as they delved deeper into their play, on the lookout for anything amiss, as alert as he could be so early in the morning through the lingering grogginess of deep sleep and cloud of heart racing desire, “breathe with me, that’s it; breathe.”

Crowley returned the kiss as he nodded, his tongue and mouth expertly matching the rhythm set by Aziraphale as he inhaled, as he took the breath from his mouth and hummed, clearly doing his very best to follow instructions and doing wonderfully; how anyone could not have ever lavished this boy with copious amounts of gushing praise would never cease to shock and infuriate Aziraphale to his very core, but he tried not to dwell on that just now.

“Please,” fuck, how sweet that word was, tumbling from the shining ruby swell of that pretty mouth, how sweet and how devastating each and every single time, “please, angel, please…”

Aziraphale was not the angelic one here, he knew; he was not made of aether, he wasn’t spun from starlight, yet here he was, in the orbit of a star so bright he was surprised he was not blinded. He was powerless to that pleading, so obscene yet so Heavenly at the same time, and how could he deny his lamb anything he wanted? He maneuvered Crowley onto his stomach (easily, so easily; he barely weighed a thing and his body gave into Aziraphale’s handling with a pliancy that had nearly knocked him over the previous evening when he had picked Crowley up and nearly did so again now) and crawled on top of him, bracketing Crowley’s naked thighs with his knees, letting his slippery cock rest between shivering legs, pinning the gardener like a delicate bird, putting his weight into his arms as his pressed Crowley’s biceps into the bed before letting his hands wander.

“You want me inside you again, my dove?” Aziraphale whispered as his fingers finally gave in and found quivering inner thighs, groaning into Crowley’s shoulder as he found the skin there still slightly slick from filling him hours earlier, “need my cock back where it belongs?” Every word he uttered was a gamble— one wrong move could be catastrophic— but thus far it seemed Crowley was thoroughly enjoying Aziraphale’s brand of dirty talk, one he’d only practiced very recently in his head after years and years of languishing.

Crowley bucked then, thrusting his hips up to collide even further with Aziraphale’s, whining into the pillow it sounded like he was biting as he keened, “f-fuck, yes, need it, need you, please—”

“My beautiful, darling cardinal,” Aziraphale marveled, fast on his way to shipwrecked as his self control continued to be splintered by sweetly pernicious pleading, “how good you are for me, so very good—”

The curve of Crowley’s cinnamon strewn back slotted beautifully with the contours of Aziraphale’s stomach and chest as he lowered himself down, fitting into him as if he were always meant to be there, like they’d been cleaved from the same stone and had finally found their missing halves once more. Even his cock slid between Crowley’s thighs with an ease that suggested they’d fucked hundreds of thousands of times, not once.

Each falling breath over the bare skin of Aziraphale’s shoulders hours before had been another I forgive you, every touch of Crowley’s hands a blessing generously and earnestly given, and it was just as so now with every whimper and whine from Crowley beneath him and every bend of his body closer to Aziraphale’s. As he lifted himself back up, he watched how the honey of Crowley’s eyes seemed to drip from his lashes in a deluge of sweetness, in a font of sun drenched dew that caught the light of the lamp as he turned his head to look up at Aziraphale, begging with his hypnotic gaze and his grinding hips, a beseeching prayer that Aziraphale was lucky enough, was blessed enough beyond his deserving, to be the God who was able to answer such a heartfelt, amber drenched invocation.

Sliding home into Crowley was, just as it had been hours earlier, a revelation.

He was still wet and open and slick, the velvet of him tight but easily giving into Aziraphale despite their lack of recent preparation (he inwardly resolved to rectify the lubricant situation expeditiously despite Crowley’s generously given assurances, just in case; there were a few other uses Aziraphale could think of for such a thing as well), and as Aziraphale’s hips were flush with the plush of Crowley’s ass, as he spread his cheeks with hands that had been molded to hold them, his “oh, look how you pull me in, darling—” sounding wounded to his as it mixed with Crowley’s “fuck, f-fuck, fuck,” his tone climbing higher with every inch that sunk into him.

“Your body was made to receive me,” Aziraphale found himself growling after he’d seated himself and withdrawn a few times, experimenting with this new angle which was, as he expected, just as otherworldy as their face to face coupling last night, just as divine, “every part of you, your mouth, and here,” he stared down at where his cock was being swallowed up into that silken inferno, and he circled the glossy rim squeezing him with a thumb, marveling at the high pitched whine it inspired from Crowley as he traced his opening, “oh, you should see how beautifully you take me, my sweet, needy dove, opening right up for me like you were made for me—”

“I was, I was made for you, fuck, I’m yours, fuck; your cock is s-so fucking g-good, angel, fuck, ‘s better than I ever could have imagined, s-so big—” Crowley whined, tripping over his words in the prettiest fashion, mirroring the little spasms and jolts of his body whenever Aziraphale’s cock passed over what he assumed was Crowley’s prostate.

“And you’ve imagined so much, haven’t you, you greedy thing,” his groan caught in his throat as Crowley squeezed around him, as he pushed himself up onto his knees so that he was even closer to Aziraphale, torso still flush against the bed and his back curved into a severe arch, one so deep and pornographic that it overtook the fantasies that had been living in Aziraphale’s mind for months, it pulverized them into nothingness as the real thing materialized right in front of his eyes, as that tiny slip of a delicate waist made itself solid and Earthside, not the product of a perfected mental mirage.

“I have, God, so much, I’ve fucking— I’ve fucking fisted myself, Father, pretending it was your cock— harder, please, harder—”

Oh fuck, the image of that—

“Have you,” Aziraphale panted as he increased his rhythm and the force of his thrusts, the slick slap of their joining filling his room much louder than it had done last night, the position utterly perfect for composing debauched melodies that had never filled his bedroom before Crowley stepped over its threshold, “I’m going to have to insist you recreate that for me, darling, at your earliest possible convenience, and then I’ll take over for you—”

Fuck, just as he’d been petrified last night that he would not measure up, he was worried that he would not be able to find the right beat, that his hips would falter and his stamina would fail after years of disuse, but none of that happened, not last evening and not now. Out of practice was a kind term for what Aziraphale was when it came to touch, when it came to pleasure that was not the guilt tinged with self loathing flavor of his own, but Aziraphale’s body had always adored being used for this, for sex, for worship, and it took to it after a decade like no time had passed at all, it wept with the joy of being employed in a prayer it wholeheartedly believed in. Fucking was burgeoning with as much physical pleasure as it always had, but it was also feeding something else inside of Aziraphale, too; he did not know it was his heart or his soul, but it was whatever Crowley had been steadily nurturing and nourishing for months, whatever had been brought back life by him via flirting, kindness and his showstopping talent for sensual connection.

He wished he could do this forever, Aziraphale did, as his hands latched onto Crowley’s waist and fucked into him with an intensity that had him mewling beneath him, he wanted to fuck and protect and please and have forever—

“That’s it, Crowley,” his voice was pebbled with shuddering breaths and strained moans, “taking it beautifully, look at you, so very beautiful and so very good,” Crowley’s resulting sob into the pillow was loud and anguished, the flutter of his hole as lovely as his beautifully rambled, “s-so g-good for you, angel; fuck, I’m such a fucking slut for your cock, Father—”

Aziraphale gasped, quite sure he would come, hearing that, if he’d not already had a record number of orgasms in the last 24 hours. He was close, though, fuck, it felt as if he were dancing right along the ledge of an orgasm as soon as he’d buried himself back inside Crowley.

“You really are, aren’t you,” he whispered into Crowley’s ear, bending down, ripping Crowley’s hips back to meet his own with even more strength; he wished he had more hands, he wished he could bury them in Crowley’s hair and curl one around his cock and use another to pinch his nipples and another to press into his back, holding him down, “such a slut for my cock, such a slut for me—” oh Jesus, Crowley tightened around Aziraphale every single time he called him a slut, a wildly wonderful sensation indeed in conjunction with calling Crowley what he was, “such a filthy little minx, aren’t you, Crowley? And you love when I say it, don’t you?” The very last of his caution sped away on the wind, encouraged by Crowley frantically fucking himself back on his cock the more Aziraphale spoke to him, apparently as obsessed with being degraded as much as Aziraphale himself was obsessed with doing the degrading.

“I love it— please, I fucking love it,” Crowley’s gasping was escalating into something frenzied and tearful, a beautiful echo of his glorious symphony the night before, “p-please, more, more—”

“Is my slut going to be a good boy and milk my cock for me,” he couldn’t last, fuck, Aziraphale couldn’t last, “fuck, going to come, darling, fuck—”

His orgasm pummeled into him with the force of a summer downburst as he pounded into Crowley, his thrusts only faltering for a few seconds as his cock pulsed and released, Crowley’s keening blooming louder as Aziraphale’s hand dug into his surely tender waist and hips, but he couldn’t stop, not yet, not until he tried to make Crowley come again, too. He kept fucking into the drenched hole of his gardener, who was trembling all over like a hummingbird caught in a gust, shining with sweat as Aziraphale slammed into him, still hard, and it was hard not to thank somebody for that as Crowley dissolved into whining, hoarse cries that were peppered with stuttered, slurred pleading.

“Right there, a-angel , f-fuck, s-so close, ‘m so c-close, c-can I—?”

Crowley begging Aziraphale for permission to come was something that he wanted to fall to his knees over, it was so good, and he lifted Crowley’s hips with one hand, the animal instinct of him ferally snapping at how easily that hipbone fit into his palm and how effortless it was to move Crowley however he liked, “look at you, going to come without touching yourself— what a desperate little cockslut you are, made for taking it, a needy, wanton rosebud blooming just for me— come, darling, come for me—”

“So— close,” Crowley gritted out between bursts of strangled moans, “right there—”

“Take your time, my dearest dove,” Aziraphale reassured, reaching down to splay his hand over Crowley’s stomach, the taut muscles rippling under skin wet with precome, holding him up, “my good boy, don’t rush, savor it, savor the pleasure you so deserve, starling, let yourself feel good, you’re so good—”

Crowley wailed into the pillow as he came, as he convulsed and throbbed rapidly around Aziraphale’s now wildly oversensitive cock, and he bit down a hiss, not wanting Crowley to mistake such a thing for pure discomfort. He was on the ridge of that, yes, but he was riding the euphoric edge of that sensation, not the agonized one, and ruining any aspect of Crowley’s orgasm would be a sin of unimaginable gravity.

Only when Crowley’s shivering changed into haphazard jerking coupled with anguished whimpers signaling overstimulation did Aziraphale slow his hips, only then did he blanket Crowley’s back once more, still deep inside him as he nuzzled the quaking slopes of his shoulders and burrowed his nose into his fragrant, sweat damp hair.

Aziraphale knew they needed to talk, that knowledge was clanging around in the back of his head; he knew they had to discuss everything and go over limits and negotiations and so much more, but right then, what mattered the most was holding Crowley close as he languorously kissed the sweat slick valley between his dipping shoulder blades, it was keeping him warm and aloft and as full as he could for as long as was possible. He was still weakly convulsing around Aziraphale’s cock as he cried into the pillow, and Aziraphale never wanted to wash its cotton case again now that it has been anointed with Crowley’s tears.

“How are you feeling, my sweetest dove,” Aziraphale murmured into Crowley’s ear once his cries had quieted and his body had stopped quivering, running a hand through haphazard red locks that were more curled at the ends than Aziraphale had yet seen it, and he nearly crumpled into sobs himself at Crowley’s answer:

“Good,” he whimpered as if it were a shock to him, turning his head to the side, tears magnifying the glitter of his eye as he blinked up at Aziraphale, pupils still swollen and lashes wet, “s-so fucking good,” and Aziraphale closed the distance between them to kiss him.

He’d known Crowley was sweet despite insistent protests otherwise, but the sweetness of his mouth was something Aziraphale was, even though he had ruminated over such a thing to the point of madness, wholly unprepared for, from their first kiss in the confessional to their now kiss, their present moment, blissed out post fuck kiss. There was a sweetness that lay behind Crowley’s lips that Aziraphale couldn’t quantify or adequately describe save for that it was a sweetness that overflowed, it was a sweetness that in its generosity and its promise of more— it wasn’t withheld, it wasn’t rationed and it did not dry up the more he took of it.

And Aziraphale wanted to take as much as Crowley wanted to give.

It was as they kissed that Aziraphale carefully pulled out, their gasps mingling and Crowley’s ending in a fresh sob.

“M alright, p-promise,” Crowley insisted as Aziraphale then collapsed next to him, as his arms wasted no time in gathering Crowley to his chest as soon as he turned to line the front plane of his body up with Aziraphale’s, “I just— fuck, I cry, during, when it’s so good— sorry—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale soothed, horrified that Crowley would ever even think to apologize for such a thing, “I have made myself come from envisioning you crying as I take you; your emotions are beautiful, your overwhelm is decadent,” he tipped Crowley’s chin up with a finger and kissed his tear streaked cheeks, “don’t apologize for your feelings, little lamb. Thank you, for letting me witness them; for allowing me to witness you, you marvel.”

I cherish your feelings as much as I cherish you, he longed to add.

Crowley did not say much in reply, but his sweet little whimper and tremulously exhaled “t-thank you, angel,” were more than enough, and Aziraphale clutched him to his body, tangling their legs once more and savoring the sensation of their sweaty skin sliding against each other, as the redolence of sex he’d missed so dearly hung in the air along with heated clove and smoldering cedar, a scent he had fallen so deeply for and again, wished he could bottle for safekeeping.

“The lengths I would take in order to remain here, wrapped up in you for the foreseeable future, are indeed questionable,” Aziraphale murmured into a fragrant shoulder after a few serene minutes, nosing at Crowley’s neck, which he could not seem to let alone for more than a moment, “but I fear I must leave this dream for the time being, darling.”

Gutted was too mild a descriptor for how Aziraphale felt, knowing that he needed to return to the sham of his quickly crumbling reality, no matter how fleeting.

“Mmm,” Crowley’s endearingly petulant hum was muffled into Aziraphale’s neck, “must you?”

Aziraphale chuckled, but a prickle of anxiety tickled the back of his throat along with it.

Crowley had told him last night that he liked that Aziraphale was a priest, but had he really thought what that meant beyond the kink of it? How even something like Aziraphale’s daily commitments to the church meant that lounging in bed for more than 24 hours was nearly an impossibility, that lazy, late mornings were not in the cards? It was easy to lose himself in that worry, in the concern that Crowley would not be content with such limitations, but Crowley must have sensed Aziraphale’s growing tension, because he came to his rescue as he always seemed to do.

“‘M only joking, angel,” he whispered, shifting his head to lock eyes with Aziraphale, and his smile was a gently reassuring thing along with the calm in his eyes, the opposite of someone suffering from a drop in endorphins, thank goodness, “‘s more than alright; I know you’ve got mass in the mornings. When do you have to leave?”

“Well,” Aziraphale muttered, so horribly wretched at the looming prospect of leaving this garden of Earthly delights that he was nauseated, “I most often leave around 7,” he reached over to tap his mobile, surprised that the clock informed him that it was 6:47am— time was so strange around Crowley, it hadn’t felt like any time at all passed since Aziraphale had first opened his eyes— before bending back down to kiss the back of Crowley’s head, “but half past 7 is just fine; however, if I’m to see to it that you’re properly fed, which I intend to at least try to do—”

He was cut off by Crowley groaning rather dramatically and face planting back into the pillow, and Aziraphale’s heart skipped as he chuckled at the display.

“You do know that coffee is a perfectly acceptable way to start the day on its own—” Crowley insisted into the fabric, and Aziraphale shook his head in response.

“I know very little about coffee in general, but one thing I do know, darling, is that it is the opposite of an acceptable manner in which to start one’s day unaccompanied—”

“Which proves you know nothing about it—”

“What I should like to know is how you like it,” Aziraphale quipped, threading his fingers through Crowley’s hair, delighting in the spun silk falling between them, “I may be a novice, but I’m confident I can learn, even though I’m unconvinced I’ll ever happily acquiesce to the notion of coffee alone as breakfast.”

“What, how I like my coffee?”

Crowley’s tone was still mostly coated in lighthearted snark, but there was a shiver in that query that hadn’t been there prior as he again rotated his neck to face Aziraphale, eyes rather wide.

“I— well,” Aziraphale replied, suddenly worried he had overstepped; perhaps this was too much, he had assumed too much, “yes— that is, if you should like to stay here again, I’d— I would like to have what you prefer on hand for you, in the mornings, since I know you can only be wheedled into suffering tea only if and when it’s got copious amounts of whiskey in it, if I recall correctly?”

He trailed off, uncertain, his palpitating nerves getting the better of him.

He didn’t know how to do this anymore, really, and Aziraphale certainly didn’t know how to act now that the object of his impossible desires was in his arms and had gone there so willingly; everything had changed in the course of half a day, and Aziraphale was reeling with it, he was struggling to decipher between the logical and emotional, and predictably he found himself caught up in the latter when perhaps he should be more concerned with the former. It felt like such a small thing, dedicating himself to procuring Crowley’s favorite kind of coffee, small in the sense that it was a tiny effort to extend on his part, but in reality, it was rather a huge thing, wasn’t it, with even larger implications?

“Recall correctly you do,” Crowley grumbled then, wrinkling his nose in what Aziraphale could only describe as a bloody adorable manner, “and that’s—” the crinkle traveled up from the bridge of his nose to settle between his brow, and Aziraphale watched it carefully, watched through his eyes how he seemed to struggle to work out something as foreign as someone inquiring about his choice of morning beverage and actively fought against protesting its importance (how Aziraphale craved to praise him for refraining from doing just that, for allowing Aziraphale to extend his care in this manner), “— ngk. ‘M not— I’m not picky bout it at all, really; usually just do with instant.”

Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s dewy forehead, hoping to impart some of his pride thusly as he pulled Crowley closer, engulfing him in his embrace, “no press of some sort, then? What do they call the French one— a cafetierié?”

He had begun to notice, in the last week especially, when parts of Crowley grew still in the midst of conversation, when a sliver of his consciousness receded elsewhere and was replaced with a caution in his limbs and a stiffness in his jaw. It was a subtle change to witness, but it was more obvious with Crowley in his arms; it was impossible not to feel his spine seize ever so slightly, he was unable to avoid registering how thin shoulders drew together just that much more, and Aziraphale was alert at once. Something he had just said triggered something within Crowley, something uncomfortable, something unpleasant.

“Not a French press,” Crowley mumbled quickly, jerking his head to the side before burrowing his nose back into Aziraphale’s neck, body still marginally tense, “I mean— just not my favorite, ‘s all.”

Curious.

“No French press,” Aziraphale agreed quietly, cradling the back of Crowley’s head with his hand as he nodded, wishing he could banish whatever phantom had materialized in Crowley’s mind, “simply dreadful at the language, anyway; all the better I won’t have to embarrass myself in front of you by fumbling with it.”

He felt Crowley’s cheek lift in a smile against his shoulder as his body once again relaxed against his.

Curiouser.

“I’m sure I can improve upon instant coffee, but I’ll be sure to stock that as well,” Aziraphale promised— it was true he didn’t know much about coffee, but he was relatively sure that the instant sort wasn’t the best— and Crowley leaned back, his brow knitted once more.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” Aziraphale gently interrupted, cupping Crowley’s face and wishing he could wipe all of the gardener’s worries away for good, wishing he could erase them as well as whatever darkness lurked in his past, “I know I don’t have to, little bird, but I want to. If that’s alright with you.”

Crowley nodded after a moment, kissing Aziraphale’s palm as he did, and Aziraphale smiled. Crowley was so brave, so good, and making such progress; he wondered when he would find the courage to tell Crowley how proud he was of him.

“Thank you, my dear,” he murmured, and he was truly mourning their imminent departure from his bed, “I’m afraid I must shower quickly; you are welcome to join me if you wish, but you are just as welcome to rest longer, if you’re tired.”

He detested himself for not having the time to hold Crowley close for hours, for needing to leave his side, but Crowley looked to be quite steady right now and not about to foray into a drop. Aziraphale would shower with a speed not previously known to man should Crowley decline his offer, so that he would not be alone for a second longer than was necessary. He was not positive he would be able to stop himself from kneeling in worship of Crowley under a steamy deluge for hours, though, should he accompany him.

Crowley then nodded, a hesitancy in how his chin bent, “I– I’ll join you, if you don’t mind? I’m sorry to make you late, angel, really—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered softly, and Crowley’s eyes flicked up, “it is I who is sorry I have to leave this bed at all. You’ve not made me late; I am always far too early, I tend to leave my home as soon as I’m able in the mornings,” he kissed Crowley’s nose, “and I would— I would love for you to join, darling; I only hate that we have so little time, because I will need hours,” he ghosted a hand down over Crowley’s waist and hip, “to properly worship this body as it deserves; can you forgive me for the lack of time, my lamb?”

Crowley’s eyes were twinkling canaries as he recited one of his first texts to Aziraphale, one which the priest had memorized along with many of the others, “I’ll try to dig deep within my heart to find the will to forgive you.”

Can one swoon while lying down? If so, that’s exactly what Aziraphale did as that glimmer of flirtatious confidence crested over the horizon of Crowley’s gaze right then.

The luxurious refuge of his bathroom was one of the few pleasures Aziraphale had allowed himself since he’d taken the cloth, and it was truly not alright that he and Crowley could not linger within it. It featured not only a rather ostentatious, large antique clawfoot soaking tub, but an off white tiled shower that Aziraphale spent many an hour in, letting himself focus on the rainfall of the water until he could breathe again after bouts of flashbacks and memories bubbling over the surface, and Crowley was open with his approval of the space, mentioning that his own shower was tiny but that it did have its virtues, his voice taking on a deeply provocative timbre that made Aziraphale take note; he would need to ask just what Crowley meant about that later.

He did leave Crowley alone for a few minutes, letting him use his bathroom with privacy as Aziraphale meandered down to his other one down the hall and past his kitchen, parlor and other bedrooms, where he also found a brand new toothbrush for Crowley after he’d used the facilities. When he returned, he stepped over to the shower in order to turn the brass taps onto a high heat, and as the spray began to fill the bathroom with steam, after they brushed their teeth (this was a frighteningly domestic moment, one that Aziraphale hadn’t anticipated until it happened, and it was frightening in the sense that he adored it more than was healthy and that it was shockingly natural), Aziraphale made to divest Crowley of the thick tartan robe he’d insisted he wear as they had gotten out of bed (“we’re going five or six steps, angel, I don’t need a robe—” “You will wear that robe if it’s the last thing I make sure of, Crowley; I will not have you catch your death in this drafty old house—” “I’d like to see you try to force me to wear it, angel, but perhaps another time; I’ll wear it now if you’ll stop your fussing—” “I look forward to that day, but thank you for relenting, my dear; I was right, you truly have the most magnanimous of natures—”)

It was close to impossible not to take the Lord’s name in vain when looking at Crowley as he peeled the ferment from him, it was difficult not to invoke Her despite Aziraphale’s disdain for all She was not, but— Holy God.

He’d likened Crowley to one of Botticelli’s figures at the café in his head, and Aziraphale been right, in a manner of speaking, but Crowley had so much more than Sandro in his physique. The nearly glowing skin of Raphael’s numerous Madonnas and the elegant hands with delicately tapering fingers right out of the folios of studies of Leonardo, the water gilded eyes rivaling the gleaming gold halos of Fra Angelico’s angels. There was a surety in how he moved that Aziraphale wondered if Crowley was aware of, an assurance in how he carried his naked self as he smiled and stepped into the shower, sighing beatifically as he closed his eyes and let the water fall over the alabaster architecture of his skin.

They needed to do this as soon again as they were able, when Aziraphale would have hours to add to his newly sketched out maps and to properly worship his red headed deity, when he would be able to cherish the feel of a drenched naked body against his without hurry or haste, but even this little glimpse of such intimacy, was a gift beyond measure.

Aziraphale could still see the dregs of sleep clinging to Crowley; even after being fucked, it seemed like he could drift off to sleep, and their first shower together, Aziraphale’s first shared one with another human in eleven years, was quiet in a sense that was not awkward despite his worry that it might have been— awkwardness, apparently, had no place between the two of them— but quiet in full way, one filled with afterglow and contentment and shy touches turning confident, passes of hands plentiful but devoid of their earlier frenetic energy.

Some of their lust had mellowed out into a tenderness that manifested itself in Aziraphale’s soap slick hands as he slipped them over Crowley’s figure, there was a lazy delight in how they kissed for almost the entirety of the ten or so minutes they spent there. Aziraphale loved how the water darkened Crowley’s hair into a shade of gleaming oxblood, he loved how the heat of the steam painted itself over his body just like the flush of sex did, and he loved how his elegant fingers felt gliding over his own chest, he loved how his palms pressed into his stomach and his back and his thighs like Aziraphale himself was something beautiful, with intention, and he loved the pleased sounds that erupted in the back of Crowley’s throat as the gardener touched him. He loved how Crowley’s breath shuddered in a gasping huff when Aziraphale’s fingers gently massaged his puffy, swollen entrance, carefully cleaning the skin there and forcing himself not to slip a finger inside despite Crowley’s whimpering before moving onto his cock, Crowley mirroring him, his lovely fingers reverently stroking Aziraphale as his moaned into the priest’s mouth. They were both half hard, or just a little less so, as they washed their own hair (Aziraphale wanted to wash Crowley’s for him, but again, timing was against them both) and the thrill sizzling through Aziraphale as he realized that not only had Crowley worn his clothes last night, but now he would smell like Aziraphale’s soap and shampoo and conditioner, was dizzying.

“Reckon we should talk about…things, at some point,” Crowley murmured after they’d stepped out and dried off, hair dripping still as he glanced down at his fingers fidgeting with the hem of the fluffy towel wrapped around his waist, and Aziraphale hooked his index finger under the downturned chin and gently lifted, hoping to chase away the uncertainty he could feel beginning to emanate from Crowley. The last thing he wanted was for him to think that Aziraphale did not want to talk, that any of this would be shuttered away into shadow, despite his profession.

“I look forward to that, darling,” Aziraphale whispered as his thumb traced the silky petal of a lower lip, delighted as Crowley’s entire face brightened, as his sleepy eyes locked into his and plucked his heartstrings with their golden pull.

“I really am so terribly sorry I’ve got mass, my dear,” he murmured, never despising the obligation more than he did in this very moment, “and I’m unsure of your plans today, or tomorrow—”

How much was too much, how fast was too fast? How do you determine the proper measurement of time between two points when your entire being is screaming that no separate points should even exist at all, that they should morph and combine into one right away? How do you determine the proper ‘whens’ when your soul itself is insisting that the answer is yesterday, last week, months ago?

“—I haven’t got any plans,” Crowley murmured before stiffening ever so slightly, “I mean, I— sorry, angel, go on.”

Aziraphale could hear some of the unsaid, there, he could discern what was lingering behind gold that did not escape kiss bruised lips, and he had an inkling that Crowley was trying not to seem overeager.

“If you’d like,” Aziraphale continued, cradling Crowley’s hand in his and twirling a soaking lock of hair between his free fingers, “we could come back here, this afternoon; I do have to be at the church again tomorrow for longer, but I—”

I would be overjoyed to spend and and all of that time with you in between returning to the prison of my cloth, I would fall at your feet for the chance to pass the hours in your company, I would sell my very soul to you if I’d not already given it to God—

“I’d like that,” a delicate hand covered his own as Crowley peered at Aziraphale, “would like that very much, angel.”

— you are far too good to be true, my darling little lamb, and far too good to me.

Aziraphale quickly dressed in his normal fare (Crowley’s eyes lit up with interest as he pulled on another pair of sock garters, blushing and looking away when Aziraphale caught his eye; gorgeous), handing Crowley another pair of his black trousers and offering him a clean shirt to wear under the dove grey jumper he’d worn yesterday; as much as Aziraphale adored how the garment bared Crowley’s shoulder, it was even colder today than it had been yesterday, and he cited such things as he cajoled Crowley into wearing it. Crowley however, did not need convincing, seeming to be all too glad to wear more of Aziraphale’s clothing, something that would certainly help Aziraphale into an early grave. He selected a wonderfully soft, long sleeved cream button up, and slid it over Crowley’s outstretched arms, fiddling with the collar and trying not to feel too resentful that the gardener’s nakedness would soon be a thing of the past.

“You wearing my clothing gives me more pleasure than it is right for any man to experience, let alone a priest,” Aziraphale murmured as he finished slipping the second to last pearl disc into its buttonhole, smoothing the too-large shirt down over Crowley’s sides, enjoying how it hung on his delicate frame and how its hue matched his skin until it bordered the bruising dotting his neck, the contrast of their crimson sprawl vivid, and Crowley batted his eyelashes before pulling his jumper over the shirt, looking almost traditional compared to his usual fare, “then I’ll simply have to continue giving you even more pleasure by way of you dressing me; I’ll wear whatever you wish, even a cassock, if you’re curious how I’d look— black does suit me—or is that too sacrilegious, Father,” Crowley leaned down to kiss the shell of Aziraphale’s ear, tracing it with his tongue, “will you have to punish a sinner like me for having such depraved notions?”

Lord.

“If you do remember, you still need to answer for your brattiness at the café,” Aziraphale carefully wrapped Crowley’s long, soft black scarf around his neck, taking care to cover his neck, sorry to see the evidence of his starving attentions covered, “I shall simply add this to the ever growing list of your transgressions, my dear.”

“Would you mind if I hung around for the mass?” Crowley asked, raising a suggestive brow as he ran his hands through his hair, “might be good preparation for whatever you intend to have me carry out as penance, and I might want to take communion again, too—”

Aziraphale leaned in to kiss him, sure he would never tire of doing such a thing, that mouth more alluring by the moment, especially when it was flirty and playful.

“I do not mind, certainly not; but I fear if you take communion in the same manner that you did on Thursday, my heart will most assuredly give out,” Aziraphale whispered against Crowley’s lips, and was he really getting hard again!? It seemed so, and Crowley’s hummed moan into his mouth did nothing to help matters.

“And why’s that, Father,” oh, that mulled wine rinse of sensuality, Aziraphale never wanted to sober up from it, it was before 8 in the morning and he was deliriously thankful to be inebriated, “‘s it because you now know, after months of imagining, what I look like when I’m on my knees with your cock in my mouth?”

Exactly that, actually, yes—

“Precisely,” Aziraphale’s whisper was faint as Crowley’s hips rolled into his and demolished the strength of his knees, Jesus, “and given that my sense of self restraint is apparently a thing of the past—”

“And we thank God for that—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale huffed, cheeks burning, flustered, “how am I to even attempt to lead mass with you saying such things and subsequently sitting right there, in my line of sight, surely smirking at me like a tart—”

“And I’ve not even had the chance to suck you properly, angel,” Crowley’s purr was truly demonic, especially this early in the day; if he’d not just fucked him, Aziraphale would bend him over his bed and take him again, “imagine how difficult it will be for you to concentrate with me in the pews after that—”

“I cannot be so sure I’d not grant you a different sort of communion right there on the sanctuary floor, onlookers or not. They should be so blessed to witness such glorious obedience with their own eyes, except for one thing,” Aziraphale’s voice dipped down into the territory of a growl again as he squeezed Crowley’s waist, “their undeserving eyes could never hope to bear witness to such lascivious beauty.”

“You’d better take control of yourself, Father,” Crowley whispered into Aziraphale’s ear, kissing his neck as his hands threaded through his curls, “or I’ll be servicing you right here in place of the service you’ve promised your parishioners, and how ever would they cope?”

It was, Aziraphale had to grudgingly admit, nothing short of a miracle that he did not push Crowley to his knees right there and then.

It was a miracle he was able to guide Crowley into his kitchen in order to convince him to drink two large glasses of water and to gingerly nibble on a slice of buttered toast without picking him up and setting him onto one of his countertops in order to add more bruises to his neck.

It was a miracle he was able to make himself step away from Crowley after he’d opened the car door for him, when Crowley had murmured, “wait; this belongs to you, ‘spose I should return it,” and fished a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket, retrieving the tiny golden cross pin that had been on Aziraphale’s blazer he’d given to Crowley Thursday (he was curious as to the whereabouts of said blazer as well) only for Aziraphale to fasten it to Crowley’s black leather lapel, murmuring, “keep it safe for me, will you?” to which Crowley nodded, cheeks pinkening in the wintry air as his fingertips traced the gold contours of the cross, his smile tender as much as his eyes were adoring.

It was a miracle Aziraphale did not stop the car on their way to the church in order to run his hands all over Crowley again, and it was a miracle he was, for the first time in recent memory, not experiencing the sting of anxiety that joined him on his morning commute.

So many real, tangible miracles, all originating from a devilish darling for whom Aziraphale was so completely and hopelessly gone.

He had just barely stopped the car outside his church before Aziraphale found himself with a lap full of Crowley, who had looked around outside of the vehicle carefully before doing so and, apparently satisfied that no one was around, decided to gift Aziraphale one last beautiful torture before they were to part for the morning. Their mouths met without a second of hesitance, all of the final traces of the tentative reluctance of yesterday finally evaporating as Aziraphale curled his hands around Crowley’s waist, where they’d dreamt of being and where he had pictured them so often it felt like they had traversed its delicate curves over and over and over across the length of decades, not just since the previous evening.

“Right— well,” Crowley’s voice dropped into a barely audible whisper as he kissed the tip of Aziraphale’s nose, slowly (and what Aziraphale suspected was purposefully) rocking his hips back and forth once more over the swelling ridge of his cock in an agonizing, promising tease before hooking his hand on the handle of the door, “Godspeed, Father; and don’t stumble over your words again today, hm?”

The door clicked open and Crowley slid off of Aziraphale’s lap and out of the car, reminding Aziraphale of how he’d exited the Bentley last week after the Rivoli, all fluid and graceful and ridiculously tantalizing despite the cramped space of the Golf. Aziraphale’s hands tingled with the loss of those slim thighs in their grasp as Crowley gently shut the door and sauntered (it was the only word for it; that sway of sinful hips could not be described as a mere walk) over to his own car, the obsidian fringe of his scarf blowing in the wind, turning back to Aziraphale once before opening the boot and bending over, presumably looking for something with a very pointedly arched back that such a task apparently required.

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale breathed, unable to censor himself while he roughly dug the heel of his palm against his cock, the sensory memory of doing so outside his church last week flooding back to him as he shakily inhaled, gathering as much of himself as was possible when all of him was scattered about in pieces the size of snowflakes, exploded into confetti yet feeling more wonderfully, beautifully whole than he had since he could even attempt to remember.

Chapter Text

“There now; all better, isn’t it? My cheeky, or dare I say bratty little lamb just needed to be reminded of where he belongs— at my feet, on his knees with my cock down his throat while he sings me such pretty hymns. I believe I’ll have you piously praying the rosary in no time, don’t you agree, my dove? Such an industrious mouth will no doubt excel at whatever I choose to teach it.”

Crowley blinked up at Aziraphale through the gathered mantle of wispy gold and whined, the tortured sound muffled as his hips smoothly rolled forward and snapped in time with his bobbing head. He was so full; well, his mouth and throat were full, at least, and his heart and his chest were overflowing to bursting with the pleasure of being used, of serving, grateful tears welling in his eyes and further blurring his vision as his skin tingled from being called ‘lamb’ and ‘dove’ amidst shimmering, posh filth.

“You’re a devious and shameless little harlot; do you know that, darling? Sitting there in the pews, legs spread just as they are right now and trailing your beautiful fingers along your inner thigh, purposefully distracting me to the point of once again stumbling over words I have uttered a thousand times before,” the rosary wrapped around the back of his neck sank into his nape as Aziraphale pulled it towards him, guiding Crowley closer and burying his cock further down his throat, applying enough pressure so that the black beads began to softly sting, planting whispers of bruises where they deliciously cut into his skin.

What else was he to do, Crowley wanted to ask, sucking as best as he could as he whimpered on each hindered exhale, his movement restricted; Aziraphale’s voice rendered him completely mad. It didn’t matter whether he was whispering in Crowley’s ear that he was a delectable little cockslut as he fucked him into sobbing orgasms or innocently delivering his daily mass, the picture of elegance and purity in his vestments that cloaked the corrupted deviant within in; every time Aziraphale opened his mouth, Crowley was putty within seconds. It wasn’t his fault that Aziraphale drew the slut out of him with a few words and that he couldn’t control his bodily reactions to said words.

The sweetest kiss of pain squeezing his neck resonated through Crowley’s stomach and between his legs, a pain executed with a concentration he could literally feel in the controlled tension of the rosary as Aziraphale continued to pull, pull, pull, murmuring, “just a bit more, darling, open up a bit more for me, you can do it— that’s it— fuck,” until Crowley’s nose was flush with silvery curls at the base of his cock and bent to the side, his eyes fluttering closed and his throat spasming as he struggled to inhale, the slight deprivation of oxygen merely a sparkling additive to his blossoming, wing stretching euphoria.

“Good boy, taking every, single, inch of me so perfectly, and looking so beautiful as you do,” a thumb tenderly brushed away a tear or two before it traveled down to slip into Crowley’s mouth, salty and warm, drawing a strained whimper from him as he forced his jaw open even more, as it throbbed along with his cock, “take a little more for me, my sweet, there we are; lovely, Crowley, you’re so lovely and so very good for me—”

Fucking Christ, if Crowley suffocated to death right now it would be the most sublime end he could imagine, being showered with praise so abundant and so lush it scratched the deepest itch inside his skin to be good while stuffed with a cock so fucking big it would please the most discerning of size queens (which Crowley certainly was), and all as he was kneeling for Aziraphale.

Every single time he lowered himself to his knees for him, it reinforced the notion that it was truly where Crowley wanted to be. Each and every lonely, scattered to the wind fragment of himself seemed to realign back into the cracked casing of his psyche when he knelt for Aziraphale, the priest coaxing him back together with his tending warmth and wonderfully comforting dominance, the very opposite of petals plucked from an unsuspecting, vulnerable flower for the entertainment of its politely sadistic God.

“At what point do you think others will notice, if they haven’t already,” Aziraphale asked conversationally, though his voice was full of that that gorgeously rough shiver as he tightened the cord of beads further and withdrew his thumb from Crowley’s mouth, sliding that hand back to cradle Crowley’s head with a broad palmed, supportive strength, thighs rocking back and forth slowly, fucking Crowley’s mouth leisurely but deeply, so deeply; he’d actually choked a bit, at the beginning, a rarity for a seasoned cockslut like himself, he’d gasped and fought for air as Aziraphale pushed Crowley to his knees with his hands, instructed him to fold his arms behind his back and to open his mouth, growling that Crowley would take what the priest gave him, and he was all too happy to obey, he was ecstatic to do so as that thick, beautifully shaped cock was swiftly placed where it belonged on his outstretched tongue, heavy and leaking with the result of Crowley’s performance in the sanctuary, the gathered precome at the slit sliding over Crowley’s thankful tastebuds as Aziraphale filled his mouth to the brim.

When Aziraphale had taken his rosary out of his pocket and snaked it around the back of Crowley’s neck as a sort of leash to guide the path of his mouth on his cock, he’d keened his delirious pleasure and was so hard he’d begun grinding into the air on his knees within seconds, desperately seeking friction that was then mercifully provided by his priest sliding his shoe between Crowley’s thighs, offering his leg to him to buck and rut against through the fabric of his jeans while remarking what a needy slut he was.

Aziraphale had clearly taken to heart what Crowley had shared with him thus far about how he liked to be used, employing a steadily firmer hand with a confidence that was flourishing. The naturally dominant side of the priest that Crowley had sensed months ago was thriving along with his conversely submissive one, encouraging and cultivating his obedience with overflowing praise and genuine care to join the sexual intensity along with what was, Crowley was slowly accepting despite the undercurrent of disbelief still buzzing about beneath his skin, adoration.

The tender vines of bravery that had sprouted last week were beginning to develop into proper stems, still delicate but growing more robust by the day, their light source generous at a rate previously unprecedented within the greenhouse of his ribcage and empowering Crowley to continue cultivating his trust in Aziraphale. That unobscured, unfiltered sunlight also made Crowley feel safer to both flirt with and actually fully slip into subspace with its rays.

He had been very lucky so far, with that; Crowley hadn’t had any real problems resurfacing from the altered state of consciousness with Aziraphale yet, he hadn’t had any mishaps, and with instances like this one— getting spontaneously face fucked in the little rectory of the church— it was getting easier and easier to simply glide along that gilded edge without totally slipping past it, it was becoming more and more natural to experience splashes of gold that came and went as he and Aziraphale had sex of any kind. It was a joy and a relief, being able to play like this without the terror of inevitable crashing and subsequent burning, just like it was a joy and a relief to submit to someone who didn’t want him to fall.

“That’s it, dove,” Aziraphale’s purr should be studied, Crowley thought hazily through the wet sounds of his lax mouth being fucked as he ground his aching cock into Aziraphale’s ankle, it should be studied how his sweet voice could turn smoldering and then back to sweet within the space of a moment, “take your pleasure from me, take it all; simply marvelous form, my dear, just look at you,” marvelous, fuck, he was marvelous, Aziraphale made Crowley feel it as much as he longed to embody the thing, “do you have any idea how stunning you are on your knees? I remain convinced that miracles abounded in my church last week when you took communion from my hand, kneeling so beautifully as if sculpted by Bernini, generously granting such a sight to an unworthy audience; miraculous, it was, that I was not knocked to the floor right along with you—”

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, and his shoulders shook from the stress of keeping his arms behind his back, his wrists smarted and tingled as his hands continued to hold them and his fingernails dug into his skin hard enough to leave half moon marks. His back was starting to hurt, too, everything was creeping towards the edge of excruciating, especially Aziraphale’s praise. He loved it, he really loved it more than he could say, but Crowley was not yet used to how being so freely doted upon affected him. Again he was put in mind of the sear of frozen skin thawing, he was reminded of how a muscle complained as it regained feeling after a period of numbness, of the sensory experiences that were as overwhelming and anguished as they were also wonderful signs of healing. Throw being a bit of a painslut into the equation, and Crowley was reduced to trembling, needy shambles that in any other instance he’d be worried would shatter him, but not with Aziraphale.

Never with Aziraphale.

“I’d intended to come onto the floor for you to clean, starling,” how did the priest know so many of the species that tittered within his heart, how was he so intimately familiar with the wings he set aflight, “just as I did, last week, right here in this room when I could not exorcise you from my mind, when I needed something in my mouth that even slightly resembled how you might taste, anything—”

Crowley whined as the back of his throat was steadily pounded into, unable to swallow from the depth and speed of strokes, saliva overflowing from his bruised lips as Aziraphale’s thrusting tumbled into brutal; holy fucking shit, was he hearing correctly? Was Crowley actually hearing that Aziraphale had licked his own come off the rectory floor after coming all over it, with Crowley in his mind’s eye as he did? That was too much, the image and the idea was too much and the mounting evidence that Aziraphale was just as bloody fucking unhinged as he was was too much—

“— when I pictured you not unlike you are now, only prostrate in front of me, lapping up my come like the slut I just somehow knew you were, but I can’t; spilling down your throat is too gorgeous an indulgence to bypass,” each of his words was more breathless than the last, the rhythm of his hips more erratic by the second, “fuck, your mouth, daring, such a good, sweet mouth for me—”

Crowley moaned desperately around Aziraphale’s cock, pleading with his eyes for permission to come since his mouth was occupied, so fucking close to orgasm that he stopped bucking against Aziraphale’s leg, not wanting to finish before he was told to, tremors wracking his bowstring drawn back as he forced himself into relative stillness.

They had discussed Crowley’s penchant for orgasm control, which was so natural for him to give to Aziraphale that he’d not even given it a second thought in the confessional when he’d begged the priest to come for the first time, and it hadn’t been a question when he’d done the same later as Aziraphale had first been inside him. Crowley loved begging for it, and Aziraphale confirmed that he adored granting his permission, going so far as to shyly confess that he would even enjoy doing so for Crowley’s orgasms when they were apart, if he was curious to try (and yes, of course Crowley was bloody well curious to try, obsessed with the suggestion before Aziraphale even finished sharing it, eager to try that as soon as possible).

“Are you close, my dear,” Aziraphale’s fingers threaded into Crowley’s hair, massaging his scalp as he held the rosary steady with his other hand, and Crowley nodded as much as one could nod while having their mouth split open, sobbing when Aziraphale shook his head and ordered, “not yet, dove, don’t come yet— be a good pet and wait, darling, can you do that? Can you be so good for me?”

Crowley continued nodding as Aziraphale kept fucking into his throat, shaking with the effort of keeping his own hips still and his orgasm at bay, focusing instead on the glorious stinging sparking through his spine and his arms and his knees against hard ground, but it was no good— it all just made his cock leak and pulse more, and if he’d been naked Crowley was sure there would be a puddle of precome on the floor by now, one he’d lick for Aziraphale’s pleasure without even being asked.

“Going to come, lovely— you’re doing so well, so fucking good, fuck, fuckkkk—” came the hissed, almost frantic declaration as Aziraphale’s hand dug into Crowley’s hair and ripped his head flush to his pelvis, pinning him there before pulling him back off of his cock, doing so again and again and again. The rosary was so tight around Crowley’s neck that bursts of stars had begun to appear in the peripherals of his sunset hued vision when Aziraphale started to come, as he released all over Crowley’s tongue and down his swollen throat in thick, velvety ropes, his pained groans shuddering as they echoed throughout the room.

Crowley swallowed reflexively, eyes rolling back in his blissful head as the heady sacrament of his priest anointed his mouth, luxuriating in the taste of him that surpassed all of his desperate imaginings he’d thought up while fucking his fist and filling himself with Aziraphale at the forefront of his mind. He’d always been a comeslut through and through, but he couldn’t help but elevate this to what it really felt like— a soul saving communion that had been a long time coming and more life giving than any blessed wine or wafer could hope to be. He’d live on this and this alone if it were physically possible, Crowley’s hopelessly fucked out brain supplied as he suckled at the still weeping head of Aziraphale’s cock as it rested on his tongue.

The rosary dropped to the ground in a clinking clatter as Aziraphale fell to his own knees, cupping Crowley’s face with quaking hands as he captured his lips with his, licking into his sore mouth and sucking on his tongue with the hunger of a man starved, his breath coming fast and hard in panting, fractured bursts of air.

They kissed for no more than half a minute before Aziraphale’s hands found Crowley’s waist and he brought them both to their feet, lifting Crowley up into his arms and spinning around, taking a few steps before Crowley found himself sat down in one of the few chairs in the room, dizzy and delirious as he watched Aziraphale get back down onto his knees in front of him. His eyes had darkened into that night sky hue that did something insane to Crowley’s flock of birds as his jeans were hurriedly unbuttoned, pulled down and left to rest around his vibrating thighs as Aziraphale grabbed his hips, leaned over him and deepthroated Crowley in one go, voraciously swallowing him down with a wicked gleam in his eye.

Crowley couldn’t withhold his wail as Aziraphale started sucking the length of him, as he slid his one hand up under the jumper Crowley wore to pinch his nipples with just the right amount of roughness and used his other along with his mouth, twisting Crowley’s cock exactly how he liked, bombarding Crowley with several orgasmic sensations simultaneously within a minute of his own climax with a really remarkable coordination, considering.

He didn’t even have time to warn Aziraphale before his body bent up out of the chair in a backbreaking arch, crying out as he came into that silky wet heat, as Aziraphale’s obscenely pleased, filthy groaning tumbled through Crowley’s cock and reverberated down his legs all the way to the curling toes inside his boots. Grabbing, seeking hands slid under his ass to hold him up, to keep his hips in the air and his cock lodged in Aziraphale’s mouth as his climax savaged through him. Aziraphale knew how to read Crowley’s body frighteningly well for only having explored it for a few days, as if they’d been fucking in all manner of ways for years and years, and he stopped sucking at just the right moment, instead moving to flick his tongue across Crowley’s frenum piercing, sending him into convulsions as his hands tangled helplessly in messy ivory curls.

“Fuck, f-fuck, fuckkkkk, angel, Jesus fucking Christ—” Crowley swore through chattering teeth, not holding back, knowing by now that the blasphemous language worked for Aziraphale, that it only spurred him on his own lust, “God, Father, you— mmm—”

Crowley’s orgasmic babbling was cut short by Aziraphale surging up between his legs to kiss him again, and he whined in pleased, pulse pounding surprise as he tasted himself on Aziraphale’s tongue, as the priest shared Crowley’s spend with him and contentedly hummed as he went about it. He just as obsessed with come as Crowley was; God, they really made quite the feral pair, Crowley thought not for the first time as he swallowed some of what Aziraphale had given him, drunk off the combined taste of them, from the notes of his climax mingling with those of Aziraphale’s that he’d just greedily swallowed.

The resurgence of tears caught Crowley off guard as their kissing grew lazy and slow, and he reached to pull Aziraphale closer, eager to feel more of him, needing to feel more of him as the afterglow fucked his limbs into buzzing, sleepy heaviness. He wasn’t dropping, not exactly, but the need to be entwined with Aziraphale was all at once screaming at the top of its lungs.

“Oh, my darling little bird,” Aziraphale whispered as Crowley whimpered and clawed at the black cotton of the priest’s shirt, suddenly much to far away from him, the air between their bodies too cold and too much, “come here—”

Aziraphale snaked his arms around Crowley’s back and lifted him out of the chair, switching positions with him as he held him up by the waist, pulled his jeans back up around his hips and then sat, pulling Crowley down to straddle him as he hugged him close.

“Come here, my sweet, sweet Crowley,” oh, the rumble of Aziraphale’s chest as he spoke and his heart thudding into Crowley’s own were so wonderfully grounding, and Crowley melted into his lap as he buried his nose against his high collar, sighing as he soaked up the warmth of Aziraphale and his comforting fragrance, “you did so well, my lovely boy; how good you are, such a good, good boy for me.”

The aftercare stung in the sense that Crowley was still unused to it being so automatically and enthusiastically given; he wasn’t experiencing subdrop, this was different, he was just a bit…emotional, he supposed, but still, Aziraphale took it upon himself to care for him, every time.

He was petting his back as Crowley’s breathing relaxed and the trembling, wavering thing in his chest sighed in contentment at the space between them evaporating. Jesus, his orgasms with Aziraphale were so intense, they drained him so thoroughly that it often took him ages to recover whether he’d reached subspace or not, but that was the thing about Aziraphale, Crowley mused internally as he snuggled even deeper into the priest’s embrace; he allowed Crowley to rest. He never rushed him in these moments, not once had he made Crowley feel as though he were taking too long to come back to himself after he’d been dismantled. Instead, he encouraged Crowley to take his time, to not rush things, to fall asleep if he liked and to just breathe, just be.

And Crowley was on his way to trusting that Aziraphale would hold him as long as he needed, that he could rest as much as he liked in arms that took pleasure in cradling him and that were glad of the task, not burdened.

“How are you, darling,” Aziraphale asked after a while, pressing a kiss into the crown of Crowley’s head, “how are you feeling?”

Safe, Crowley almost whispered, loved, but instead he murmured as he bent his neck to graze his lips against Aziraphale’s, “mmm, good; warm. Warm and sleepy and fucked out— debauched, as one might put it,” he felt Aziraphale smirk against his own smile; he didn’t think he’d ever tire of teasing Aziraphale over his immense vocabulary and elegant dialect, just as he knew he’d never stop adoring it, “and you, angel? How’re you?”

He sat back slowly so that he could meet Aziraphale’s eyes, smiling at the flush staining his cheeks as he hummed and said nothing at first, tucking wayward strands of Crowley’s hair behind his ear with fingers that applied great precision to the task. Aziraphale was looking at him, looking at him in that particular way of his that made Crowley believe for a second or two that he was beautiful, the same look that made him feel as if he might explode, his aquamarine eyes framed by delicate crow’s feet and, Crowley had noticed yesterday, a lack of lilac circles beneath them.

“I am simply delighted by you, my dear Crowley,” fuck, detonation was imminent, “every day, every hour.”

This was stated with such earnest sincerity that Crowley needed some air more than ever, and he kissed Aziraphale as he asked, still flushed and full of fluttering birds and butterflies, if he fancied a walk, to which the priest agreed.

Crowley stiffly got to his feet, then walked over and bent on wobbly legs to retrieve the forgotten rosary from the floor, handing it to Aziraphale as they shared a secret sort of smile, the priest closing his hand around the beads as he thanked Crowley and slipped them into his pocket.

“Finally discovered a better use for this,” he murmured as his gaze bore into Crowley’s, who was really very fucking warm now and already wanting more. His reactions to the sacrilegious and blasphemous elements of their dynamic continued to surprise Crowley, but in truth it was fast becoming a kink that might even surpass some of his longest held deviancies.

“Would you like my coat, darling?” Aziraphale asked then, nodding to the long, black woolen garment hanging on the hook by the door, but Crowley shook his head as he regretfully declined; he enjoyed wearing Aziraphale’s clothes to a questionable degree, but the jumper the priest had offered to him this morning was a wonderfully warm, knitted wool, so heavy and almost scorching from absorbing the heat from Crowley’s body. Aziraphale, however, slipped on the coat and retrieved the scarf that had been hanging under it, a long, beautifully woven bolt of tartan that he’d been favoring the last few days. He closed the distance between the two of them and carefully wrapped it around Crowley’s neck, meticulously arranging it so that the exposed skin from the too-big neckline of the jumper was mostly covered.

It’s a simple, little thing, Crowley reminded himself as Aziraphale smoothed down the wool and kissed Crowley’s forehead, it’s a normal thing, someone wanting you to be warm and wrapping you up like this, there’s no need to bloody cry over it, but his eyes didn’t seem to agree with that reasoning. Thankfully he was able to blink away the threat of tears as he took a deep breath in hopes it would gentle the ruffling feathers within.

“Tell me if you get cold, dove,” Aziraphale asked as he slipped his fingers beneath the scarf and skated the tips along Crowley’s collarbone, who couldn’t fully withhold a whimper, “can you do that for me?”

Fuck.

He nodded, looking at Aziraphale through his lashes “yes, Aziraphale; I can do that for you.” He wouldn’t ever tire of saying that, Crowley knew, just as he knew he would never tire if Aziraphale’s response:

“Good boy.”

The blast of frosty air as they walked out into the courtyard of the church was a blessing to Crowley’s feverishly overheated state, and they walked in companionable silence for a few minutes, holding hands as they traversed the garden pathways that were bathed in winter sun.

“What do you normally do for Christmas, angel? Besides the special Advent services and what not; got any traditions?”

Crowley shivered just as he finished his question, stifling the jolt of his body as much as he could, but it was no good; Aziraphale, of course, noticed, and before Crowley could even open his mouth to insist that he was fine, that he was merely experiencing the lingering, euphoric aftershocks that understandably followed having his mouth thoroughly wrecked and used by holy cock and his own mind shattering orgasm, Aziraphale was reaching into the pocket of his coat and withdrawing his pair of gloves, the caramel leather fingerless driving ones that made Crowley bite his lip whenever he saw or even thought of them.

“Indulge an old man, darling,” Aziraphale murmured as he slid the gloves on, one by ones carefully snapped the buttons of each and tugged the cuffs of them more snugly onto Crowley’s wrist; they were admittedly too big for his hands, but still wonderfully warm and buttery, and a delightful reminder of their second date, “and forgive me; it’s far colder than I realized. It was rather warm inside, wasn’t it?"

“Do you think that might have had something to do with our recent exploits in the rectory, Father?” Crowley whispered conspiratorially, his cheeks still burning from said exploits along with his jaw, “and I, for one, am still rather warm; dunno ‘bout you.”

He started walking again, but a tug at the hem of the jumper stopped Crowley in his tracks, and he found himself spun around and pulled into Aziraphale’s arms, whose smile had taken on that sinfully smirking curve that Crowley was indescribably weak for.

“And I, for one, don’t think that snarky little mouth learned its lesson after all, did it,” effortless dominance had begun to flow from Aziraphale more freely by the day, cascading from his tongue in that dangerously deep, simmering honey growl as he drew Crowley closer, his arm melting into his waist. Another shiver slithered its way through Crowley, one not at all from cold as the priest brought him flush to his body, a hand floating up to push the neckline of his jumper down over the curve of Crowley’s shoulder, exposing more of his skin to frosted air.

“Though you were worried about my health, Father,” Crowley breathlessly whispered, his knees twitching, begging to be back where they belonged— sinking into the ground at Aziraphale’s feet where they always rejoiced to find themselves. They were getting spoiled, lavished with opportunities to be as they were meant to be, and so was Crowley, who still wanted to kneel even more and in more contexts, promising himself he would maybe try to tell Aziraphale that, somehow, some time soon.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale bent down to ghost his mouth over Crowley’s shoulder, his lips warm and silken as he muttered, breath hot and inducing more shivers, “I do, rather constantly, actually, and to that effect, we need to go back inside, I think—”

Crowley reached up, then, spying a chance and taking it, dipping his fingertips beneath the rigid edge of the snowy collar at Aziraphale’s throat, deftly pulling it free in one tug and smiling as he felt the priest do the same against the curve of his clavicle, which he nibbled before growling, “oh, you wicked creature; distract me all you like, Crowley, you won’t deter me from getting you somewhere warmer.”

“And you won’t distract me, either; you didn’t answer my question, angel,” Crowley twirled the clerical collar between his fingers, delighting in the desecration of something holy that he knew his priest also enjoyed, “about Christmas.”

“I— oh. Well,” Aziraphale straightened his back again, and his hands began to fiddle with the tartan scarf, fluffing and rearranging it ever so slightly as he avoided Crowley’s eye, “I don’t— I don’t really do much at all, for Christmas, besides what a priest must do for his parish,” when he pulled his hands away, Crowley noticed Aziraphale that held them in front of himself, twisting the gold ring he wore on his left pinky finger a few times, one of the anxious tells Crowley had now seen enough over the last few months to recognize as a nervous sort of tic, “I’ve not personally celebrated for quite some time.”

“Really,” Crowley’s brow furrowed as he kept playing with the bit of stiff cotton in his hand, rather surprised by the admission, “I thought— dunno know why I thought you liked it.” Aziraphale just seemed like the Christmas sort, even looking the part of an angel straight out of an old holiday film.

“I used to,” Aziraphale mumbled as he fidgeted with his ring, “that is, I— I used to like it, when I was younger, but then— but then—” his voice trailed off, and Crowley was devastated at how Aziraphale’s face had fallen.

“Stuff happened,” he gently offered, sliding the collar into his own pocket before threading his fingers into the fluffy curls at the nape of Aziraphale’s neck, hoping to help chase away the gloom that had settled over the priest’s eyes with his touch, and Aziraphale nodded, eyes closing briefly before he whispered, “yes, stuff— stuff happened.”

It was always there, clinging to Aziraphale, or rather they; the ghosts, the shadows of the past that would not leave him be. Crowley still had not met them, and every day his curiosity grew; truth be told, he was unsure how much longer he could stop himself from asking questions. He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t pry, and Aziraphale had been sharing more of himself the last few days; Crowley had learned he inherited his house and wealth from his paternal uncle, whom had been mostly estranged from the family and reconnected with Aziraphale later in life. Aziraphale had confided in Crowley that now he was the one all but estranged from his family, but that he was quite alright with the state of things, and he now knew that Aziraphale had only been an actual priest for about five years, but had entered seminary nine years ago. How he came to make the decision to drastically change the trajectory of his life when he was in his thirties, however, remained a mystery.

“I understand, angel,” Crowley whispered as he looked down, horribly guilty; why couldn’t he just leave well enough alone, why did he insist on questioning everything, “‘m sorry I mentioned it. The holidays are complicated, and I know you’re not close with your family. We don’t have to talk about it.”

Spindly webs of nausea branched out from his stomach as Crowley continued to avoid Aziraphale’s eyes, worried he’d spoiled their lighthearted mood with his neverending talent for ruining things. Knowing he’d done anything to bring forth Aziraphale’s troubled past was a difficult thing to bear no matter how accidental it had been, and he found himself swallowing around a lump in his throat as he tried to inwardly reason that Aziraphale wouldn’t be upset with him, that wasn’t who he was; he wouldn’t blame him and pull away in disappointment, he wouldn’t do that, or would he—

“No no, don’t be sorry, my darling,” Aziraphale insisted, lifting a hand to tip Crowley’s chin up before tenderly holding it with his thumb and the crook of his index finger, “there’s no need to apologize. I’m not averse to Christmas, really, it’s just— something I have overlooked for quite awhile, but maybe it’s time for that to change,” he cupped Crowley’s cheek with a gentle smile, his thumb brushing away Crowley’s anxiety in conjunction with the softness of his eyes, “tell me what you like to do, for Christmas? I’d love to hear, my dear.”

The twist of guilt from bringing up Christmas mostly unraveled under Aziraphale’s affirming ministrations, and Crowley nodded; he was all too happy to follow such a request from Aziraphale in a slight redirection of the conversation, but as they turned on the path and wandered back towards the church, he realized something that hadn’t fully sunk in before — he very much enjoyed the Christmas season through a curmudgeonly facade he only let down around those he knew well, but even he hadn’t really done much of anything to commemorate it in years past. The last Christmas where he’d actually truly felt Christmassy had been the one before his father passed away, before everything had changed.

“Come to think of it,” Crowley murmured as he bent over to inspect the last of the bordeaux roses, the only bush he’d not yet cut back in the garden, “I haven’t really done most of the things I used to do, either, for years. Was either too busy, or too broke, or too—”

[—too broken.]

He bit the sore inside of his cheek that had fallen victim to his gnashing teeth over the last few days, fingering the darkened, wilted petals of a rose that was finally succumbing to the frost.

Crowley knew that anxiety and trauma and self disparagement did not disappear overnight, he knew that one night of worshipful, transcendent sex would not undo years of Hell, and his inner voice had, predictably, begun to whisper again. Granted, it mostly sounded like him still— the irritated drawl or downright vicious venom wrapped in a deeply velvety tone was mostly, thank God, absent— but it was still hard to hear it again in any capacity, even after such a short reprieve.

The serene stretch of quiet had been too good to be true, and Crowley was trying with everything he had not to apply that idea to Aziraphale in general, but there were moments, like the one he’d just had, where his resolve faltered.

Aziraphale’s voice cut in just in time, a sweet burst of a sunbeam casting through the grey fog that started crowding the interior Crowley’s mind, “it’s always difficult, keeping up the spirit of the season amidst the inevitable hustle and bustle that is life; add in so many other factors and it’s easy, to allow it to pass you by. At least, that has been my experience, but perhaps— perhaps we could try to enjoy it this year. Together.”

Together. Fuck, how Crowley wanted that; he’d already thought of sharing certain festive things with Aziraphale already, hence him even broaching the subject today. It was only the 6th of December, but if any month flew by, it was this one, and Crowley wanted. He wanted together, he wanted and ached to spend his favorite season with Aziraphale, but only if he sincerely wanted that as well.

“Only if you’d like to, angel,” Crowley stopped walking— they were just outside the church walls again— and pulled in Aziraphale close by his lapels, resting his forehead against the priest’s, “don’t let me pressure you into anything.”

God, he hated how unsteady he was as a result of all this Christmas talk, he hated how fucking delicate his nerves were even after all this time, most especially after feeling so solid recently. He really hoped he could hold a spiral at arm’s length, not wanting to deal with that or dump such a thing on Aziraphale when things were so good, God, things were so fucking good and he felt so fucking good and all of the goodness was starting, Crowley admitted, to terrify him.

The last time he had felt this good had been at the beginning of a fall so catastrophic the descent and collision had irrevocably altered him, and his body was starting to remember that, he was starting to remember despite his best efforts to push it away, to just keep all of that away, this was different, it was different—

“You’re not pressuring me at all, Crowley,” Aziraphale’s murmur was warm against his cheek as he settled his hands on his waist, “you haven’t, not once, in all the time I’ve known you. You are not that sort of person; you are sweet, yes,” Crowley’s perfunctory grumble was overtaken by Aziraphale’s insistence, “you’re so very sweet amongst other upstanding qualities that shall remain nameless for the time being, unless you continue to say such things that will require my pointing them out,” Crowley couldn’t help but pout; it also helped keep him from smiling, which would surely give away how much he liked when Aziraphale did this bit, “I promise, lovely, that I will tell you if I ever don’t want to do something; you won’t have to guess. I’d not withhold anything like that from you.”

It was unnerving, just how much Aziraphale seemed to realize about a past he did not yet know of— Crowley hadn’t yet shared much else with him regarding Lucius since the scant amount he’d offered in the church last Friday night, yet the priest correctly picked up on so much of how Crowley worked as a result of that relationship. He supposed it wasn’t much of a leap, Aziraphale connecting Crowley’s current behavior with his ex, but still, being seen so clearly without having knowingly lifted a veil was jarring.

And Crowley knew he was a hypocrite, wanting to know everything about Aziraphale’s past yet not offering up much of his own at this point. Part of him so badly wanted to talk about it— he’d only really discussed what happened with two people since the events themselves occurred— but a larger, weaker part of him wanted to delay that as much as possible. The shame was ever present, relating to Lucius; the shame of falling for it all so spectacularly, the self loathing from not waking up sooner, the disgust with himself for all but willingly becoming a puppet for someone who, at the time, he thought loved him as much as Crowley loved Lucius.

How could Crowley begin to tell Aziraphale that he had been masterfully played by expert hands, that he’d been conditioned and controlled within an inch of his life to the point of struggling to function by the end, so ruled by fear and panic and the dread of disappointing his lover again, he was always disappointing everyone, he was a disastrous, defective, disappointment—

“Where did you go, little bird?”

Crowley blinked, registering the sensation of his cheeks being clasped by warm, soft hands and kind, morning sky eyes looking at him tenderly, and his exhale was shakily as he tried to right himself; he was dizzy, stomach swooping uncomfortably as he grappled to stay afloat and present.

But fuck, how could he ever admit to Aziraphale the most shameful part of it all; that he hadn’t even been the one to end the relationship, but Lucius had done so, citing all of the reasons as to why he was done wasting his time with a defective disappointment after doing all he could to remedy that, ignoring Crowley’s pathetic begging, he had begged him to reconsider, he had frantically pleaded with Lucius to please, just give me one more chance, I promise I’ll be good, ’m sorry, I promise I won’t fuck up again, I can be good for you, I’ll be better, I’ll f-fix it, p-please let me try to be good for you, ’m s-so sorry, ’m sorry, ’m s-sorry—

“Crowley?” his name sounded odd to his ears, like it was having trouble navigating through the blurry surroundings to get to Crowley, who was doing what he’d feared— spiraling.

He should tell him what was happening, Crowley knew; he should tell Aziraphale that even though it had been six years, memories sometimes materialized behind his eyes like they’d happened yesterday and transported him right back into where he’d been back then; he should tell Aziraphale that he could still feel the fine leather of Lucius’ collar constricting his neck, suffocating and choking, that he’d not felt it when the priest’s rosary was around his neck but that he felt it now; he should tell him that Lucius’ voice was still so clear, so real at certain points that Crowley sometimes looked over his shoulder and half expected him to be standing right there, towering over him as beautiful as he ever was, wearing a smile wreathed with malice masquerading as mercy as he whispered, words curling around the front of Crowley’s neck from behind in an icy manacle, “have you missed me, sweetheart?”

[What you really should tell Aziraphale is that you are a broken little bird, and that he shouldn’t waste his time on nothing—]

“F-fuck,” Crowley inhaled, gasping down the confessions that were too volatile to speak into existence as he attempted to ignore the spectral jade burning into the back of his neck and tried to banish the renewed inner echo of his tormentor, shivering again as he failed at both, “‘m s-sorry, angel, I’m— I’m—”

[— a broken bird, a waste of time, nothing—]

A strangled sort of noise left his trembling mouth as Aziraphale quickly gathered both of his hands in his own, held them up to his own chest and breathed deeply, and Crowley couldn’t look at him yet, he felt the tears rolling down his cheeks and heard himself panting but he couldn’t look, he didn’t want him to know, yet, he didn’t want Aziraphale to know that he was wrong about Crowley and that he really was just a pathetic, damaged shell—

“It is the 6th of December,” Aziraphale’s voice floated through the noise, soft and low and patient as he flattened Crowley’s palms against his heart, exactly like he’d done outside the café last week, “and the year is 2023. We are standing outside of the church, just after 11 in the morning, and you are here, with me,” Crowley’s eyes clumsily meandered from their fixed point of his hands splayed against the black fabric of Aziraphale’s shirt where the priest was blanketing them with his own, seeing double due to more tears but coaxed upward by that wonderful, protective voice, “and you are safe.”

Crowley choked on a sob as that word floated through the smog and embraced him, and his gaze continued to follow the line of Aziraphale’s neck, chin, mouth, nose and then eyes, crying in relief that they were the same lovely, breathtaking tweedia blue and not at all close to anything dark or green or disdainful.

“There’s my lovely, lovely dove,” Aziraphale whispered, and he was smiling, his smile was so pretty and encouraging and real, “my sweet boy. You’re here with me, see? It’s 2023, the 6th of December— just 19 days til Christmas,” one of Aziraphale’s hands slid up under the sleeve of Crowley’s jumper, tracing his forearm with gradual, languid strokes, and the skin to skin contact was something Crowley couldn’t mistake for a memory or ghost; he really was here, and Aziraphale was here, too, “and you’re safe, Crowley— you’re safe, with me, right here. There is nothing else,” Aziraphale leaned up to kiss Crowley’s forehead, the brush of his lips light but lingering, “nothing else but you and I, standing here right now, safe and sound.”

Safe and sound.

“S-safe,” Crowley forced out through his teeth, the ‘s’ whistling before his breathing finally began to even, and he counted the beats of Aziraphale’s heart beneath his palms where it thumped steadily, repetitive and strong, “here, with you. Y-you’re not going anywhere,” he was starting to feel it again and believe it, his nervous system coming back to the here and now from the there and then, recalling the recent instances where Aziraphale had in fact stayed, and hadn’t left him.

“I’m not going anywhere, my darling dove,” the gentle ferocity in that declaration was as stirring as it was heartening, “you’re doing so, so well— you’re back with me now, aren’t you? You did it; you’re so brave, Crowley, so brave and so good—”

Crowley couldn’t help it; he launched himself at Aziraphale, folding his arms around his shoulders and crushing him to his chest as his knees buckled, clinging to the priest like he would crumple to the ground if he didn’t, desperately breathing in the scent that was the perfect olfactory opposite of pine smoke and cypress and scotch and coffee, inhaling precisely steeped Darjeeling and brightly blooming magnolia and decadent, luxurious vanilla and vintage leather and warmth, so much warmth into his lungs, deliriously grateful to be here and safe, his mortification and embarrassment lurking in the wings as Aziraphale squeezed him tightly, as he kissed Crowley’s cheeks and hair over and over and over and cradled his head to the bend of his neck and whispered how proud of him he was, fuck, Aziraphale was proud of him and then he told Crowley how good he was, fuck, he was good, and as they stood there, clutching each other with no hint of either letting go anytime soon, a part of Crowley, perhaps one of the fragments that Aziraphale had collected along with the all of the plucked petals he’d lovingly brought back together wondered if maybe it was okay that he was broken, that maybe it was alright to be broken as long as Aziraphale would hold him like this when it felt like he was splintering into dust, because right then, as his priest engulfed him in his arms, Crowley felt like something again, and all he heard in his head was a pulsating beat that matched the rhythm of Aziraphale’s heart and the timbre of Crowley's voice, just his voice—

[— safe, safe, safe—]

Chapter Text

It was Aziraphale’s birthday.

This fact did not register with the priest until he was driving home Sunday afternoon, back aching pleasantly from his late night exploits with his gardener and further exacerbated from the subsequent standing during the morning’s mass.

It came to him as he counted down the days till Christmas, still considering (and certainly not panicking at all in regards to) possible presents for Crowley, and when he realized just 15 days remained, that made today the 10th of December and therefore, his name day.

Much like Christmas, Aziraphale had not celebrated his birthday in the last eleven years; he did not even go so far as to address it. It was slightly easier, that way, it was minutely more endurable to pretend that he didn’t have a birthday at all. In the last five or so years especially, it had become a routine denial that his brain rarely even took note of. December 10th was merely a random date on the calendar, and Aziraphale preferred it that way.

Birthdays in the month of December, depending where they fell, had a tendency to be overshadowed by Christmas, something Aziraphale learned quite young. The festive atmosphere of the upcoming holiday often started in late November, and the day of his birth was politely acknowledged by his family and friends, but he understood that people were simply busy, that time of year. It didn’t specifically bother him, and it could have been worse— he could have been born much closer to Christmas or just after— so he certainly had no room to complain. It was all he’d ever known, and it was just fine, it had been fine for just over two decades.

But all these years later, Aziraphale could still recall the absolutely scandalized look on Seb’s face when he had informed him, offhand and with a shrug, that he didn’t really ever do anything special for his birthday. They had been dating a few months by that point, and Seb had reacted as if Aziraphale had shared the most devastating information possible, as if he’d uttered something both ghastly and nonsensical.

“What d’you mean, you don’t celebrate your birthday?!” preposterous disbelief was as dazzling on Seb as every other expression, Aziraphale had silently decided as he listened, smiling as sea glass eyes began to widen in further indignation; he’d been hopelessly gone for him even then, he’d been fathoms past smitten for weeks and weeks already, “it’s your birthday, Zira. What’s more special than that, love?”

Again Aziraphale had shrugged, cheeks burning as Seb’s voice softened and he reached out to hold one of Aziraphale’s hands in his, his gaze almost pleading as he’d whispered, accent thicker as it tended to be when he was impassioned about something, “would you be bothered if I did something for it? ‘S fine if you’d rather not, but I—” his smile had turned into something close to shy but not really; more like vulnerable, his eyes beautifully open in their oceanic expanse, “‘d like to do something to commemorate the occasion— ‘m at least getting you a present—”

“No need for you to do that,” Aziraphale had hurriedly countered, barely refraining from saying that Seb was a gift enough himself, not wanting to be a bother, but Seb had shaken his head.

“I know I don’t,” he had murmured, and he’d kissed the backs of Aziraphale’s fingers, brushing his plush lips over each knuckle while he went on, “I know I don’t have to, but I want to, darling.”

Aziraphale has tried not to remember the birthdays he spent with Seb thereafter that first one; he has done as as much as he could to revert to the before times, before he and Seb drifted into each other’s orbits, before his birthday was transfigured into a day he actually looked forward to, a day where he felt he mattered. He has done his best to conceal the memories Seb took care in crafting surrounding the day in the seven years he’d been blessed to spend with him, he has not allowed himself to linger on how Seb obviously employed great measure to make certain that whatever thing he’d gift to Aziraphale would not have a drop of Christmas aesthetic in the wrapping, never any even remotely Christmassy color combinations, either—

No, he couldn’t remember that and he should not; he did not deserve to hold onto such things even though his psyche disagreed and clung to them with claws of folded steel, refusing to relinquish any and all details of Seb even if it meant merely shielding them from Aziraphale’s conscious thought for the majority of the time.

It was merely another layer of his punishment, another set of bars he laid around himself as penance for what he had done, for all he had destroyed. Aziraphale hadn’t been able to control himself from dwelling on every memory he could frantically recall in the immediate aftermath of Seb’s death, an aftermath that turned into two years of unimaginable suffering, of barely managing to exist, but eventually, self preservation in the form of self loathing took over, and he gave into its relentless pummeling; Aziraphale turned all grief and hatred inward with a ruthless determination and set out on a mission to not grant himself the gift of perusing those beautiful memories, vowing only to relive that night in a viciously persistent retribution for years to come.

But there were times, like right now, when the memories would burst through the barricades with a vengeance, flooding Aziraphale’s vision with the exact color and lighting of their setting as if he’d been transported back in time to watch, mesmerized against his will, whatever scene his mind had thrust to its forefront. Part of him grabbed onto these breakthrough recollections with a ravening hunger, and another part of him resisted, not wanting to remember because of the pain it would leave when it faded from his head and because it was a privilege he could never rightly deserve again.

Aziraphale blinked, looking down at his twitching hands as realized he was no longer moving; he’d pulled off the road much like he’d done on his way to meet Crowley in the city before their first date, but this time, he did not get out of the car gasping for air, he didn’t need to rip the confining leather of his gloves from his claustrophobic fingers.

This time, he laid his head back against the headrest and cried, clutching his left hand to his chest as the index finger and thumb of his right spun his signet ring in random sequences of rotation— all the way to the left four times and then once or twice to the right, one counterclockwise turn and then two clockwise— while gasping for breath through sobs that started ripping at his swelling throat, and all Aziraphale really wanted right then, all his soul cried out for was two things; the first, to go back in time to the last birthday he hadn’t known would be the last one he would share with Seb, to cherish it properly with the knowledge that it would be the last one, and the second, to have Crowley in the car with him, to cling to his torso and cry into the collar of whatever shirt or jumper he wore, to inhale the cedar laced oxygen of his scent until his trembling stopped and all of his tears dried up.

The guilt that spawned and crawled through Aziraphale’s veins as a result of those dueling desires, that filled them with the noxious sludge of shame for his selfishness was debilitating, but not at all unexpected.

He had known that eventually, the venomous spikes of guilt that would inevitably accompany a new relationship (and not at all to do with his occupation, ironically) after his last would reach a point of suffocating agony, and Aziraphale was surprised it had taken this long for it to really sink into his viscera, that up till now it had been a fleeting, stomach lurching thought that was easily overtaken by the utterly wonderful joy Aziraphale was now experiencing daily.

The presence of Crowley both physical and mental had so far mostly kept the shadowy things that lurked in the corridors of Aziraphale’s mind at bay with his luminosity, but when he was not around, those darker shades, along with Aziraphale’s recently radically subdued inner dialogue, advanced, sensing the vulnerability of their target and seizing the opportunity to close in, and as Aziraphale sat there frozen on a day he always thought of Seb against his self imposed rules, the darkness laid siege.

(So much for never giving yourself to anyone for the rest of your life, Father; how easily you offered up your body and heart to someone else, how quickly.)

He didn’t move to brush the wetness from his face as he let that terrible and terribly true thought hang in his head, where it grew more solid by the second.

When he and Crowley first spent the night together, Aziraphale had been petrified that the tide of seafoam that now lived only in his memory would wash over the gold shoreline that was right in front of him, but that hadn’t happened. Aziraphale had been able to recognize that that last person he’d slept with was Seb without thinking of him as he touched another person for the first time in eleven years, and though he had been relieved, though he was still so absurdly relieved that he was able to be present with Crowley during and after their intimate moments, being able to simply look at him sleeping in his arms and not see sandy hair instead of silver streaked copper was both a blessing and horrendously efficient fodder for the guilt that had been lying in wait, the same guilt that now had found its voice and hissed accusingly,

(How easily you have forgotten him—)

—which was followed by a heartbreakingly forlorn, hideous echo of the very last text Seb had ever sent to Aziraphale.

He had them memorized, of course, their contents and even the time in which his phone received them forever carved in his brain, and it typed itself out as no doubt Seb’s clever fingers had done:

6:37PM, Hopping into aforementioned taxi now; be home round half past 7. There better be lessons planned out as far as the new year when I get there… otherwise I’ll be quite cross that you forgot about me. Love you anyway, though—

(Have you forgotten me again, Zira?

Have you forgotten me?)

“Never,” Aziraphale countered immediately, his whisper thin and strewn with tears, nauseated by the very notion and the reminder of its technical honesty regarding the cursed sleep he’d fallen into that day, and he shakily brought his fist to his mouth, tenderly kissing the gold that had lived on Seb’s ring finger before it graced Aziraphale’s pinky. He felt the groove of the engraved A beneath his lips and thought of its S counterpart at home in its tiny velvet box, choking on a broken, rib crunching sob as he shook his head and pictured Seb as clearly as if he was right in front of him, as clearly as the last day he had seen him alive.

Aziraphale saw him as he was that morning where they had kissed in the kitchen after fucking in their bed and discussing where they might go on holiday that summer (“Spain, maybe?” “Greece would be brilliant, also—” “…could always go back to Paris, ‘s been too long—” “Missing your other lover, are you?” “Don’t be jealous, baby; Claude is nothing but understanding of you, try to return the favor—” “Monsieur Monet is a far more civilized man than I, then; he’s lucky he’s dead, or we’d be having words—” ) before lazily rolling out from mussed sheets the shade of deep, rich aubergine, each respectively grumbling good naturedly about their days ahead.

He saw the exact shirt Seb wore that day, the vintage silk, paisley button up in shades of plum and gold and teal and brown, the one with the purple pearlized buttons that Seb had paired with a chocolate velvet blazer, something that would have been flashy on most people but what Seb elevated to chic and impossibly alluring; he recalled how his still-damp-from-the-shower hair had been parted more to the left side that day than usual, and how the two gold plated necklaces he’d chosen to wear were twisted together, so much so that Aziraphale had stepped closer and carefully untangled them, the differing weights and feels of the rope and cable chains as tangible today as they were then, as easily recalled as Seb’s scent, delicately herbaceous like thyme mixed with the earthy, floral musk of heather and subtle citrus of orange blossom all wrapped up in pencil shavings and good gin, and Aziraphale replayed the last words Seb had said to him in person aside from his texts throughout the day: “I’ll go anywhere at all for the summer, love, as long as it’s with you; see you tonight?”

“Couldn’t forget you, sweet Seb,” Aziraphale promised thickly to the ghost sitting next to him, inhaling phantom wisps of heather infused gin through a nose swollen from a deluge of tears, “not ever.”

After Aziraphale’s eyes had expelled the last remaining tears within his capability of producing, he made his way home, head throbbing uncomfortably and chest not far off.

The exhaustion tunneled deeply within his body despite the early hour and his recently glorious nights of sleep he’d been having with Crowley. He still woke up throughout the night at times, and some evenings Aziraphale would lay awake for much, much longer after Crowley drifted off, silently admiring him and memorizing the tones and notes of his breathing, revisiting the starburst freckles on his cheeks and shoulders and arms that Aziraphale plotted the night before and simply enjoying being in his presence so heartily that sleep felt like a dreadful waste, but overall, Aziraphale had slept more in the last week than he had in years and years; even on the nights Crowley did not spend with him, they would often chat on the phone or text until one or both of them fell asleep doing just that, and Aziraphale would actually doze in his bed, clinging to a pillow and greedily drinking in the lingering scent of clove as his mind would let itself rest.

He puttered about the house for the afternoon and evening, cleaning counters he had already cleaned thrice over and rearranging things that did not need to be rearranged, shaky from his earlier visit to the past and by how badly he missed Crowley, by how much emptier his empty home was without his laugh ringing through the parlor and the kitchen and the bedroom and the study, by how Crowley had only been there a few times but it already felt like he belonged in the hallways and each room. Even reading did not offer its usual reprieve as he curled up with a novel (All Creatures Great and Small, James Herriot),and it hit Aziraphale after getting about fifteen pages in during the course of an hour:

He wanted Crowley to be there all the time.

The guilt surged as Aziraphale peered around the parlor, remembering the last time he had thought he would share this particular house with someone at an older age, overcome with shame all over again at how easily Crowley fit here, at how easily he fit into Aziraphale’s life and his heart. Seb had done just the same, and the only other person besides Crowley who had been to this house besides himself and his uncle in the last 15 years had been Seb.

Aziraphale could still hear the two of them laughing, sometimes, especially during the most oppressive evenings of the year; his uncle Ezra and Seb locked away together in some corner of the house they would visit during the summers, thick as thieves like they had been from the very start and cackling over some filthy joke one or the other had told. The three of them would whittle away the hottest days of July sleeping till the afternoon and drinking too much sherry and champagne and Pimm’s cups simply because they could, indulging in the delights of the season as well as each other’s company.

He would not ever forget Ezra murmuring to him one evening when Seb had fallen asleep on the chaise in the study, surrounded by open books and a mostly empty glass of Oloroso, softly snoring with a half smile still lingering on his face; “hold on to that one, Aziraphale; he’s a treasure if ever there was such a thing.”

Something wet caught Aziraphale’s attention, and he glanced down to see a drop of something on the back of his hand; he hadn’t realized that the tears had started again.

He was only glad that Ezra had passed before Seb, one small kindness that his uncle deserved for all he had given to Aziraphale and ultimately wanted Seb to have as well. Aziraphale could not help but wonder what his uncle would think of Crowley, but ultimately, he knew beyond any inkling of doubt that Ezra would be helplessly fond of him— why wouldn’t he be?

After all, Crowley did remind Aziraphale of Seb when it came right down to it, his guilt pointed out, and he sighed as he ran a hand through his hair, feeling much, much older than 44 in that moment despite the rejuvenation he was undergoing as of late.

Crowley was in possession of that very same firefly effect that Seb had, the same light oozing from his pores without so much of an effort on his part— Seb bloomed, just like the gardener, and while his carefree smile had absolutely been a more constant fixture on his lovely face, and Crowley certainly had a delicate veil of melancholy clinging to him much of the time, his own smiles were as beautiful as Seb’s, and just as heartstopping. He had that same inner flame that drew Aziraphale in like a deprived moth with decrepit wings, desperate to soak up his light and somehow deemed worthy to do so by Crowley himself.

The pang of his absence twinged again, and Aziraphale sighed. He knew about the phenomena of new relationship energy, but he’d not experienced it in so long, long enough that he had forgotten how intoxicating it could be, how it was a substance stronger than any spirit he’d ever imbibed and redefined what it was to be inebriated. How was it that he could fuck like he was 24 again and not 44, how could he almost reach multiple orgasms over the course of a few hours? Aside from the sex, though, the mind blowing, seismic sex, Aziraphale couldn’t pretend that it was not getting to be worryingly close to a physical pain, being parted from Crowley. His endorphins were running rampant, he knew, endorphins and emotions and hormones that had been dormant for years were suddenly alive once more and thriving at an unprecedented rate, but fuck, that desire to see Crowley and to hold him was staggering, it was immense in its expansion and weighted, making itself known in Aziraphale’s limbs whenever they were not entwined with long, lithe freckled ones. He knew it was healthy to have time apart, he knew that it was far too soon to even be thinking of otherwise, he knew that he would think about it anyway—

Just as Aziraphale started to reach into his pocket for his mobile, no longer able to stop from texting Crowley again, it began to ring, lighting up with Crowley’s name like he lit up Aziraphale himself.

“Good evening, darling,” Aziraphale spoke into the phone as he smiled, delighted by the coincidence (or perhaps it was no coincidence at all? He was becoming more open to such things, after all).

“Angel,” oh, fuck— that breathy, pretty little greeting— what a balm it was, what an impossibly warm blanket Crowley’s voice draped Aziraphale in from just one word, “busy?”

“Not at all,” even if he had been, he would have dropped whatever task at hand in order to be there for Crowley, “how are you, my dear?”

They chatted for maybe two minutes, exchanging details about their days (Aziraphale conveniently leaving out his minor breakdown on his way home) before Crowley whimpered, a hushed yet unmistakable sound over the line that was as obvious as anything in its meaning.

“Are you quite alright, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked lowly, and he stood from his chair, abandoned his book on the cushion and began to make his way to his bedroom, stretching out on his bed as he waited for Crowley’s reply. The room still carried his fragrance even all these hours later, and it was as comforting as Crowley’s voice as well as arousing.

“I’ve not been able to get you out of my mind,” Crowley blurted out after a bit, a soft, nearly shy laugh following his confession before his went on, quiet and obscene, “and I— fuck, I’m so hard that it hurts, I’m— I’m soaked…”

Fuck.

“You poor darling,” Aziraphale whispered as his legs spread involuntarily, warmer than he had been since this morning when he and Crowley parted ways for the day, “all alone and with no one to take care of you like you deserve; such a dreadful shame.”

He trailed off, caught off guard by the emotion welling in his throat.

He wanted to be there to care for Crowley like he deserved, all the time, always, fuck—

“What is it, angel,” Crowley asked, concern in his voice, “you alright?”

Was he alright? Aziraphale didn’t rightly know anymore.

He was exhausted and lonely and stuck halfway in the past and the present, yearning for two dueling things at once and far closer to tears than he had realized; he hated crying this much. Crowley didn’t know that it was his birthday, and Aziraphale wanted it to stay that way, but he couldn’t deny that he was not completely alright; he didn’t want to hide that, not totally.

“Just— not the best of days today, I’m afraid,” he whispered, “nothing serious, but— there it is.”

Thank you for calling, when you did; I was about to start crumbling again and your voice is a lifeline you cannot even begin to know—

“I’m sorry to hear it; why didn’t you say so, angel?” Crowley asked, wonderfully warm, cosy as he very gently admonished Aziraphale, “I wouldn’t have started down my slutty road, had I known you weren’t feeling the best.”

Aziraphale smiled again in spite of himself, the phrasing inspiring a chuckle as he tried to craft a response that wouldn’t make Crowley feel badly.

Because I didn’t want to disappoint you. I didn’t want to bring you down with my baggage, I didn’t want to ruin this, the one bright thing I have known in ages, my bright and beautiful dove—

“I— I didn’t want to bring down the mood, I suppose,” he settled for, clearing his throat quietly.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley’s voice was now so kind it made Aziraphale shiver, the warmth of its frisson engulfing him in tingling heat, “I— I know that we’ve been…well, we’ve been fucking like mad, to put it lightly, and it’s bloody incredible, but— I just want to say, that it’s— it’s so much more than that, yeah?” Aziraphale brought a hand to his mouth to stifle his own whimper at hearing that, “it’s so much more for me, than the sex.”

“It’s so much more for me as well,” Aziraphale immediately replied, sitting up straighter in his bed, “so much more; God, Crowley, it’s—”

It’s everything. It’s everything, it’s all I’ve longed for and shouldn’t have, I know that it’s too soon but I want you here all the time—

Every night and every morning—

I want you everywhere—

“I know,” Crowley murmured, calming, tender, and Aziraphale thought that perhaps he might know some extent of what Aziraphale meant, but not all— or could he? “I know. And I really am sorry you had an off day, angel,” he sounded soft and so genuinely mournful it was close to unbearable, “can I do anything for you?”

Aziraphale had a thousand possible answers to that question and simultaneously none at all; he was all over the place, scattered and grasping—

Can you teleport here right into my arms and warm the side of my bed that misses you as much as I do?

Can you be here now and keep away the things that prey on me when you’re so far away?

Another unhinged hypothetical question materialized from nowhere, catching Aziraphale unawares as he bit his tongue and held the query behind his teeth, struggling and desperate:

Can you…can you call me Daddy, again, can I hear it again from your lips so that I can feel how it made me react the other morning, and not just violently heated but…protective, and capable, like I had the privilege and honor of keeping you safe, like my arms were the safest place you could possibly be in spite of the back of my mind whispering to me that they will ensure your inevitable destruction?

Because that’s what that feeling had been, hadn’t it? When Crowley had softly and so sweetly whispered the word daddy in his sleep, it hadn’t just gone straight between Aziraphale’s legs, it hadn’t only rendered him overflowing with the ferally primal need to fuck and dominate and own like it had in the fantasies where he couldn’t push that term as an honorific from his thoughts— it had also flared the excruciating need to guide and protect, to hold close and keep safe that which he held dear, whom he held dearer than anyone else. It had imbued Aziraphale with a sense of calm contentment, it had made him feel like he was a safe space. There was something attached to that word that ‘paternal’ did not match at all (very thankfully indeed), but whatever it was, it made Aziraphale into what he so desperately wanted and needed to be for Crowley— a protector, a guardian, something that could maybe possibly even hope to live up to the name he’d carried with him his whole lifelong and never once came close to embodying—

Would you call me Daddy again?

“—angel?”

“I’m here, darling,” Aziraphale managed through the ache in his chest that now had its own separate pulse, that had been taking root for months and culminated in this beating, fiercely devoted heart to do for Crowley what he had not been able to do for the last person he loved— protect, guard, keep safe— “I—”

—the last person he loved.

As in, there was another person he now loved as well, last is in what came prior, and not last as in the very end.

It hadn’t even been a conscious thing, referring to Crowley as someone he loved, and yet Aziraphale was floored by it. It was not a surprise, and yet it was shocking; something he had felt budding within himself for months, that had been growing so cautiously and gradually right along with the firestorm of his dizzying carnal lust for Crowley, the latter far more bold and hellacious, but the former just as robust and perhaps even more fierce than the wildfire of need that had burnt away much of the dead and lifeless undergrowth of him, that had released the seeds of connection that could only germinate when such a blaze occurred and were now flourishing on the forest floor of Aziraphale’s heart, doughty and enduring, fireborn.

I love you, Aziraphale cautiously mused internally, experimentally, the words clumsy and ungainly even in his head, they were so stiff and atrophied, so covered in dust and horribly out of practice that it was difficult to even string them together, and I know it’s so very soon, I know it’s mad, I know that I am mad, darling, but I love you.

He was having quite a lot of realizations in quite a short time, and who knows when he would ever be able to speak such a thing into existence, if his guilt and fear would allow such a thing but, as Aziraphale reclined on his bed and slid his hand over the chilled cotton where Crowley had slept the night before and ached over his absence, he knew he was in love with his gardener with everything still left inside him, with all that remained after eleven years of systemic torture and purposeful neglect, and that wasn’t enough for someone as wonderful as Crowley, not nearly enough but, it was true.

He had never expected to love anyone again— he had made the decision not to love anyone for the rest of his life for their safety and his own— but Crowley had broken through the thorny cage Aziraphale had planted around himself, the one that thickened and toughened with each passing year—

—right, he was meant to answer Crowley.

He was unsure if the mood was entirely appropriate for what he was about to ask. Aziraphale certainly was not going to suggest Crowley drive to him this late, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask Crowley about ‘daddy’, right now, uncertain if he would ever be able to take the lead on that. It seemed a subject Crowley should instead broach; there was so much still that Aziraphale did not know about his past, and although he needed to know more, although he was dying to discover anything and everything about Crowley, the last thing he wanted to do was push him about something that could be connected to pain and abuse.

“Darling,” Aziraphale began, heart pounding with its new given life and revelations, “can you— can you touch yourself like I would, right now?” his murmur was breathless with it, intentionally posing this as a request and not a command, hoping that the difference registered with Crowley, “if you’d like; slowly, without haste and with care.”

Aziraphale’s hands actually hurt with the absence of Crowley’s body beneath them, but if Crowley wanted to give this a go, Aziraphale somehow knew it would soothe him regardless of the distance.

There was something profoundly healing, bringing Crowley pleasure via his own hands; perhaps because it was in direct rebellion of the idea Aziraphale had lived with for eleven years: that he was only capable of harm and despair. Such a notion was difficult to continue believing when there was a gloriously writhing, sweat sheened blossoming beauty beneath him, begging for more of his touch and more of him, more of Aziraphale, pleading like he would wither away if Aziraphale would not grant him his wish. The sensory experience of seeing, hearing, and feeling Crowley come to life as a result of Aziraphale had begun to do its work in his neural pathways, gradually but surely— he couldn’t continuously deny the evidence in front of him and in his very hands. Every euphoric expression he brought to Crowley’s face was an antidote to the hurting, shattered landscape of Aziraphale’s inner world, every climax and every beautifully whimpered word of ecstasy so generously given were remedies that filled the most inflamed cracks of him. Aziraphale still did not feel deserving of such revitalization, but it was happening, and now he craved it with a ferocity that would not waver; if he could give Crowley some that pleasure with his voice, perhaps sleep would come on a night where traditionally it never did.

The silence on the other end of the line was one of the most frightening bursts of quiet had Aziraphale had experienced lately, so much so that he barged into it, “only if you want, of course—”

“Yes, Aziraphale,” oh, that sweet, champagne doused tone, sparkling over the mobile and onto his tongue as if Crowley were right there with him, “I— ngk. Tell me how?”

Tell me what to do, Father? echoed in Aziraphale’s head, that life altering communion that was etched into him whispered as Crowley asked him how to touch himself.

“Tell me what you’re wearing, first,” Aziraphale murmured, cock hardening as he did, “so I know how to start.”

There was a brief noise, what could have been a huff of air against a mobile receiver before Crowley replied, delicate and airy, “nothing.”

Lord.

“Of course you’re not, you lovely, tempting thing,” Aziraphale whispered, “and why should you? Covering such a beautiful body is a sin all to itself,” Crowley’s whimper came through loud and clear, and Aziraphale arched his back into it, seeking the sound that was now part of his favorite song, “are you laying on your back, darling?”

“Mhmm, I am,” Crowley’s whisper was a needy one, one that Aziraphale recognized by now.

“And you’ve not touched yourself today?” he asked, running his own hand down his thigh, avoiding his cock but needing some contact.

A tiny moan spun out before Crowley responded, low and wanton, his need more naked by the word, “no, angel, I haven’t touched myself, even though I’ve wanted to; I’ve been able to feel you all day, you know, with every step I took,” fuck, how Aziraphale adored that, how he loved it and how it was the last thing needed to have him completely hard and throbbing, “fuck, it’s the best ache there is, Aziraphale, and I want more…”

Aziraphale swallowed, the sound deafening in the quiet of his room, eyes fluttering closed as he recalled the previous night, as he replayed fucking Crowley from behind so brutally he’d surprised even himself with the force of it, spurred on by Crowley begging for Aziraphale to fuck him harder and deeper with each of his gasping breaths as he reached back to claw at Aziraphale’s thighs, trying to bring him closer before eventually collapsing onto the bed, boneless and sobbing as Aziraphale continued to use him even after Crowley came, come still streaming from his cock as his prostate was stimulated to the point of another orgasm and then into a gorgeous, white hot oversensitivity, something that Crowley had expressed interest in trying during their first of what Aziraphale hoped would be many discussions of their desires and beseeched him for last night; “k-keep g-going, please, jus’ like that, k-keep using me, f-fuck, use me, angel— t-thank you—”

The outer skin of Aziraphale’s thighs carried shallow scratching from Crowley’s frantically grabbing hands, and they stung pleasantly when they showered together that morning. He could still feel them now even through his trousers as he ran his fingers over them, shivering from the sensation and its original source.

“So I should hope you could feel me, after last night,” Aziraphale growled, moving to press the heel of his palm against himself, trying and failing to relieve the building pressure there, “splitting you open like the fucktoy you are, continuing to play with you even after you were spent. What a delight you are, my slutty little lamb,” Crowley’s quiet “fuck” went right to his cock as if the tip of his tongue had just flicked out to lick it in that kittenish way of his, “and although I would love for you to fill yourself in a similar manner this evening, that won’t be the case. I want—”

I want to worship you, Aziraphale nearly said, but stopped himself. It wasn’t new information— he’d told Crowley as much in the confessional— but somehow the word fell mysteriously flat.

Aziraphale did not just want to worship Crowley, he wanted to do anything and everything he could for him; any little thing he desired and needed, sexual or not, Aziraphale ached to provide, including that safety he could not get out of his head. Such a thing wasn’t exactly…sexy, he supposed, so he faltered, wondering how to best proceed. They had done this once before over the last week, and Aziraphale took to phone sex much like his body had taken to sex in general after a decade, but he was still rather unsteady—

“What do you want, Father,” Crowley’s murmur was as luxurious as silk, “I’m yours to do with as you want…I’ll do whatever you like, and thank you for it.”

Holy Jesus.

Aziraphale had begun taking the Lord’s name in vain along with Her son’s with a vengeance again, but almost exclusively related to sex with Crowley, and something about that…simmered, something about it flooded his long pious nerves with the sting of blasphemy that filled him whenever Crowley talked in such a way. He adored hearing Crowley blaspheme as much as he adored engaging in sacrilege with him, so Aziraphale had started, bit by bit, invoking God during their play— and it was sublime.

“You will, won’t you,” Aziraphale purred, “you’ll do exactly as I say and be so very gracious for it, because you’re so good, Crowley,” the resounding whine from Crowley was as beautiful as every whine that ever fell from his lips, “so good for me; my good boy.”

“Yours,” Crowley whimpered, somehow pornographic and utterly devoted in the same exhale, “your good boy; f-fuck, angel.”

Mine, mine, mine—

“You’re being so patient as well, lovely,” Aziraphale observed, “so patient and sweet, waiting for my instruction. Can you touch your thighs for me, darling,” he returned his hand to his own thighs again, mimicking what he wanted Crowley to do, “touch them how I like to— slow and reverent, fingers unhurried and palms caressing…feel how soft your skin is, savor how lovely you feel to the touch.”

“Jesus,” a slight rustle which Aziraphale assumed was Crowley shifting on his bed, perhaps getting more comfortable, “yes, angel, I can. Fuck.”

“Good boy; take your time, and touch each thigh, all over; the top, the outside, the inside,” Aziraphale directed, unbuttoning his own trousers finally, sighing as the pressure against his cock was gone, “don’t rush it, sweet thing.”

“Mhmm,” Crowley hummed after a moment, sounding liquid already, warmed honey sliding over Aziraphale’s tongue; he licked his lips, “I won’t, Father.”

How easy it was to imagine ‘daddy’ in place of ‘father’ despite the distinct differences, especially since Aziraphale heard Crowley whimper it so prettily.

“Tell me how it feels, pet,” and how he loved that endearment, one that he wasn’t quite sure Crowley would like when he had asked about using it, but Crowley had purred, inviting Aziraphale to use it as much as he liked along with the others they explicitly discussed (slut and variations of it; cockslut, fuckslut, etc, dirty, filthy things Aziraphale had only said in his head for months along with variants of toy and tart and minx and harlot. Aziraphale had not asked about whore, though; he didn’t think he could ever call Crowley that after hearing him viciously label himself as such, and he had no wish to have Crowley even wonder if Aziraphale saw him as such in a negative light).

“Not as good as when you do it,” Crowley breathed, “but ‘s nice, it’s— fuck, I did something similar recently, on my own. After you brought me home from church, when I took communion.”

“Did you?” this was lovely information indeed, and Aziraphale listened intently, ghosting his fingertips under his cock head, lighting dragging his thumb over the slit where wetness was beginning to bead, “do tell me more, dove, and please start caressing your stomach, nice and slow, still.”

“Mhmm,” Crowley confirmed, “I— fuck. I got undressed, but then I— fuck, I wore your blazer that you lent me, and nothing else.”

Good God, wasn’t that a striking picture, and Aziraphale’s cock twitched as he wrapped his hand around it. He couldn’t suppress a delighted groan from both the pleasure of touching himself and the resulting vision in his head of Crowley naked safe for his own jacket, the fabric that had previously only touched Aziraphale laying against Crowley’s bare skin—

“Did you really,” he whispered as he pumped his fist lazily, continuing to picture it, refining the image, “I imagine that satin felt exquisite against your skin, did it not? Fuck, aren’t you just the loveliest little tart— go on, tell me how you touched yourself while you wore my blazer, Crowley.”

“God,” he was beginning to sound wrecked, and Aziraphale knew that Crowley was likely dying to touch his cock or to slide something inside himself by now, “I— I touched myself slowly, like how I thought you might, and all over. Usually I— usually I’m rough and fast and frantic, but not that time. I wrapped my hand around my neck and pretended it was you, too,” fuck, “and I— fuck, dunno if I can even say it—”

“You can, lovely, go on,” Aziraphale implored, desperate to know, getting wetter by the second, “tell me, darling.”

“Fuck, your pin— the cross pin,” Crowley’s voice was crackling into those pretty, wanting little moans between words, “I dragged that over my body and pressed it into my inner thighs, trying to leave bruises of it since your mouth couldn’t,” oh Christ, how was Aziraphale so lucky to have found such a stunningly innovative, profane slut, “God, I fucking sucked on it while I c-came, and I came into your blazer, I fucked the liner of it—p-please, Aziraphale, need to touch my cock, or finger myself, please—”

“Good God, Crowley,” Aziraphale moaned, far too close now as he imagined it, as he watched the Crowley in his mind fuck into his blazer while he sucked and baptized the little cross, inner thighs peppered with bursts of red from where he’d pushed it into his skin, “fuck, so that’s why I’ve not had my blazer returned, hm? Because you came all over it?” He pointedly did not yet address Crowley’s begging, which was always nearly impossible to resist, but giving up the opportunity to tease him just a little further would not do.

“Hnnng, y-yes— had to take it to be cleaned,” Crowley panted, “please, D—”

Say it, Aziraphale urged silently, biting his lip and squeezing the base of his cock, heart pounding, say it, say it, I love it, I want it, say it—

“—angel,” Crowley corrected himself, and Aziraphale tried not to be too bereft over it; he would have come instantly had he heard it, though, and being able to draw this out was undoubtedly a positive, “c-can I—”

“Not yet, my dearest, needy boy,” Aziraphale instructed, legs jerking every so often as the slick sounds of fucking his fist grew louder and louder, “play with your nipples, now, and gently— lightly twisting, no flicking, no rough pinching—”

“But I need—” Crowley broke off into a sob, one that Aziraphale could not be certain, without seeing him, was not actually pained in a not so good way. He knew by now that Crowley easily cried during sex, just as he had fantasized and hoped (so many things he imagined turned out to be true and better than) but this— it sounded close to the kind of cry that was not from sensual overwhelm.

“What’s your color, my sweetest dove,” Aziraphale asked, then, needing some reassurance in place of visual confirmation; the traffic light system was one with which he was familiar from years and years past, and they had agreed to use it along with a safeword if needed, “are you alright?”

He heard Crowley inhale, long and trembling before he answered, “green; ’m fine, angel, sorry. S-sorry, I just—” Aziraphale waited, not wanting to interrupt, “just get so caught up in it, and I— ‘m not used to it, still,” oh, he was so unbelievably darling, Crowley was, fuck, “you really talking to me, and not just in my fantasies, y’know?”

Aziraphale nodded, his hand no longer stroking himself, focused entirely on Crowley’s comfort now, “Oh, Crowley; I do know— I suspect it will continue to feel surreal for quite awhile, for me, that you are truly—”

Oh, why the bloody Hell not— Crowley had said it tonight and over and over again previously—

“—that you are truly mine,” Crowley’s answering, shuddering moan was as gorgeous as saying it aloud, “and that I— that I have you, in reality, and not just in my dreams.”

And it was surreal, still; Aziraphale didn’t know if it would ever feel real, the fact that Crowley, beautiful, clever, empathetic and brilliant Crowley, wanted Aziraphale as much as Aziraphale wanted him. He was certain that he would never take it for granted, that Crowley was his, for however long he would be and the fact that Aziraphale was in love with someone like him, that somehow he had found himself loving someone at all.

“You do,” Crowley’s whisper was shaky, “you have me, angel. Fuck, you have me, as long— as long as you want me.”

Always, was Aziraphale’s automatic reply that he swallowed down, I want you always.

He needed to keep a hold of himself; they had been ‘seeing’ each other for just over a week, for fuck’s sake, he needed to not romanticize this more than he already had done, but what a battle that was, and one he was afraid of losing. It was already a miracle he had not told Crowley that he loved him tonight; he really needed to get a grip.

“And I want you, Crowley, darling,” Aziraphale said carefully, trying to find a balance that would both reassure Crowley and not expose just how delusionally far gone he was, “as long as you want to be mine. You— you’re what a blessing should be, my dearest dove,” his own voice cracked as he danced along the edges of truths he had not spoken to another for too many years, “and I’m so— I am so immeasurably lucky to have you.”

Would he ever be able to tell Crowley just how much he was healing him, just how much he had already saved him? Could he ever find the words to explain that Crowley felt like what Aziraphale imagined salvation and deliverance were supposed to feel like? Aziraphale didn’t know— the things he didn’t know were piling up— but he hoped he could, one day, and maybe soon. The secrets of his past were becoming harder to keep from Crowley, but at the same time, the idea of confessing what he had done— it petrified Aziraphale so thoroughly that it paralyzed him—

“Blimey, Aziraphale,” Crowley sniffed, and he was so adorable that it broke Aziraphale’s heart, “I was already halfway to crying—”

“Forgive me,” Aziraphale whispered, needing to cradle Crowley close, so, so close, “hope I didn’t ruin the mood—”

“You didn’t, you— you’re brilliant, you’re amazing, and I want to come for you,” oh fuck, fuck, Crowley wanted to come for him and Aziraphale was going to relent, unable to wait much longer, “fuck, I want to come just for you, angel, in whatever way you choose; please,” Crowley had mastered the art of begging, God it made Aziraphale feral, “let me come for you, Father, please—”

“Think you can come without touching that perfect cock, darling? I suspect you’re still dripping, aren’t you?” He certainly was still dripping, even if the hardness of his cock had slightly flagged from his earlier worry regarding Crowley’s crying, but he was filling again rapidly.

“Y-yes, ‘m dripping all over my stomach,” Crowley whined, “fuck, ‘m drenched and haven’t even touched it at all…want me to use my fingers, angel? A toy?”

“Those beautiful fingers, my dear,” Aziraphale growled, “I want you to get them wet with your pretty mouth, get them as slick as I would to make sure I wouldn’t hurt you, and slide them in, one at a time. Gently, now, Crowley,” he did his best to employ some measure of firmness despite how his jaw was beginning to tremble along with his thighs, tense and taut, “I want you to go slowly, and to open yourself up like I was there, taking my time. Can you do that for me, sweet thing?”

“Y-yes, Father— fuck, thank you,” Jesus, Aziraphale’s arousal was right back to where it had been and beyond, painful and heavy; he didn’t think he would be able to take his time, “thank you for letting me fill myself, angel, f-fuck I need it—”

“I know you do,” he was starting to pant as he resumed touching himself, wildly sensitive, “I know you need to be full, my wanton little thing, and you should be; you should be filled and fucked daily, as many times as you can take it and more—”

“Oh fuck yes, f-fuc— it’s so good, oh holy fuckkkk,” that strained keening was hurtling Aziraphale towards the edge, “I’m close already, angel, please—”

“Such a beautiful, remarkable slut you are,” Aziraphale’s words were stuttered, roughly bitten out things now, “made for pleasure, made to feel as good as you are— add the second finger, dove, if you haven’t already—”

Crowley was whimpering with every breath now, his whines catching on little sobs and cries that had Aziraphale’s cock pouring, he was leaking all over his hand, “h-hnnng, just did, f-fuck, ‘m playing with my prostate, s-stretching myself for you— fuck, I’m gushing all over myself, f-fuck, please, c-can I come, I’m sorry it’s so fast, I’m sorry—”

“Crowley, darling boy, don’t be sorry,” Aziraphale insisted, needing to soothe away the sliver of panic on the end of Crowley’s words, “don’t be sorry, my beauty. Can you wait just a minute more, for me? I want to come with you— just a tiny little more, my lamb,” he was right there, right there—

Crowley’s agonized wail squeezed around Aziraphale’s cock, and he was thrusting his own hips wildly now, frenetically chasing his hand as more pleading floated through the phone, “I’ll try, f-fuck I’ll try, F-Father, p-please, please come, come with m-me—”

“Good boy, so close, so close—”

“Wish I was there,” Crowley sobbed, then, tortured, broken, perfect, “wish I could s-sink onto your cock and milk you, f-fuck I need your come, angel, need it— fuck I can’t hold it—”

“Come, darling,” Aziraphale ordered, the beginnings of his own climax pulling at his words and pitching them high, “let go, now, and come, come all over that lovely body and make a mess of yourself; you did so, so well, you’re so good— fuck, I’m—”

He came to the sounds of Crowley’s own orgasm, vision whiting out and back cracking as it arched off his bed, climaxing so hard that he at least pulled a muscle in his calf and perhaps one in his thigh as well, bucking into his hand as the sounds of Crowley’s euphoria sang through the line in the loveliest hymn. Aziraphale had come so hard that he was shaking with it, sweaty and worn out and so fucking drunk on Crowley he was dizzy.

“Holy God,” Crowley panted after a few shared moments of heavy, labored breathing, and Aziraphale smiled, chuckling to himself as the euphoria of making Crowley feel good washed over him, so much stronger than his own pleasure that had spilled all over his hand, “Jesus, angel, that was—”

“Marvelous,” Aziraphale finished, gasping for air as he stretched out and flopped flat on his bed, grappling for a flannel in the drawer of his night table to half heartedly clean his hand just enough, “you are marvelous, my dove, and so good. Very well done, my dear,” Crowley’s tiny, pleased hum fluttered in Aziraphale’s stomach, “good boy.”

He wished he could hear Crowley’s rapid, hummingbird heartbeat slow as he came down from his climax, he wished he could smell the scent of his come along with his sweet spice sweat, and he wished he could spoon Crowley as they drifted off to sleep together, listening to him breathe slow and steady and relaxed until Aziraphale followed him into his dreams.

“Crowley, would you—” as sleepiness began flirting with Aziraphale, as he gracelessly pulled his clothes off and haphazardly pulled the blankets over himself, he thought back to when Crowley offered to stay on the phone with him during his panic attack, how he had insisted on doing so; he recalled how Crowley had talked of ducks and stars and how Aziraphale had actually slept for a few hours that night and how right now, he needed to at least hear Crowley’s breathing as he closed his eyes and basked in the afterglow of their shared orgasm, he needed it.

It was not yet easy to ask for things like this versus sexual requests, but it was getting easier, just as it seemed as though it was becoming easier for Crowley to accept kindness and aid from Aziraphale when he needed it; Aziraphale would not soon forget how he had launched himself into his arms outside the church on Wednesday, how he had sought Aziraphale’s comfort without hesitation and did not seem to fear that Aziraphale would pull away from him. It was progress, it was remarkable progress, it was brave, and it made Aziraphale a little braver, too.

“Would you mind staying on the phone, my darling,” he finished, closing his eyes as he swallowed an automatic addition of “if you wouldn’t mind.”

Crowley’s reply, sleep roughened but still so soft, was instant.

“Course, angel,” he whispered, and Aziraphale could hear his smile, his pretty, pretty smile, “I’d love that. Want me to talk?”

“If you want,” Aziraphale murmured, growing drowsier by the second, “but just your— jus’ your breathing… ‘s more than enough, lovely.”

“Mmm,” Crowley hummed, and then there was a tender quiet between them, filled with inhales and exhales and the little sounds Crowley made when he was tired, the ones that Aziraphale loved falling asleep to and loved waking up to.

“Crowley,” he mumbled, half asleep, eyes closed, warm and content.

“Yes, angel?” God, his dove’s voice was so sweet—

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered, barely audible, mouth barely cooperating, “for staying on the phone. For being—”

For being so beautifully you, for remaining so wonderfully bright despite the efforts of others to snuff you out. For being my hope. For being you—

“— for being mine.”

He thought he may have heard Crowley say something else, maybe “you’re welcome, angel” or maybe “yours”; he couldn’t say. Because historically, this night was one of his worst for his insomnia, but tonight, Aziraphale fell asleep smiling on the night of his birthday for the first time in eleven years.

Chapter Text

“A star that o’er the cities world beckoned, a sword of flame;

A star with myriad thunders tongued: a mighty word there came—”

Crowley sighed softly as he closed his eyes and rested his head against the inside of Aziraphale’s thigh, the fine wool of his trousers warm on his cheek and the priest’s voice washing over him in a honeyed mist of calm from above.

He was sat on the floor on a plush, ivory velvet cushion and framed by Aziraphale’s legs; he was perched on the sofa that Crowley was leaning his back against, one hand massaging Crowley’s scalp gently in tiny circular motions as he balanced a copy of The Spirit of Christmas: Stories, Poems, Essays by G.K. Chesterton in his other, a whoosh of paper accompanying his words whenever he flicked the page to the left with his thumb.

There were just nine days till Christmas, and the two of them were lounging in the parlor; Crowley was dreamily listening to Aziraphale read (something he enjoyed so much that he’d gotten up the courage to request it again after Aziraphale had first done so last night, unprompted, when Crowley had been feeling off— his head had been aching for more than a day and his throat was unpleasantly scratchy— and he still felt slightly peaky now, but undoubtedly much improved and as cosy as was humanly possibly, bundled up in Aziraphale’s fluffiest tartan robe, a buff pair of his silk pajamas and sheepskin lined slippers, sitting close to a fire so roaring it was fast becoming sweltering), pondering that the only way any of this could possibly be any better was if he were kneeling at Aziraphale’s feet instead of sitting when there came a knock at the front door.

“Excuse me, darling,” Aziraphale murmured as he carefully disentangled himself from Crowley in order to stand, and Crowley tried not to outwardly pout at the loss of contact.

Aziraphale had been terribly reluctant to leave him this morning upon discovering that Crowley still felt poorly, but Crowley had assured him he was fine, that surely some more sleep would do the trick and that he’d likely be in bed the entire time Aziraphale was at the church. It was the first time Crowley had stayed at Aziraphale’s home while the priest was not there as well, and Crowley had considered if it would be awkward, being alone in that great big house, but he didn’t have long to wonder; almost as soon as Aziraphale had tenderly kissed his forehead goodbye, Crowley fell back into a sleep that ended as it had started— by soft, warm lips brushing his brow and a hand cupping his cheek, something Crowley had not woken up to for years but was now a regular occurrence on mornings he spent with Aziraphale.

Crowley had not left his side since he’d returned, nearly clinging to Aziraphale even as he successfully cajoled Crowley into drinking some frankly horrid tasting herbal tea he insisted would aid in his healing (echinacea perhaps; he’d been distracted by watching Aziraphale move about his kitchen, a space in which the priest seemed comfortable and at ease whether he was cooking, preparing hot chocolate, tea or, most recently, coffee via a stovetop moka pot, citing instant coffee to be insufficient for ingestion) and he was reluctant to break that connection, whoever was knocking at the door be damned.

With each day that passed, Crowley could feel himself reaching out to Aziraphale with lessening trepidation and gradually dwindling fear regarding the things he had been taught he didn’t deserve— closeness, intimacy, kindness, and patience. Aziraphale gave them all so freely and with such consistency that it was beginning to no longer feel like a terrible burden to ask him to spoon Crowley at night, it was getting easier to melt into his arms when they opened for him in a invitation, it was no longer completely filling Crowley with anxiety to ask Aziraphale for any number of things— if Aziraphale was busy, if Crowley could suck him off, if he wanted to spend the day together tomorrow, if he could ride him; could Aziraphale kiss him again, could he hold him tighter and could he go deeper and just stay there, for a little while, unmoving so Crowley could really feel him— and it seemed that the roots of his courage were holding strong, watered thoroughly by what truly seemed to be a never ending fountain of affectionate, loving attention that sprung from the priest.

Much of the time Crowley needn’t even ask for what he wanted, as Aziraphale could read him frighteningly well (but not so well that it was concerning, not in the way that a seasoned psychologist could anticipate your actions before they were even a thought in your head and do what he wanted with that information) but even being able to think of requesting anything specific without a pit of worry burrowing itself into his stomach was— well, it was wonderful, really, and Crowley knew that this was how it was supposed to be, with the one you trust (and he did, God he really did trust Aziraphale) yourself with, but it was novel to him nonetheless.

Aziraphale opened the beautiful old wooden door and politely spoke to whomever was outside, and Crowley stood from the floor, feeling all at once ridiculous in his layers made up of varying shades of cream, ecru and beige as well as delighted to be totally enveloped in his priest’s clothing; he was getting to the point where Aziraphale’s wardrobe was now preferable to Crowley’s own, he so loved to wear whatever cotton or wool or silk or linen Aziraphale would offer him. He stretched his arms high into the air and rolled his neck, wincing slightly as the remaining swiminess in his head sloshed along with the dizziness of standing quickly, but all of his minor discomfort was forgotten as he saw what Aziraphale was busying himself with.

“What’s all this,” Crowley asked, already smiling as a rather sizeable fir tree— it looked like a Nordmann or perhaps a Fraser— made its way through the door frame, and then his heart seized up when he saw that it was potted.

“Well,” Aziraphale stood from bending after he’d brought the tree fully inside and closed the door, standing as his hands came together like they usually did whenever he was a bit nervous, “I thought— I know it’s all very festive to go out and find a tree together, but I—” he shifted his weight on his feet and glanced down, looking shy as he continued, “I rather thought this might be something you would be able to enjoy more— and perhaps we could plant it somewhere, in the spring— if you’d like to, of course.”

Two things stood out to Crowley the most in that statement— that Aziraphale had remembered Crowley’s feelings considering plants and flowers being cut and took them to heart so sincerely he’d found a living Christmas tree, and that he thought they would still be doing…whatever it was they were doing, in the spring, that this was not merely a Christmas dalliance, and not that he’d thought Aziraphale categorized it as such, but— still, hearing him speak about the future while including Crowley within it so clearly, so simply, filled Crowley with both astonishment and hope.

“I— angel,” he whispered, so deeply touched that he was in danger of dissolving into tears, the kind that were brought to the surface from that very specific sort of tingly overwhelm associated something so stirring and so affecting you could hardly stand it, “it’s— that’s perfect, I can’t believe you even thought of that—”

I can’t believe you see me so clearly, I can’t believe that you know me. I can’t believe someone as wonderful as you sees me and knows me and still likes me and and and—

Aziraphale’s beaming could have melted glaciers with its radiant warmth, and he gathered Crowley’s hands in his as he so often did, kissing their knuckles as he murmured, “I’ve been quite— it’s been lovely, really, celebrating the season with you. I had forgotten—” he trailed off as a ghostly shroud passed over his face and left as quickly as it came, “I had forgotten how delightful it all could be. Thank you for reminding me,” Crowley’s menagerie fluffed out their wings and shivered as Aziraphale turned one of Crowley’s hands over in order to brush his lips over his wrist, tenderly pressing over his pulse, “thank you, my dove.”

Crowley didn’t know what to say, a phenomenon that was occurring more and more frequently in the presence of Aziraphale. It was in these moments that it was a monumental battle not to confess the depth of his feelings, something Crowley was still trying to keep close to his chest for now for a few reasons despite the intense desire to share, so he settled for allowing himself to throw his arms around Aziraphale’s neck as he kissed his cheek, murmuring his thanks into his ear while Aziraphale’s arms immediately snaked around his waist and squeezed.

“And just what else have you been planning, Father?” Crowley wondered out loud as he pulled back slightly, deeply inhaling the pungently sweet scent of fir that already filled the air, still fighting not to cry behind his playful smirk.

“I fear this may be the pinnacle of my Christmas scheming,” Aziraphale said solemnly, kissing Crowley’s overly warm forehead, “along with my fumbling about trying to choose the appropriate lights for this tree; I’m only thankful you were not there to witness my embarrassment as I had an impassioned crisis over warm white versus multicolor, as one does.”

Crowley could picture the scene so clearly that he chuckled, not at all doubting that Aziraphale would indeed have a minor crisis over something like Christmas lights and adoring him all the more for it.

“And hopefully you made the correct decision,” he teased, curious what Aziraphale had decided and having an inkling as to the answer as forget me not eyes twinkled.

“Since I was left to my own devices and began to panic, I got a bit of both, and I didn’t dare attempt ornaments or baubles of any kind; I thought we might sort those out together one of these afternoons, if you’d like,” the blush on his cheeks was as pretty and flushed as the peachy pink poinsettias Crowley had added to the church display this week along with classic red and cream.

His smile had widened to the point of pain; Crowley loved both sorts on a tree, but had a very soft spot indeed for the nostalgic rainbow glow of colored lights. His dad had always loved multicolor as well, and Crowley caught his lower lip between his teeth as it began to tremble, gently kissing Aziraphale as he buried his hands in his hair and leaned into him. The priest had insisted that Crowley could go ahead and kiss him despite his cold, stating that if he were to get sick, certainly he was already exposed, and Crowley was glad of this, because he needed to kiss Aziraphale right then in his beautifully laid out parlor, in front of his magnificent fireplace and next to a living Christmas tree that would not die within the first week of January, but would instead live on to see the new year and hopefully even beyond.

It made Crowley feel again, for some reason, that there might exist some people on this Earth that might be able to handle delicate or even broken things with care in a way that may help them come back together, but even if they didn’t, if they couldn’t and they remained in pieces, that they would still be loved and held close, that they could even be worth holding onto, and that if anyone was one of those people, it was Father Aziraphale Fell, a priest who held onto books that were falling apart despite their crumbling spines, who had a lovely little collection of antique snuff boxes ranging from immaculately kept to tarnished and dented and scratched and loved them all the same, who seemed to think that Crowley was beautiful and worthy of being held and didn’t mind embracing the many shattered parts of him and who cradled his sensitive heart that could not bear to sacrifice flora if it wasn’t strictly necessary.

They stood there for a few moments before Crowley insisted on helping Aziraphale maneuver the tree around the room, which was really very heavy in its huge pot, and they finally settled on a corner of the room that the fir filled quite nicely. Aziraphale stepped away for a moment and produced a few small boxes of fairy lights upon returning, but insisted that Crowley hydrate and have more of that hideously herbaceous tea before they saw to the tree. Crowley mock groaned but followed Aziraphale to the kitchen as the stomach flipping sensation of being cared for brought back his dizziness; perhaps he could stand to be a bit more hydrated.

“I think both together would work, actually,” Crowley murmured after he’d downed one and a half cups of the medicinal tasting beverage, an amount Aziraphale grudgingly deemed satisfactory as he walked over to the tree and cocked his head, “and it’ll be even brighter as well, with double the lights,” he knelt down to test the moisture of the soil of the tree, trying to deduce how much water it needed when he heard a strangled sort of throat clear behind him, one that his back could almost feel the heat of.

He was getting closer, day by day, to asking Aziraphale how he felt about kneeling outside of sex and what his thoughts were on such a thing as a gesture and symbol of submission; based on his reaction to Crowley kneeling for communion, it seemed the priest was interested in such a thing, but Crowley was nervous to broach the subject. He didn’t know if he could ask without delving more deeply into his past experience with such things, and he was worried Aziraphale would be put off by the idea. It was a rather specific sort of element to a D/s relationship, and while there was nothing so firm as a contract between the two of them, they were, in essence, fulfilling those roles for each other. Crowley knew that he should feel comfortable, talking about these things, and he was feeling more at ease when it was made clear that their first discussion of negotiations as far as their sexual desires and preferences was not going to be the only one they would have, but as Crowley stood and turned around to face Aziraphale, his cheeks flaring as his eyes lowered automatically, his tongue tied itself into a knot.

It was embarrassing, being so unable to express himself at one moment and then barely able to hold back the next, and Crowley hoped the wild flitting between both ends of the spectrum would relax soon as his nervous system continued to accept that danger was not imminent or even plausible, but it was still quite early, if he really thought about it; he had time, he knew as Aziraphale took the few strides from the kitchen into the parlor and pulled him close for another kiss before they started weaving lights amidst fragrant branches, there was time.

Once they had deemed the light distribution acceptable after much fussing about and swearing from Crowley, they watered the tree and then stepped back to admire it. It was really quite lovely just as is, baubles or no, wonderfully bright with its combination of warm white and glowing color, and the whole thing was so domestic, it was so wholesome and joyful and easy that Crowley had to remind himself that it was real, and not some simulation his lonely, tattered mind had created in order to comfort him.

No, this was real— this was, in fact, his current reality, and it was everything Crowley could really ever hope for.

He leaned into Aziraphale’s side and propped their heads together before turning and hugging him properly, an action which Aziraphale instantly returned, humming deep in his chest as Crowley kissed him sweetly, something that started to turn sensual almost immediately. Crowley had removed Aziraphale’s robe earlier, and he was really very warm as he relaxed into Aziraphale, softly moaning into his neck as the silk of the pajamas slid over his sensitive thighs and rapidly swelling cock in a shockingly lovely, slippery friction, one that had Crowley chasing it helplessly and whimpering within seconds.

They’d not had any sort of sex since the day before last due to Crowley’s ‘condition’, as Aziraphale had put it dramatically, and to say he was needy was an understatement, especially since he was feeling better by the hour and had much of the day to lay about and further recover; his libido had returned from its very brief holiday with a vengeance.

“Mmm,” Crowley whined as he rocked his hips back and forth slowly, shamelessly rutting against Aziraphale’s thigh as he slipped his knee between the priest’s legs, “angel…”

“What do you need, sweet starling,” warm hands slid down Crowley’s back and danced along the hem of his shirt, fingers dipped under the fabric to graze over his waist, “what does my darling want?”

“Need to feel you,” Crowley whispered, mouthing at the soft hollow of Aziraphale’s throat; he’d changed into the same pale blue button up he’d worn to the Rivoli when he returned from church, so Crowley had glorious access to his neck,“‘m sleepy, but I want you,” the state of being so empty was all at once blaring in his head like a siren, screaming for attention, “fuck, I want you.”

“Are you certain you’re feeling up to it, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured against Crowley’s jaw as he kissed along its edge, his hands now firm on Crowley’s waist but not demanding as he met Crowley’s grinding, surging hips with his own, “I don’t want to overexert you, lovely.”

“Please,” God, the skilled way in which Aziraphale touched him reduced Crowley into a begging mess in record time whether it was featherlight or bruising, “please, overexert me, touch me, angel, however you like; just need to feel you, and close. Fuck, I need you close.”

It was perilously close to what Crowley was really thinking in that moment— I need you— but thankfully his mouth didn’t run away with itself.

Agile fingers traveled their way up to undo the buttons of Crowley's shirt as Aziraphale’s tongue slipped between his lips and licked into his mouth, languid and lush and agonizingly good, unhurried in its leisure while Aziraphale popped each button free, taking his time with the task in what felt like purposeful contrast to Crowley’s urgency. He shivered as the silk fell away from his arms and torso and the warmth of the fire kissed his naked skin along with Aziraphale’s gaze, which burned just as brightly if not brighter than the flames as he observed Crowley with eyes so hungry that his cock twitched.

“I want you to come on my fingers,” Aziraphale murmured, bending to drag the tip of his tongue along the dip of Crowley’s bare clavicle as he untied the drawstring of the pajama bottoms, and Crowley’s gasp ricocheted off the walls when a thumb started circling one of his nipples, “I want you on my lap, naked and lovely, whimpering and begging as I play with you,” another shiver wracked through his body as the remaining fabric dropped to the floor, prompting Crowley to step out of them and the slippers as well, now nude and exposed and the blessed object of a starving priest’s eyes, mouth and hands, “and I want to feel you come, just like that—”

“Please, oh fuck, please,” Crowley’s back arched into Aziraphale as he sucked a bruise onto his collarbone and started rolling both nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, twisting the bars there just on the right side of sharp, “want that, angel, please—”

Aziraphale started walking backwards towards the sofa, pulling Crowley along with him as he sat down and settled against the claret hued velvet, propping himself up in its one corner as he beckoned, “come here, my dearest, sit; legs to the side and leaning against my chest, please.”

Crowley of course obeyed, sitting down on Aziraphale’s lap as he requested in a sort of bridal style, sighing as he melted into the warmth of Aziraphale’s still clothed body, which only served to highlight that Crowley wore nothing at all, and how he adored that; Crowley loved the contrast of wearing nothing while his dominant remained dressed, he loved that flavor of power play and he closed his eyes as his hips bucked involuntarily, cock now leaking freely without even being touched as it lay, hard and pulsing, against his bare stomach.

“There you are,” Aziraphale whispered into Crowley’s ear as he supported his back with one arm and ran his other hand over his thighs, fingernails dragging over his skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake along with rapidly pinkening lines, “my pretty, sweetest little lamb, unwrapped and open for me.”

“Fuck,” he couldn’t help but part his legs as Aziraphale’s hand slipped between them, earning Crowley a nearly dark chuckle from the priest that went right to his cock, the sound deep and rich like the hot chocolate he’d made for Crowley a few nights ago that had contained a hint of heat from cayenne, and it had lingered pleasantly on his tongue, spicy and peppery.

“My, someone is certainly eager this evening, aren't they,” the tease in that statement was fringed with just the right amount of degrading sparkle that Crowley whimpered loudly as he nestled his nose into Aziraphale’s neck, panting amidst quiet keens as fingertips started delicately petting over his perineum, light and gentle, “and no wonder, too; more than 24 hours without being used in any way, more than a day lacking in being spread apart and taken,” Crowley swore as Aziraphale started pressing with his fingers, employing just enough pressure to be incredible and incredibly not enough, “you must be in incomprehensible agony, darling.”

When Aziraphale pulled his hand, warm and probing, away, Crowley whined his protest, which made Aziraphale laugh even more, “be patient, you greedy thing; I’m going to give you all that you need. Not to worry,” two fingers tipped Crowley’s chin up so that his eyes met Aziraphale’s own silvery pewter before they rested against Crowley’s mouth, which he opened obediently, whimpering his bliss as he sucked them in, licking their undersides and humming as the scent of Christmas filled his nose; Aziraphale’s hand still carried the aroma of camphorous citrus after handling the tree.

Crowley almost said that he wasn’t worried; he no longer had doubts that Aziraphale would give him everything he wanted and needed because he’d been giving Crowley all he wanted and needed, and again the boiling urge to call him Daddy lit up inside Crowley where it lay lurking, ready to deployed at any moment. He’d told himself that it was something he’d bring up whenever they inevitably talked about their preferences again, that he would not let it out without previous discussion and without knowing how Aziraphale felt about it, he wouldn’t, he would not do that—

“Good boy,” Aziraphale whispered, gazing intently at Crowley with blown pupils as he worshipped his fingers, fuck he loved Aziraphale’s hands, he loved being granted the chance to bless them however he could with the mouth of sinner, “get them nice and wet, dove, and when you’re done, be a darling and fetch the lubricant from behind you,” his sucking stuttered, studding itself with whines as the fingers started sliding over his tongue rhythmically, as they started fucking his mouth luxuriously, “I must commend you again on your idea to strategically place such things all over the house; such a cunning slut I have—”

Crowley preened at that, still delighted Aziraphale had approved of his lewd suggestion to keep bottles of lube in the parlor and kitchen after they’d fucked in each more than once. The priest, despite Crowley’s assurance that he could bring some of his own and didn’t even require it, had secured a rather extravagant selection of lubricants after their first night together, and Crowley had to admit he adored it; it was yet another endearing instance of Aziraphale’s care that he seemed happy to extend.

So he did as he was told, twisting and stretching an arm behind him as Aziraphale removed his fingers from his tongue, fumbling at the side table next to the arm of the sofa until his shaking hand found the glass bottle that still sat on its surface (trust Aziraphale to find lube in the classiest of glass bottles). He turned back around and sank down into Aziraphale’s embrace, yelping as saliva slick fingers caressed his hole, pressing and massaging all around it as he fought to keep hold of the bottle.

“A-angel,” Crowley whimpered, swallowing down the ever present Daddy just waiting for the moment when Crowley would let it slip, “please, angel…”

“Mmm, I’ll never tire of your begging, little bird,” a single finger slid in only to the first knuckle, a devastating tease that made Crowley’s cock jump, “nor will I ever tire of how insatiable you are; fuck, Crowley, you’re so tight, so warm—”

Aziraphale’s constant string of filthy, praising chatter was something Crowley had found he needed during their play, he so easily got lost in the intensity of the sensations alone, but the priest’s voice, which Crowley was so desperately in love with along with all the rest of him, kept him steady even when the pull of subspace came calling; no longer was Crowley leaping into the unknown with no security. He was now confident that Aziraphale’s voice would accompany him wherever he chose, however far he flew and however deeply he sank under the gold.

“More, oh fuck, angel, need more,” he was already trembling all over, and that trembling climbed into shivering as Aziraphale’s finger left him, so bereft his body was without it inside him, but then Aziraphale extended his hand, palm up, in front of Crowley.

“Go on then, my dear,” he instructed softly, nodding to the bottle Crowley was weakly clutching still; he’d forgotten he even had it, and he clumsily pressed the little pump a few times with his thumb, “that’s it; good boy, thank you. Can you manage to return the bottle, my sweet? There we are.”

When he was back in position after replacing the bottle on the table, still shivering, Aziraphale kissed his forehead as the arm around Crowley’s back tightened, asking, “are you cold, dear heart?” to which Crowley vigorously shook his head.

“N-no,” the fire was still voluminous after Aziraphale has added new wood to it, and the room was pleasantly balmy, “not cold, angel, just— needy,” he dipped his chin as he said it, still weighing and testing out the differences between being able to admit that and trying to hide it as something shameful, and Aziraphale clucked his tongue sympathetically, kindly, with no trace of condescension whatsoever.

How did he know that right now in this very moment, in a change from only a minute ago, that any sort of shaming tone to his voice would make Crowley close up and fold into himself, how could Aziraphale read something so specific only two weeks after being intimate with him? Crowley didn’t know, but he was so grateful that his eyes, predictably, grew wet as Aziraphale tipped his chin up once more and brushed his thumb over Crowley’s lower lip, his eyes unbearably kind, unendurably adoring.

“I know, my dear Crowley,” he murmured, gentle and quiet but blooming with affection, “and you deserve everything you want, all that you need. I’ve so missed touching you like this, dove,” Crowley bit down the gasp that rose in his throat as a slippery, silky finger slid into him all the way, “and I am as needy as you are, for this,” the finger curled upward, twisting slightly until it found its goal, and Crowley’s back nearly broke itself in a backwards bend, so violent was his arch in response to his prostate being stroked after what felt like a punishingly long time, “for taking care of you. Let me take care of you, rosebud—”

“Oh fuck, f-fuck, thank you, angel,” Daddy, “feels s-so— God,” Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Crowley’s mind chorused as Aziraphale added another finger and rocked the digits inside him, crooking them just right so that Crowley was as wet anything, pouring precome even though they’d barely just begun, “fuck tha’s so good—”

“You are so good, Crowley,” those words were as incredible as the fingers opening him up, they were just as igniting and smoldering as Crowley’s head fell back, unable to keep it aloft any longer as Aziraphale tenderly, deeply fucked him with his fingers, his strokes long and even and strong, but not rough; there was so much care behind his wrist and arm, there was nothing wild in his movements, and though Crowley loved their frenzied fucking more than words could say, though he craved rough and forceful and animal, this was— this was—

His first sob of the evening tumbled from his throat, one that Aziraphale caught with his mouth as he bent down to kiss Crowley through it, whispering to him to “let go, let it out, my darling lamb; I’ve got you,” and Crowley was tempted to do just that; the overwhelm was setting in fast, tonight, as well as so much emotion.

Crowley wasn’t sure he’d ever felt as cared for as he did right then, cradled close to Aziraphale’s solid, plush warmth as he played with him, inhaling his scent as Crowley buried his fingers into the front of his shirt and the back of its collar, chasing the priest’s hand with quaking hips as it twisted and withdrew and plunged and as a third finger slipped past what little resistance was left and stretched Crowley into that perfectly stinging, swollen state. It was all done with such reverence; every movement, every push, every thrust and every curl of every knuckle, all of it.

He was as unraveled and disheveled as he ever was, and he was positive he looked a right mess, with his shaking knees drawn up towards his chest as he writhed in Aziraphale’s lap, begging for more and moaning desperately as he felt the rigid line of Aziraphale’s cock under him, fuck it was all so good, he was so safe and this was so fucking good—

“Fuck, ’m close already,” Crowley mumbled between whimpers, hazily glancing down through a faintly gathering gold at his purpling cock and shining stomach, the copious precome smeared there catching the firelight along with his frenum piercing as he bucked and arched his back, watching Aziraphale drive into him and noting how he’d rolled his shirtsleeve up to his elbow, showing off his bloody gorgeous forearm, and Crowley’s eyes rolled backward as his pleasure skyrocketed, the angle absolutely perfect— “c-close, p-please— oh f-fuckkk, right there, fuck, Daddy—”

He froze.

Oh, fuck.

Fuck.

Crowley forced his hips to stop as mortification crept over him like frost crawled over a windowpane, and the golden pleasure, the gilded bliss that had been about to pull him into subspace stuttered, it halted, hardening as its melting point shot up to something unattainable in that moment of frigid fear.

“S-sorry,” he panted between thready breaths, trying to breathe through the worry that was now slithering through him, that was freezing the blood in his veins and filling his stomach with queasy, nauseous regret, fuck, he’d done it, he’d done precisely what he promised himself he would not do,“‘m sorry, angel, I didn’t mean—”

“Again, darling.”

What?

“W-what?” Crowley whispered, unsure if he heard correctly through the rush of blood between his ears as his legs straightened out. Aziraphale’s fingers were still inside him, but they were shaking now; Crowley could feel them quivering against his prostate as Aziraphale licked his lower lip and stared at Crowley, and there was nothing on his face that indicated that he was upset, or angry, or repulsed. There was only that same dizzying hunger laced with adoration that was always there when he looked at Crowley, but even more intense than usual and accompanied by something else, something more raw, something vulnerable, maybe?

“Say it again,” Aziraphale murmured, sounding so tortured that his tone snapped Crowley right back from the spiral he was about to dive into, and he looked up at Aziraphale, startled as he continued to speak under his breath, gently encouraging, sweetly imploring but burning, blazing, his eyes a beautiful azure in the low light of the room, “Crowley, my darling boy, please say it again, if you’d like to— if you want to.”

He had gone absolutely still, too, save for the tremor in his wrist, fuck he was still so deep as Crowley tentatively mewled, unsure and breathless, disbelieving at what he was hearing both from Aziraphale and his own mouth, “D-daddy…”

Aziraphale growled then, a velvet hewn, simmering thing that singed Crowley’s skin and chased away the crystals of ice that had overtaken him, and it evened out into a candied purr, richly sugared and heated, “good boy, that’s lovely, you’re so lovely, Crowley—” he leaned down and kissed Crowley so tenderly that the tears that had been gathering started to fall, and the priest’s was mouth gentle and soft as he whispered against Crowley’s trembling lips, “my brave, brave boy, you’ve been wanting to call me that for a little while, haven’t you?”

Crowley could hardly form a coherent thought, much less a coherent reply as Aziraphale resumed gradually fucking his fingers into him while starting to press open mouthed kisses all over the slopes of Crowley’s bare shoulders, and Crowley nodded as he nuzzled into Aziraphale’s neck, his black tea, vanilla steeped leather scent a balm to Crowley’s frayed nerves as he began crying in earnest.

God yes, he’d been wanting to say it for awhile, and it didn’t feel real, finally saying something to the person he’d been thinking of in that way for so long, it was surreal to finally blurt out the very thing that he’d wailed and cried and begged out loud as he’d fucked himself in the sluttiest, most debased ways over the last few weeks, but Crowley barely had time to wrap his head around it as his orgasm began building once more, as gold fluxed again and started coursing through him while Aziraphale showered him with praise and kept any concern at bay with his words and his warmth, his hold on Crowley strong and unyielding.

“How I’ve longed for you to say it,” Aziraphale groaned, and Crowley swore he was even harder now, his cock pressing into the curve of Crowley’s ass almost painfully, “how I have ached to be that for you, my lamb, I—”

“F-fuck, really?” Crowley slurred through his tears, and the relief of it all was as shocking as the thing itself; he hadn’t anticipated that such a massive weight would lift itself from his body like this, and he hadn’t dared dream that Aziraphale wanted to be called Daddy, that he wanted to embody that dynamic with Crowley at all, and soon he was sobbing uncontrollably as his climax hung right there on its edge, ready to burst at any moment.

“Yes, my sweetest little bird— oh, my darling,” Aziraphale slowed his fingers again as he whispered, quiet and calm, “my dear, dear boy; can you look at me? Are you alright, my dearest Crowley,” he didn’t stop his glorious onslaught entirely, but he did still just enough to pull Crowley back from the brink as his worried eyes questioned him, “are you alright?”

“H-hnng, y-yes,” Crowley insisted thickly, trying to impale himself deeper into those fingers, positive he would break apart if they left him right now, but they didn’t, “‘m alright, please don’t s-stop, p-please…Daddy,” fuck it was just so good to say it, so fucking good, so right but still so new, so fragile to him, and he mouthed at Aziraphale’s neck as he begged, needing just a bit more reassurance that this was what the priest also wanted, “please, is it alright, my c-calling you that, p-please tell me again, angel—”

“Yes, love, it is so much more than alright, Crowley; I have been craving it,” God, this had to be too good to be true, Crowley thought as he dissolved, as Aziraphale’s fingers blessedly started moving again just the way Crowley needed, “I want to be that for you more than you can possibly imagine, my dove—”

“Fuck, ‘m gonna come,” Crowley choked through a cry as he shuddered, his cock throbbing painfully as slick sounds of Aziraphale’s fingers splitting him apart echoed in the parlor, “‘m c-close, fuck—”

“I can feel you how close you are, darling, go on,” Aziraphale’s words were uneven, his tone was splintering as it fell down around Crowley, “fuck, my God—”

Crowley keened then, because he had noticed the priest almost only ever took Her name in vain when they fucked, and it was obscenely hot, it was intensely filthy and something Crowley really could not get enough of. He fucked himself down on Aziraphale’s fingers as best he could with how badly he was trembling, and tightened his own hands into the fine cotton of Aziraphale’s shirt as he whined, deciding to try and make this feel real, “s-so close, Daddy—”

Fuck it felt so right saying it, it was cathartic, even, and just right, so right, right—

The groan that rumbled into his temple from Aziraphale was pained, it was wrecked, it was as destroyed as Crowley was in the best of ways as fingers broke him apart, “that’s it, there you go, oh, good boy, say it, please say it— you’re going to make me come with you, lovely—”

“D-daddy, ’m gonna— fuck, can I,” Crowley tried to spread his legs even wider while grinding down against Aziraphale, right on the brink, knowing he would never stop saying it now, not when Aziraphale was literally begging him for it, not when it made his face light up with something so beautiful it was hard to even look at him, “f-fuck, oh my God, c-come with me, Daddy, p-please—”

“Come for me, darling, be a good boy and come on my fingers, precious— you’re so good for Daddy, aren’t you— holy God, Crowley—”

He would never get over hearing his refined, posh priest talk like that, and it’s what snapped the bowstring of his climax, along with hearing Aziraphale refer to himself as ‘Daddy’.

Crowley couldn’t do anything but shake and wail and go limp against Aziraphale as he came, and his orgasm tore him apart, it ripped him into pieces as he heaved great sobs and cried, gasping for breath as he spilled all over his stomach and Aziraphale’s shirt, his cock pulsing and emptying completely untouched. He might’ve been keening “Daddy” over and over again into Aziraphale’s neck as he kissed and suckled the salty sweet skin there, but he couldn’t tell; all he could sense was pleasure and a golden, tingling newness that made him feel raw and cracked open, that almost made him feel something like reborn. He vaguely registered Aziraphale’s fingers leaving him before he felt a hand sliding through the come that was clinging to his stomach, and he watched, through that spluttering golden hue, as Aziraphale licked his palm greedily, his groan airy and shaky like he’d just come, too. He then bent down, kissing Crowley’s remaining breath away as he pulled his body so close to his own, curling an arm under his thighs and hugging Crowley to him so tightly that the jagged pieces of him were all at once reforged in the embrace of his priest.

“Shhhh,” Aziraphale murmured into his hair as he held him tightly, his own chest heaving against Crowley’s side, voice slightly hoarse but so tender, so grounding, “I’ve got you, little bird. You’re alright, and you are so, so good, my darling Crowley.”

“Fuck,” Crowley hiccuped as he oozed into Aziraphale, utterly overwhelmed, boneless and sweaty and sticky and wanting it no other way as he reached up to find the curls he loved to play with slightly damp from exertion. Aziraphale leaned into his touch and hummed contentedly as he turned to kiss Crowley’s wrist and palm.

“Deep breaths, my dear one,” Aziraphale muttered into Crowley’s pulse point, and he tried to listen, he did his very best, but his inhales kept catching on tears that did not slow until Aziraphale talked him through each and every whimper, as he encouraged him to breathe slowly and deeply with him, and finally Crowley’s vibrating chest calmed, finally his breaths matched Aziraphale’s and finally it felt like he could rest, his body and mind and featured resident of his heart all at once gentled into an afterglow of bone deep contentment in Aziraphale’s arms.

“Lovely,” Aziraphale’s voice had a sloshed, mumbled quality to it as Crowley started to surrender to the pull of sleep, nodding off, “you are so, so lovely, Crowley. Sleep, sweet thing—”

When Crowley’s eyes next opened, it was with that glazed over sort of knowledge that an undetermined amount of time had passed, and he blinked groggily, disoriented, but not distressed. He was warm, and he was with Aziraphale— those two things, he knew without question as his surroundings dozily registered.

The Christmas tree sat merrily in the corner of Aziraphale’s parlor, giving off that nostalgic scent that only firs can; fresh, brightly green and cool to the nose, slightly citrusy and resinous. Its evergreen fragrance filled Crowley’s nose with every breath, and as he lay there with the slumbering priest in front of the fire on the sofa, its flames very low but still giving off heat, Crowley felt more at home than he had since he was a child, and even more safe.

God, that tree; the gesture continued to sweep Crowley off of his feet again and again whenever he looked at it, even in his half awake state. He knew that the two of them could have easily found a tree that was sustainably grown, that it wasn’t a massive strain on the environment to have a cut Christmas tree once a year, but it was more than that, it was so much more, and it remained one of the reasons he swapped floral for landscape design.

It didn’t sit right with Crowley, he thought as another wave of sleepiness washed over him while peering at the pot the tree was planted in, it didn’t settle well in his stomach to cut something for one’s temporary enjoyment, something that would soon wither away and inevitably die a prisoner before it would be tossed out, merely a dried up mirage of what it had once been, never to be thought of again.

That, in more ways than Crowley liked to think of, was far too personally on the nose.

He sighed, and it vexed him that even here, in this home made into a sanctuary by Aziraphale, in this haven that Crowley had been welcomed into with the most open, loving arms he had known in years and years, the shadow of his past could still find him, that at times he felt like a prey animal that was hiding around every corner where inevitably, his pursuer would find him, stalking soundlessly into the places where Crowley felt the most safe before sinking its teeth into his ankles.

Would he ever discover a place where he would be truly safe from the viciously snapping wolves of his mind?

Aziraphale shifted in his arms just then, nuzzling into Crowley’s neck in his sleep and humming under his breath as his legs twitched, the sound soft and sweet and ticklish over Crowley’s skin as it pulled him from the gloomy thoughts that had started to take advantage of that particularly unguarded liminal space between sleep and waking. Crowley was once again clad in Aziraphale’s pajamas, which the priest must have dressed him in after Crowley had drifted off, and he smiled; of course Aziraphale would not have wanted him to sleep naked while his cold continued to linger, and of course he had cleaned his stomach, too, which was dry and warm against the silk. Aziraphale also had draped several blankets over the both of them, fluffy and heavy, and they had somehow switched their positions during however many hours had passed in their sleep; Crowley was now holding Aziraphale to his own chest, whose head was tucked under his chin, the weight of it comforting and centering. Crowley closed his eyes and rested his cheek on that downy bed of fluff the color of snow bathed in sun as he carefully inhaled, not wanting to disturb Aziraphale with too deep of a breath, enjoying the scent that had become as synonymous with comfort as the priest himself.

When was the last time Crowley had held someone like this? He couldn’t recall; thousands of nights stood between him and any unobscured path to the depths of his memory, hundreds and hundreds of days muddled together and stretched over years posed an obstacle he could never fully clear, but he knew he must have done so at some point. He might’ve even held Lucius like this once and only once very early on in their relationship for some reason he could no longer call to mind, and even then Crowley wasn’t positive that was even an accurate memory versus a manufactured or confused one, but right here, right now, he was cradling a slumbering Aziraphale to him like Aziraphale usually held Crowley, and it was wonderful.

It was wonderful to wrap his one arm around Aziraphale’s back and to drape his other over his chest, it was wonderful to intermittently thread his fingers through feathery curls and to twirl them into little corkscrews. It was wonderful to feel Aziraphale’s breathing against his own torso, slow and steady and calm, with exhales slightly louder than his inhales. It was wonderful to be the one to hold someone after Crowley had needed so badly to be held for so long, and he still needed that, but— there was something so heartening and so warming to know that Crowley, too, could be the one to comfort, that his arms weren’t totally useless, that he could support the priest even as he slept and offer him whatever scant cushion his body retained.

He wanted to give him more, though, Crowley mused silently as he continued to play with Aziraphale’s hair, his mind beginning to race a bit as it tended to do when he woke up in the middle of the night, kicked off by not enough sleep; he wanted to give Aziraphale anything and everything he could, and while he recognized for the thousandth time that his situation differed from his previous in nearly every single way, it did frighten Crowley, that urge to give so much again, and not just sexually. The fact that they had only been…dating, for two weeks but already Crowley could see himself in this house with Aziraphale in the summer, he could easily picture himself there next autumn and next Christmas, and the maybe even Christmas after and so on— well. He knew it was a lot, he knew he was a lot and he knew that it was logically too soon to be thinking these sorts of things, but he also knew that sometimes logic wasn’t enough. He didn’t know if Aziraphale was at all looking that far ahead— the mention of spring had indicated that yes, perhaps, but Crowley couldn’t be positive— and when it came to long term plans regarding the tiny, insignificant issue of his being a priest, Crowley was in the dark. While it was clear Aziraphale was not devout in the slightest, and that he had lived a secular life before joining the priesthood, it didn’t mean that he actually wanted to return to that— it didn’t mean he wanted a life like the one he used to have, a life that had somehow ended via tragedy; that was something else that Crowley just knew, deep down in his soul.

All of these what ifs and hypothetical scenarios thrived in anxious minds like Crowley’s, especially during the hours between dusk and dawn, but very thankfully his anxiety had begun to respond more readily to present moments that swaddled him in calm, and Aziraphale calmed Crowley’s nervous system even while he slumbered in his arms; his breathing gentled the constantly whirring cogs in Crowley’s brain, and it even settled some of his habit of overanalyzing, of vigilantly monitoring reactions and emotions of those around him— Crowley was, overall, slowly beginning to unwind, the tightly rolled tendrils of himself tenderly coaxed to unfurl by patient, loving hands and soft words, and it was hard to stress about the future of the two of them as it became easier for Crowley to stay present in the now, whenever he was in Aziraphale’s company, or at least it was easier to return to the present from the past via Aziraphale’s support. He had a way of grounding Crowley even when he didn’t know he needed it in addition to steadying him in moments where the anxiety did spiral out of control, often talking Crowley through his next breaths, reminding him that he was here with Aziraphale, now, and not trapped in years past or a trauma barbed memory. And he did all of this with such ease, with such natural care; Aziraphale was, whether he recognized it or not, a healer, and he was healing the mangled, mutilated parts of Crowley that had been festering for years, he was reaching into the deepest trenches of him and pulling out the rot of abuse, he was healing and protecting and guiding and—

And then all at once, with the force of a flood or perhaps more accurately, that of a landslide, Crowley’s sleepy recall of the evening rushed to the forefront of his mind and presented him with the memory of what he would assume to be a dream if not for the rapidly beating, heartwing surety that it had happened— Daddy.

The word, in a midst of ecstatic euphoria made even sweeter by safety and refuge had at last escaped from the confines of Crowley’s teeth, it had broken free and flown rather like a swift darting out of his throat, its sleek wings flapping as it joyfully screamed the song it had been forced to withhold for weeks— Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.

Crowley pulled Aziraphale closer to him then, kissing the crown of his head as he remembered it all in exquisitely crafted detail, suddenly very awake indeed, his psyche clearly latching onto the event and scrawling it down for safekeeping as best as it could, and somehow he knew he would not suffer from the difficulty of remembering this night, because how could one forget when someone reacted to what had slipped from your mouth accidentally with enthusiasm, encouragement, and reciprocal want? Crowley didn’t think it physically possible that he would ever forget the moment that Aziraphale had told him to say ‘Daddy’ again, that he had been longing to hear it, that he craved it and that Crowley was brave for saying it.

His eyes were puffy from crying earlier, and they stung as more tears welled. How could he not cry at that, he wondered as he tried to melt into Aziraphale without squeezing him awake, how could he not break down at being so wholly accepted and welcomed and wanted, even the parts he was most terrified to reveal or perhaps even especially those fragments. Again Aziraphale had managed to transfigure a moment of fear so icy it had frozen Crowley’s blood into a communion of soulful connection between them, one that sent said blood back to liquid and beyond, to boiling, Aziraphale had stepped in and not allowed Crowley to fall victim to his guilt and anxiety, building him up instead and nearly glorifying what Crowley had been petrified was a dreadful mistake, he never let him fall—

“You alright, love,” came a gravelly, sleep laced query near Crowley’s ear, soft but deep, and Crowley smiled as his eyes overflowed.

Love.

It was the second time Aziraphale had called Crowley that tonight, and tonight had been the first time in general. A deceptively simple endearment, similar to the oft used ‘lovely’ but somehow so very different, too, so very meaningful with its lack of those two ending letters.

Love…

“Mhmm, ‘m fine, angel,” Crowley whispered as he nuzzled his nose into Aziraphale’s forehead, who sighed prettily in response, his chest deflating against Crowley’s as Aziraphale purred, and one of those of happily flourishing vines of bravery shot out in a reach towards the sun as Crowley went on, so quiet that he wasn’t sure Aziraphale would even hear him, tentative but without any trembling, “go back to sleep, Daddy.”

His heart skipped, his birds rustled from their relatively drowsy state as his pulse shuddered, waiting, and then Aziraphale’s arms around Crowley’s waist tightened, a pleased rumble in his chest accompanied another sleepy sound as he drew Crowley even more flush with his body and mumbled, low and warm, protective, “my good boy.”

Crowley’s smile remained on his face as he whispered, “yours,” the exchange soothing the very last of his galloping thoughts that had nearly gotten out of hand, gently wrangling them into tranquility as he drifted off into a second sleep, which was often even better than the first.

Chapter Text

“Has it been in your family very long? The house and land, I mean.”

They were strolling through the tiny patch of forest nestled behind Aziraphale’s home, hand in hand except for the times when Crowley would step off of the worn little footpath laid by centuries of footfalls to inspect some sort of flora, but then as soon as he’d return, he’d lace his gloved fingers through Aziraphale’s as quickly as they’d left, and each time their palms reconnected Aziraphale’s heart would leap before relaxing again into its recently floaty state.

These quiet moments, the stretches of time spent doing what might be considered mundane to others but to Aziraphale were nothing short of extraordinary, were as necessary for the priest’s evolution into something resembling a human being and not a shade any longer as the bursts of carnal, breathtaking passion were; there was so much he had forgotten about living, truly living, and Aziraphale hadn’t entirely grasped that until these last few weeks, not really.

Of course he had purposefully deprived himself, he had set about erasing the pleasure from his life with systematic efficiency as soon as he made the last resort decision to enter the priesthood, but he had gotten used to much of it after a fashion that he forgot what he’d been missing. Shutting out nearly all that was good, even all that was naturally good and beautiful his day to day routine save for fixating on stars on the nights when he couldn’t reconcile what he had done, when he could barely breathe against the gaping wound in his chest and the emptiness, the loss, became second nature. Aziraphale had grown used to reading as his only real source of enjoyment since Seb died, if he could even venture to call it that. Although his books had been one of his pleasures he could not force himself to part with— indeed, they had been a necessary and needed point of escape whenever his mind couldn’t guilt itself any longer into abstaining from their generously offered escapes into different time periods, different lands and different minds, especially when he found no sleep— even reading took on a newly minted quality now, it regained a sweetness it had lost along the way just as life itself had done as of late. Aziraphale appreciated the words he read out loud to Crowley now on nights they spent together, he indulged in the style and language on the page much like he used to; he was coming home to himself in ways he’d not imagined possible with Crowley as his pathfinder, patient and steady, gracing the journey with the gift of ease.

Because nearly everything was easy with Crowley, even the hard things— such as talking about the family who never loved him as he was— were easy with Crowley, and Aziraphale continued to wonder what he did to deserve him if he even did deserve him, because let’s be honest; he surely did not deserve someone like Crowley in his life, but the ease of him settling himself into said life was something Aziraphale had stopped pushing away, deserving or not, because living again felt too good to let go of once he had felt the weight of the gardener in his lap in that confessional on the first night of Advent. Once he had felt the tending hands of Crowley reach into the shriveled remnants of whatever garden had once lived inside Aziraphale, once he had experienced the glory of resurrection itself through his renewing mouth, the priest had latched onto the concept of life once more, and he didn’t think he would relinquish his hold on it unless it was forcibly wrenched from his hands.

“Indeed it has been, since the late 1700’s, I believe, and my own father had fully expected to move us all here after my grandfather passed,” he replied thoughtfully, and a delicate, rippling warble of a songbird rang through the air as they meandered along, a call Aziraphale might have been able to identify at one time but was puzzled to recall now, “we would visit in the summers when I was a child now and then, but I do not remember my grandfather at all.”

This in particular was a subject Aziraphale hadn’t really given much thought to in the last decade save in regards to his uncle, but something about Crowley’s purely genuine curiosity inspired him to share that which he had hardly ever told with anyone at all, and it was not a struggle, speaking of this particular past when he was surrounded by Crowley’s presence, “but he and Ezra were close, much closer than my father had any concept of; he had long had fancied himself the favorite, you see, but in his typical fashion of self importance, he had…overestimated that relationship. It was a nasty shock to him, then, when he found out that my grandfather did not, in fact, will the entirety of the estate to him, but much of it, including this house, to the brother he could not stand. That was the beginning, or rather the concrete beginning of the long standing feud between the two of them, and the main reason I had no contact with my uncle until I was at university, when he reached out to me.”

Aziraphale did not, however, go on to confide in Crowley that he had not seen or spoken to his parents directly in probably nine or ten years. They had not attended the funeral, but they did turn up at the flat not long after to, in their words, “expedite the transition” of Aziraphale returning to England, no doubt hoping that they would somehow be able to wheedle their way into the house and fortune that Ezra Fell had willed to his nephew. Needless to say, Aziraphale had made it quite clear where they could shove it, to put it simply, and their communication had been contained to stiffly formal Christmas cards that Aziraphale wrote months in advance every year with zero emotion. He could keep up appearances as long as his family did not attempt to sink their claws back into him, and thankfully, they had kept their distance after Aziraphale had finally laid out exactly what he thought of them; that his real parent had already been dead for some time, and that was one thing he had done the priest held no guilt over.

“Your dad sounds like a right prat, if you don’t mind my saying,” this was murmured with a barely concealed scowl, and Aziraphale couldn’t contain his fond smile as he watched Crowley out of the corner of his eye; the birdsong tittered through the air once more, and Aziraphale thought it might be a robin, perhaps.

“I don’t at all; that’s really a very mild descriptor for him,” the hand in his own squeezed tightly as Aziraphale went on, “in fact, I rather enjoy hearing you insult my father, if I’m being honest, even if he doesn’t deserve your thought and attention in the slightest.”

“Sounds like a bloody wanker, then,” Crowley said cheerfully, and Aziraphale leaned over to kiss him, smiling into his chilly hair as he nodded, “and I’m sorry for it.”

They stopped walking then, Crowley turning to Aziraphale and lightly kissing his cheek as he whispered, “really, I— I’m so sorry, angel. You should’ve had a dad like mine,” gold glittered brightly at the mention of Crowley’s father— Jeremiah had been his name, Aziraphale now knew— as he continued, “but look how wonderful you are in spite of it all. Endlessly kind and generous, and so affirming, so— empathetic. Gentle.”

Aziraphale shifted on his feet, suddenly uncomfortable for two reasons; for being praised for turning out as he did in spite of what really had not even been all that bad, considering, and because Seb had once said something eerily similar to him when Aziraphale had opened up about his father and his childhood, albeit studded with much more colorful swearing.

“He isn’t all that terrible,” Aziraphale murmured as he plucked at the fingertips of his leather gloves, shrugging, “he never laid a hand on my sister or me, or anything like that; that would have required too much effort on his part, and emotion, I suppose; his was a quiet sort of disdain, even elegant, you might say, but he was not ever anything close to violent—”

He startled lightly as Crowley’s gloved finger curled beneath his chin and titled it up, a reversal of Aziraphale’s oft used gesture, and his eyes were very kind, if not a bit shadowed as they searched Aziraphale’s own, “angel— just because he didn’t hurt you in that way, didn’t mean he didn’t hurt you; there is more than one kind of violence, and trust me— there are a lot people who went through similar and did not come out on the other end of it as lovely as you,” gold flicked to the left and then the right as Crowley trailed off, his words going airy and almost dull, “I’ve firsthand knowledge of that.”

Aziraphale filed that away into his mounting index of everything Crowley had said that seemed to relate to his abusive past, or more specifically, his abusive ex, his affect as he whispered those words one that Aziraphale was now quite familiar with. The setting jaw, the faraway look, the ashen pallor that went as fast as it came— Crowley was, if Aziraphale had to guess, referring to the dominant that had hurt him so deeply.

“I’m very sorry that you do,” Aziraphale was more sorry than he could ever say, “and thank you, for your— let me try to find a word adjacent to the ‘k’ one, give me a moment—” a playful shove to his shoulder pushed an “oof” from him as Crowley mock grumbled, “you’d better not, for your own health and safety, I think—”

“Such careless threats, and at Christmas, too—” Aziraphale’s grave tone only made the two of them giggle helplessly, and he was relieved to see the last wisp of shadow leave Crowley’s eyes as he chuckled.

“I wish you could’ve— nah, nevermind,” Crowley’s trailing chuckle turned into a soft, wistful murmur as they resumed their stride, their hands finding the embrace of each other, “kind of a mad thing to say, really.”

“Please say,” Aziraphale implored, gently judging his shoulder against Crowley’s, the wool of his coat sliding against the leather of the gardener’s, “nothing is too mad to me, dove. I’d like to hear, if you want to tell me?”

A particularly cutting gust of wind blew then, prompting a shiver from them both as Crowley hummed, thoughtful and low.

“I was going to say, that I wish you could’ve known him— my dad,” the words fell out in a fast jumble, but Aziraphale’s heart clenched around them as it grabbed and pulled them close, frantically keeping them for himself, “wish you could’ve met him. Think you would’ve got on well.”

A frigid drop of water fell from the sky onto Aziraphale’s forehead, followed by another as he envisioned it; meeting Crowley’s father whom he clearly loved so dearly, and who must have been one of a kind to singularly raise a son as marvelous as him. The peculiar twinge of grieving someone you never met yet still somehow missed tingled in Aziraphale’s bones, and he wondered how much of Jeremiah was in Crowley’s features; if he too had been a redhead, had freckles graced similarly high cheekbones, had he been tall and willowy? Had his hands been as beautiful, had they created and healed as effortlessly as his son’s? Had Jeremiah Crowley’s eyes been flecked with prospected gold, or had his irises been wrought of the stuff completely, a gift that his son would inevitably inherit from him?

“He sounds like he was a remarkable, lovely man, and an even lovelier father— you are certainly a testament to that— and I wish I could have met him as well, my dear,” not even the chilly raindrops could dampen the roaring hearth of Aziraphale’s chest at knowing Crowley wanted him to know his father, “truly, I do.”

“I took his name as my middle one after he died, you know,” Aziraphale did not know— when Crowley had applied for the position at the church, he had listed his middle name as starting with a J, but he hadn’t known what it was, “‘s not official, or anything. I never had a middle name, and money has been tight since he died, so I never did the paperwork and all that to make it legal, but— I needed him with me, somehow, more than he already was.”

“Anthony Jeremiah Crowley,” it was a beautiful name both on paper as Aziraphale envisioned writing it in ink and his tongue painted it into the frosty air, “it has a lovely ring to it; as if it were always meant to be your name, my dear.”

Crowley said nothing, but the light that was shining from his eyes as he turned to look at Aziraphale conveyed more than perhaps words could.

Their pace increased slightly as precipitation continued to fall, and Aziraphale wished he’d brought an umbrella, the concern that Crowley was getting wet even more so than he would be typically in light of his recent cold turning into outright anxiety as the deluge fell harder by the minute. An offer of his coat was repeatedly denied, but very luckily they were nearly back, Aziraphale’s house now in view as they rounded the corner around a particularly large oak, and Crowley’s gait faltered.

“Look,” he whispered then, hushed, difficult to make out over the pitter patter of rain falling on the crunchy carpet of fallen leaves around them but catching Aziraphale’s ear as they stopped on the path, and he glanced over to see Crowley gazing upward.

The rain that had landed on his face continued to roll down over the bunches of speckled roses on his cheeks, and his eyelashes were wet, too, clustered together in long dark wisps that shimmered when he blinked. His hair was starting to melt into that rich, deep cordovan as it collected rainwater, the little rivers of silver standing out starkly against its red clay banks, and Aziraphale, for one small, selfish moment, stopped berating himself for neglecting to bring an umbrella.

He knew Crowley wasn’t referring to himself when he said “look”, but what else could Aziraphale look at in that moment but him? What else would he even think to cast his eye on when there was Crowley, standing there in the little wood without a care for the rain, looking Heavenward with such unmarred, untamed joy on his beautiful face?

“You’re not looking,” the whispered accusation was playful, and Aziraphale couldn’t help his answer:

“There is nothing else I would rather look upon than you, darling,” Crowley’s eyes closed then as he smiled, more raindrops dripping from his lashes as he did, spilling over his cheekbones as they rose, “what else is there that could possibly warrant my attention, hm?”

And what indeed; there was nothing, Aziraphale knew as he ignored the fact that they were both wet and cold and that the temperature was dropping, there was nothing else he wanted to look at then, or tomorrow, or the next day or the next, than Anthony Crowley, and he mulled this over as he pulled Crowley into his arms, looking down at the parted, glistening cranberry swell of his mouth—

“Snow,” Crowley breathed, then, the word hanging in the air in a cloud of condensation between them, and as he said it, a tiny, almost invisible flake landed on his cheek, disappearing into flushed wet skin so fast Aziraphale barely noticed it, and just like that, another fell on Crowley’s brow, and then on his forehead, and on and on.

“Snow,” Aziraphale agreed softly, as enchanted by the stuff as Crowley, but admittedly far more enchanted by the redheaded sprite who looked as close to carefree as Aziraphale had ever seen him as he stuck his tantalizing tongue out to catch whatever snowflakes were lucky enough to land on its blistering pink landscape.

He couldn’t recall the last time it snowed; perhaps last year, or the year before that, or even longer, he did not know. Aziraphale quite enjoyed snow but, as with most things since he began his life of solitude and penance, the beautiful things in life began to blur, those small pleasures were never seized upon with the same delight as before. As with so many things though, Crowley had turned the light back onto that which Aziraphale had squirreled away into shadow, and as he mimicked his lover and opened his own mouth to catch snowflakes on his own tongue, chilly and crisp and almost sweet, another of his self wrought shackles of grief and shame and self hatred broke away from Aziraphale’s neck, their soldered hinges made weak by the loveliness of a fleeting moment shared with someone he loved.

They stood there as flurries floated down around them, still mixed with the occasional raindrop and bead of sleet until a delicate dusting of white gathered on Crowley’s hair in a crown of snow, and though the reddened cherry tip of his nose was alarmingly adorable and even sweeter under Aziraphale’s lips as he kissed its frigid contour, they very well could not stand out in the elements much longer.

Well, perhaps just a bit longer, then; it felt like a very specific sin, to tear Crowley away from the snowy bluster in which he was so clearly at home and enthralled by, and Aziraphale let himself indulge in the sight and senses of the season climbing into a crescendo right there between them, icy and majestic, delicate and quiet, so, so quiet as only snow can be.

“Will you resent me very much for what I’m about to say, my snowy darling,” Aziraphale whispered into Crowley’s ear after perhaps five minutes when he could no longer ignore the tremors beginning to shiver through Crowley’s inadequately bundled body, and Crowley smiled as he shook his head.

“Don’t think I could resent you for anything, angel,” he murmured as he cupped Aziraphale’s face and went on to brush snow from his curls, his eyes alight and framed by snowflake adorned lashes, “‘specially not for caring about my well being. Come on, let’s get inside.”

Even walking against the now very raw wind was easy with Crowley by his side, and Aziraphale opened the door for Crowley first, ushering him inside along with a cloud of flurries. Aziraphale helped Crowley out of his jacket and scarf and crouched down to pull off his black Chelsea boots after hanging them up, smiling into the damp denim bend of a knee as Crowley’s hands balanced on his shoulders for support. It was the gestures like these, where he could so outwardly care for Crowley in deceptively small manners, that flared both Aziraphale’s newfound lust for living and the desires anchored in what being called Daddy meant to him. To have Crowley lean on him like this, to have him allow Aziraphale to care for him in all the ways he apparently wanted the priest to do, was a gift Aziraphale was still trying to accept as gracefully as he could, but that didn’t mean his eyes were at all dry as he helped Crowley out of his sodden boots.

There was still a viable ember or two in the fireplace, which Aziraphale fussed with as fast as he could after he’d removed his own wet coat, arranging wood within it until flames began catching and growing at a rate that satisfied. Crowley was humming something Christmassy under his breath, a fact that would be vehemently denied and replaced with something like Queen should Aziraphale point it out, so he smiled silently to himself as he retrieved a few fluffy towels and freshly folded, brushed cotton pajamas from the cupboard, wondering if the melody of Crowley’s musings would grace his hallways in the years to come and very, very much hoping that the answer was yes.

Crowley’s chattering teeth, though, interrupted the tune as he toweled his damp hair and face, and Aziraphale watched as Crowley’s fingers seemed to fumble with it all, like they were too cold to move at their normal deftness as Crowley exchanged his Henley and jeans for the pajamas. A hot shower followed by a long soak was very clearly in order, Aziraphale decided as the parlor began to feel the effects of the fire, perhaps the latter featuring cups of tea and coffee as well.

“Let me start the shower, love, and then we can get in the bath after as well—” Aziraphale implored, reaching out for one of Crowley’s hands after he hastily buttoned up his own sleep shirt, bending to kiss its cool surface as he turned—

“W-wait,” Crowley mumbled, tightening his chilled fingers around Aziraphale’s wrist, weakly pulling at it and successfully stopping him, “‘m— I’m dizzy, think I need to s-sit here for a minute, first, if tha’s alright?”

The tremor in the request set off alarms in Aziraphale’s mind, and he instantly turned back around to properly face Crowley who, he could see, was shaking as he looked at down at his stocking clad feet, the curve of his furrowed brow catching the light of the blooming flames.

“Are you quite alright, my darling,” worry returned threefold, flooding Aziraphale as he cupped Crowley’s chilly cheeks, but he was avoiding his eyes, chin still downturned, “what’s wrong, Crowley?”

“Don’t— don’t feel right all of a sudden,” Crowley started lowering to the ground, then, unsteady on his feet, and Aziraphale went with him, sitting on his heels as Crowley’s legs clumsily folded themselves at the hip, his knees splaying out across the floor awkwardly, “s-sorry, ‘m not— dunno what’s w-wrong, actually, shit, sorry, angel—”

“No no, nothing to be sorry for, my dear,” Aziraphale insisted, now very worried indeed, “can I get you anything? Perhaps you should eat something, or maybe some coffee—”

“Please don’t go,” the plea sounded as if it had gone through a press of some kind that condensed its words into something papery thin and wobbly, “just— ‘m fine, I’m fine—”

But it was deeply apparent in Crowley’s pitching higher tone, his shivery breaths that started to almost whistle on the intake and his glistening eyes that he was not at all fine, and Aziraphale’s heart clenched as he witnessed, dread curling in the base of his stomach, the beginnings of Crowley’s fight with an unseen entity that Aziraphale was familiar with now, but still did not know.

It was all there, the tells that Crowley was flirting with panic and terror; breath coming far too quickly amongst small whimpers, shivering turning into harsh, rigorous bursts and jaw sets laid in granite between teeth chattering intervals, and a fear that emanated from gold so strongly that even without proper eye contact, Aziraphale could see it, could feel it, and was subsequently chilled to his blood, to his marrow.

“Oh, Crowley,” he murmured, soft and gentle as he twisted back and leaned, reaching for the basket of blankets he kept a safe distance to the side of the hearth, pulling at the thickest, plushest one and wrapping it around Crowley’s quaking shoulders, “I’m not going anywhere at all, my dear one. And it’s alright if you’re not fine, little bird; it’s quite alright—”

“‘M sorry,” Crowley panted as one of his hands fought to clutch at the throw, grasping at its sides in the center of his chest with what looked like a stiff wrist, “‘Ziraphale, ‘m s-sorry—”

“Shhh,” the apologies never became easier to hear in these moments, they were never less agonizing, “don’t be sorry, my sweet, sweet Crowley; what can I do for you,” a dry, crackling sob forced its way through Crowley’s teeth as he shook his head, and a series of gasping, hiccuping breaths followed, “try to breathe, darling, deep breath—”

He gathered Crowley’s unengaged hand in his own, trying not to panic at how limp and cold it felt in his palm as he murmured to Crowley where and when they were, as he had started to do once it seemed Crowley responded well to the grounding exercise that had helped Aziraphale over the years; it was 2023, the 20th of December, and they would be spending the winter solstice together in Aziraphale’s house. He repeated this lowly as he held Crowley’s hand, but his words did not seem to center like they often did; Crowley was still valiantly fighting to breathe at a normal rate, and his shivering, despite the inferno of the fire, had increased.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered as he clutched the shaking, still frigid hand to his heart, tracking Crowley’s eyes with his own and struggling due to how fast they were darting around the room, now, “Crowley, what are you feeling in your body right now? What is it, my love?”

“Cold,” Crowley mumbled stiffly after a brief silence, the first word he had said in a few minutes, still not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes as shivers rattled his form, but he didn’t pull his hand away, which gave Aziraphale some much needed heart in that moment; he didn’t know if he could bear it, Crowley flinching away from him right now, “‘m so cold, it was always so cold when he’d— when he’d leave me.”

“Left you when,” Aziraphale did his best to ignore the frigid ice that had frozen his own blood upon hearing so much a horrific statement, at such an unthinkably terrible thing, “when would he leave you? Why?”

It was a question that had been burning in Aziraphale’s mind along with all of the others— who was he, what did he do, why did he do it and was he still haunting Crowley as much as Aziraphale thought he might be— and he asked it not only to look for an answer, but to better guide Crowley through these bouts of panic with a little more surety, a little more knowledge as to what he was fighting. Aziraphale was helpless, there on the floor in front of a man who was caught between the then and the now, like Aziraphale so often had been these last eleven years, and he was desperate for anything that could aid him in helping Crowley right now, for any clue, for any lie planted in Crowley’s mind that Aziraphale could actively refute.

“When I’d d-drop,” his teeth were chattering as if he were still out in the winter air, chilled to the bone and exposed to the elements, not as if he were in dry clothes, cocooned in a blanket and right in front of roaring flame, “or even b-before, in s-scene, while I was still under, he’d leave, t-toward the end, before I had the ch-chance to drop. Didn’t have t-time f-for it,” Crowley gasped for air before rambling on, saying more about his past in one go than he had yet since Aziraphale had known him, “and I d-didn’t mean to, but he d-didn’t have t-time to d-deal with it, or with m-me, so he l-left, and it was s-so c-cold—”

It all made such sickeningly perfect sense, then; Crowley’s terror at being left alone in general, but especially when he was in subspace, and after sex— his concern regarding subspace at all, really. He had told Aziraphale that he had trouble emerging from that state of mind at times and that he was so very prone to falling into it in the first place, and Aziraphale recalled that first instance at the Rivoli when Crowley had floated for a short while after Aziraphale had called him a good boy and fed him the oyster; such practiced descent from such heights, and with little to no help from Aziraphale at all. He remembered even then recognizing that it had not been the first time Crowley had pulled himself of what could have been a drop.

Crowley’s sleepy eyed disbelief that first morning together that Aziraphale was still there with him in bed as well was no longer a mystery, and while Aziraphale was glad to know more, while he was so grateful that Crowley was opening up to him in this way, it was nothing short of devastating, learning what had happened to him, and Aziraphale hurriedly brushed away his own tears as he listened, not wanting Crowley to see that he was shattering now, too.

“I didn’t m-mean to d-do it,” the shards of those words thrust themselves into what was left of Aziraphale’s crumbling heart and pulverized it, and he covered his mouth with one hand to stifle whatever wanted to spill out of it, absorbing those awful, heartbreaking words, “I didn’t mean to d-drop, I d-didn’t m-mean t-to—”

“Of course you didn’t,” Aziraphale managed after swallowing, but his voice did crack despite his best efforts, “of course you did not mean to, Crowley. You couldn’t control that, my dear, you were—”

You were set up to fail, over and over again, and then blamed for that unavoidable, calculated failure; you were being held hostage by your endorphins, you were being tortured with them, was what was in Aziraphale’s head, but he had no idea how Crowley would react to a statement like that right now, so he bit his tongue until it bled, instead whispering, “you were not to blame, my dove, for any of it.”

“I was so cold, and so— so— alone,” the sorrow, the pain in that ripped Aziraphale apart as it was uttered, so quietly and tearfully that it pulled more wetness from Aziraphale’s own eyes, “so cold and alone—”

“You’re not alone,” Aziraphale countered gently despite the trembling fury in his chest, despite the rage and the wrath and the howling grief at the injustice, at the inhumane cruelty, “you are not alone right now, Crowley. You’re here, with me,” he squeezed Crowley’s hand, “you’re right here, in my home—”

“Sometimes he’s right here, too,” Crowley whimpered, destroying Aziraphale as he choked on another shivering sob, “he’s still right here, no matter what I do. Always there, waiting to remind me of what I am—”

“I know,” how dare this haunt Crowley at all after so long, but especially where he was meant to be safe in Aziraphale’s arms, in his house; just how insidious was this man, that he could slip “I know it feels like that, darling, I know, but he’s gone—“

“‘M s-sorry I’m so fucked up,” Crowley blurted out then, sniffling wetly, “I’m sorry I’m s-so, so broken, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Aziraphale could take it no more as Crowley hung his head and cried, his hand going completely limp in Aziraphale’s grasp as his body wracked itself with sobs. It was an anguish he was not equipped to handle, watching Crowley break down, and one that he refused to allow as long as Crowley would let Aziraphale step in to try and temper its damage however he could.

“Come here,” he murmured as he scooted forward and gathered Crowley in his arms, pulling him into his lap as best he could with the way they were sitting on the floor, cradling Crowley’s head into the crook of his neck as he shook apart, feeling for any resistance or inkling that Crowley needed space in that moment and finding none, cracking into pieces as well as he felt weak hands tug at the back of his shirt and Crowley’s nose delve into the slope of his shoulder, “my darling, darling boy, my Crowley,” he tucked the blanket under Crowley as best he could as he drew him as close as possible, “don’t be sorry; you are not broken, and you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m right here,” he didn’t know what else to do besides repeat what was real and what he hoped, with every fiber and cell of him, would offer Crowley comfort, he was at a loss at what else he could do, “I am right here, with you, and it’s so warm in front of the fire, lovely, it’s warm and you’re safe and not alone,” the wet whimper into Aziraphale’s neck tickled as much as it stabbed, “you will never be alone again, not if I can help it.”

And he meant it more than he had meant any promise to God, more than any vow made mired in the desperation of a man with no more to lose. This was still a desperate covenant, to be certain, but it was one pledged in the opposite of conditions; now, he had everything to lose, everything precious and rare was in his arms, arms that had been empty for so long Aziraphale had wondered over these last weeks if they would ever regain their ability to adequately hold and protect after so many years of atrophying languish.

“That’s it, my sweetest little bird,” Aziraphale extended an arm, tugging another blanket free from the basket and arranging it over Crowley’s shaking shoulders as his body continued to minutely relax with each exhale, as the trembling in his legs lessened and his arms stopped slowly shivering, “I’ve got you, I have you. Rest on me and know that I will be here, when you wake up. I will always be right here,” he tucked his chin in order to brush his lips over Crowley’s temple, inhaling the warm winter spice of him mingled with the salinity of his tears, “I’ll always be right here, my darling, darling boy; you sleep, now. Sleep, my dove.”

It was the first night since the first of December that Aziraphale did not fall asleep alongside Crowley, when they were together.

That night, he stayed awake, dutifully guarding Crowley’s sleep and tending to the fire as best as he could with one arm as the evening passed, praying with every stretch and shift of his body that he wouldn’t disturb his charge as he added more wood and kindling the second the flames threatened to drop below blazing, and he held this vigil tirelessly throughout the hours of the longest night of the year, figuratively crucifying himself while cradling Crowley as carefully as he could and shielding him from the viciousness of Aziraphale’s thoughts. He berated himself for not insisting they return to the house earlier, for not being able to have the foresight to bring an umbrella and for allowing himself to stand there in the cold to freely enjoy the first snowfall instead of ushering Crowley back faster, and yet he selfishly treasured that moment all the same.

(Your selfishness is, once again, endangering someone you love—)

“He had a fireplace in his bedroom.”

Aziraphale blinked, pulled out of the increasingly louder hissing of his self disparagement and instantly alert as Crowley’s sleep roughened murmur registered in his ears, the hoarseness in his throat from crying feathering his words with grit, and though his speech was drawn out and littered with the wreckage of exhaustion, there was a steadiness to his tone that suggested his panic had blessedly passed.

It was, if Aziraphale had to guess, just after midnight, and he squeezed Crowley tighter despite the pain in his shoulders and ache in his spine, thanking whoever that he had been able to find some sleep in Aziraphale’s not entirely useless arms.

“Think tha’s— think that’s what happened. Had one in his office, too. ‘S stupid, I know, but just being cold and then the fire— the sensory experience was just— God, it’s so fucking stupid—”

“It’s not stupid,” Aziraphale gently cut in, horrified that Crowley would think such a thing but, realizing with a pang in his bruised heart, not at all surprised by it, “it’s not, not at all. I’m— I’m so very sorry, Crowley, I should not have let us get so—”

I should now have let us get so cold, I should have brought us back earlier—

“Angel,” Crowley leaned back, extricating himself from Aziraphale’s chest just enough so that he could make eye contact with him, and oh, the poor lamb; the skin beneath his eyes was as bruised as Aziraphale’s chest, but his eyes were, the priest was relieved to see, fire bright, “it’s not your fault. It was lovely, the snow and even the rain, I just—”

He sniffed, shaking his head and letting his eyes close, and Aziraphale seized the moment in order to thread his fingers through his hair, which was curly in its air dried splendor. He pushed the errant strands back from Crowley’s face, patiently waiting to see if he would say more, thankful that he had just seen to the fire not twenty minutes ago; Crowley’s cheek was as warm as it was pink, and that in turn marginally melted the frost that had built up in Aziraphale’s mind during his hours wakeful fretting.

“This is what I meant, when I said I’m— when I said I’m broken,” Crowley whispered as he opened his eyes, slivers of sun in the dead of night, “that the smallest, most coincidental things can just…wrench me apart; a walk in the snow turns into a panic attack once I’m standing in front of a fire, things that should feel good just turn into— into Hell for me. And I—” he inhaled through his nose before breathing out heavily, shaking his head again as he turned towards the fire, “—I hate that you have to deal with the fallout of that. It’s so— it’s so embarrassing, we should be able to bloody walk in the snow without issue, and it’s not fair to you, it’s not fair—”

“What’s not fair, my dove,” Aziraphale murmured, gently turning Crowley’s face back towards him so that he could meet his eyes, rhythmically tucking his hair behind his ear as he held his cheek, “is that you need experience it at all. That, is what is not fair in this situation, my darling Crowley; everything that has happened to you is not fair,” Crowley nuzzled into Aziraphale’s palm, letting his head fall heavy into it as he bit his lower lip, but he bravely held Aziraphale’s gaze, “and I am not dealing with you— I am honored to be here to offer any support you may need. I am nothing but honored and grateful for that, my dearest,” he bent to kiss Crowley’s forehead, lingering there as he whispered, hoping Crowley would believe him, dangerously close to praying that he would, “and you do not have to face it alone, if you don’t want to. I’m here, in any capacity you want or need, and at your service. I want—”

He faltered as Crowley brushed his lips against his palm and blanketed Aziraphale’s hand with his own, pressing it deeper into his cheek as his eyes shone with unshed tears, and he was so beautiful that Aziraphale couldn’t find his breath among the endless examples all all he wanted to do for Crowley, his fast devolving composure spindling out around him as he looked at him, illuminated by flame that played with the ones in his hair and cocooned in blankets of cream and yellow and tartan.

He almost said it then; Aziraphale nearly told Crowley that he loved him, and that he had done so for far longer than he ever let himself realize until this very moment. He swallowed around the snarled knot of love and grief and fury and despair and love, love, love in his throat as he reached out to take Crowley’s other hand, wondering if he would ever not be floored that he was allowed to hold it whenever he liked and knowing that the answer to that question was no.

“If I could discover how to turn back time so that I could spare you from this, I would,” Aziraphale whispered, bringing Crowley’s hand to ghost his lips over trembling fingertips, and his own thumb, resting on the corner of Crowley’s parted mouth tried to catch the spidery little whimper that tumbled from its ruby depths, “without hesitation. I would go back however many years, however many times that I needed to in order to shield you from all of this unjust, unfathomably cruel pain that you now carry with you; you do not deserve it, Crowley, and you are blameless in it,” without breaking eye contact, he kissed each the tip of each finger as he spoke, letting them trail over his bottom lip in a blessing to each and a promise, “but in the absence of that ability, in my terrible lack of power to erase the endless wrongs that have been done to you— I will do anything at all that is within my power to comfort and help you, Crowley. Just tell me what you need, love, anything at all that you need; let me give it to you,” he pressed a final kiss to the pad of Crowley’s littlest finger, “let me try to give that to you, my darling dove.”

Please, let me love you. Let me love you how you deserve, how you always should have been loved. Let me love you in the ways that you need and want, let me give you whatever is left of me if it will bring you any bit of the life you have given me, and let me be there to help you fight your past with you whenever it rears its head.

The welling tears highlighting Crowley's eyes as he stared up at Aziraphale shuddered as he blinked, and one fell down onto Aziraphale’s thumb, warm and wet as he nodded, a sight that gladdened Aziraphale’s soul more than he could possibly express, that knit together another of the many broken pieces of himself that had lay scattered over the dusty, debris strewn floor of his psyche.

“Okay,” Crowley’s whisper was very small, but it was as sweet and strong as anything, fortified despite its tentative softness, “okay, angel— I’ll try. Fuck, I’ll try—”

And then he was back against Aziraphale’s chest, his arms snaking around Aziraphale’s neck as he surged into him, as he sank into him, murmuring these tiny thank you’s that shivered over Aziraphale’s skin like snowflakes.

“My brave, brave boy,” Aziraphale breathed as he crushed Crowley closer, “thank you, my dearest, for trying, for wanting to try. You’re so very courageous, Crowley, so courageous and brave,” he closed his eyes, unable to continue, overwhelmed by every emotion known to man and some he wasn’t sure were, but he held Crowley tightly and rocked him gently, petting his hair.

“Can we go to bed, Daddy,” Crowley quietly mumbled into Aziraphale’s neck after a sweet, cuddling silence, and the tremor that ran through the priest at being called that so freely, so sweetly rivaled Crowley’s earlier rigors, “‘m still so tired. What time is it, anyway?”

“Of course we can, my lovely lamb,” Aziraphale pulled to two of them to their feet, back cracking as he stood, waiting a moment before lifting Crowley in his arms, the motion easy despite the stiffness and soreness of his muscles, so wonderfully easy, and he cradled him to his chest, bridal style, as he walked them to the bedroom, blankets trailing to the floor in their wake as Crowley let himself go boneless with a pleased, sleepy hum, “and it must be after midnight, I think.”

The moon had to be getting close to full, its pearly glow lit Aziraphale’s room rather brightly, and he didn’t bother switching on any lights as he reached down with one hand to pull back the comforter, smiling as Crowley tightened his arms around his neck automatically at the shift in weight, and when he was satisfied with the nest for his dove, Aziraphale lowered Crowley onto the bed, tucking him in carefully and then fixing the collar of the sleep shirt that had flipped up sometime within the last few hours. Crowley’s lashes rested on his cheeks, still and long, and Aziraphale loved how the moonlight danced over his features, selenic and gentle, he loved how it chased away the shadows of the night and troubled thoughts behind those closed eyes. Somehow here, sinking into plush pillows and covered in the blankets of the moon and Aziraphale’s bed, Crowley looked as safe and protected as Aziraphale so fervently wished for him to be, and as much as he deserved.

“Is there anything I can get you, starling,” Aziraphale whispered as he smoothed carmine locks behind Crowley’s ear again, stroking the serpent on his temple with his thumb, tracing its winding lines, “anything at all?”

“Mmm,” Crowley sighed as he sank further into the bed, leaning into Aziraphale’s hand not unlike a cat, “just you, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled as he bent to kiss Crowley’s brow, whispering, “you have me, sweet thing. I’ll be there in just a moment; are you comfortable?”

“Mhm,” Crowley nodded as he yawned behind his hand, eyes still shut, “very. Hold me, when you come back?”

“Of course, my darling Crowley,” what a stark, stark difference from even a week ago, Crowley asking for that, and Aziraphale cursed the the unavoidable needs of his body that he could not slide into bed right then behind Crowley, “I’ll hurry straight back to you.”

Crowley smiled.

“Two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” he mumbled, and Aziraphale smiled in turn, positive he’d never witnessed anything so dear, nodding as he promised, “yes, sweet thing; I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

And he was, downing a glass of water with questionable swiftness after locking up and then using the loo thereafter, just grateful that he had already changed into pajamas earlier when they had dried off from their wet winter sojourn, and that no more time needed to be spent away from Crowley than was absolutely necessary in that moment.

When he climbed into the bed he had hated for so long but now treasured, inhaling the spicy perfume of warmed skin and enveloping Crowley in his arms, his elbows slotting into the sloping dip of a slight waist and his knees locking in behind bent ones, Aziraphale realized Crowley was already asleep again, his breathing easy and slow.

“Goodnight, my darling love,” Aziraphale kissed the back of Crowley’s head, and the longest night of the year was really not at all long enough, not when you spend it holding that which is dearest to you so very closely to your heart, warm and safe; it couldn’t last long enough, he decided as he fought to keep his eyes open a little longer, wanting to listen to Crowley’s breathing, wanting to cherish the sensation of his back pulled flush to Aziraphale’s chest and just how their bodies meshed together, no amount of hours could pass slowly enough when he and his dove were wrapped up snug in their nest.

Chapter Text

Christmas Eve blew in with the blustery embrace of late December, and although no snow remained from the light dusting that fell days earlier, the air brought with it the same sort of festive chill nonetheless, and the day itself dawned shimmering with frost as if the world had been lovingly wrapped in glittery Christmas paper.

Crowley was spending the afternoon going over the church greenery one last time before the Christmas Eve vigil and midnight masses, replacing bits of white pine that had gone crispy and brown with fresh and adding the most delicate trails of ivy to the corners of the altar, heart racing as he went, the gaze of Aziraphale burning into his back as he unwrapped the small garlands of the pretty little leaves which were now a symbol of so much more than they had been only a month ago.

A silvery shiver trickled down his spine as Aziraphale came to stand behind him, not quite flush with his back but very close, the warmth of his breath a tickling gust of heat into his ear just above the little cross that dangled from an earring, “how striking that ivy would look woven through your hair, my darling, or even better still, wrapped around your lovely wrists…” fingers deftly pulled Crowley’s loose waves to the side, and he whimpered as velvety lips brushed over his neck, tender but lingering, “I’ve half a mind to cite illness this evening as a means to cancel the masses, and instead I would use this ivy for a much more holy purpose— to bind you to my altar, naked,” Crowley gasped as teeth grazed the fluttering contour of his carotid artery, “so that I can worship you properly, and venerate you as you deserve,” a gentle suckling bite to the sensitive skin just below his jaw had him keening; thank God no one was due to show for at least another hour or so, “and so I can have you as you were made to be had.”

“Angel,” Crowley breathed as Aziraphale’s hands melded to his waist, warm and strong, “don’t tease me like that, it’s Christmas—”

“Indeed it is, and perhaps I’m not teasing,” palms slid up Crowley’s sides and curved around his ribs before resting on his chest, clever thumbs perching just over his nipples which, despite the woven, rich burgundy cashmere of his v neck jumper, hardened at the attention, “perhaps, if you are very good this evening, I shall reward you once the midnight mass has concluded.”

The mouth at his neck traveled backward to Crowley’s nape to kiss along the chain of Crowley’s cross necklace that rested on its curve— he wore it often these days, as it drove both him and the priest wild, and he could almost feel his skin burn pleasantly beneath its sacrilegious weight— and all at once he was hard and aching and wanting, ivy forgotten on the altar as he arched backward into Aziraphale, seeking the ridge of his cock through his white and gold vestments (he was pleased to have made an effort to commit certain terms to memory and that they were sticking; something about learning from Aziraphale himself made Crowley swoon, made him feel as if he were a disciple at the feet of a mentor and guide) and whining when he found it, hard and blatant even through the layers of fine fabric.

“I’m always good, Daddy,” Crowley lied, smirking as he recalled all of the ways he had tested out distracting Aziraphale during his priestly duties. He had attended five masses since Advent started, and most were not well attended— anywhere from five to eight people usually showed on weekday mornings— and during those services, Crowley set out, as discreetly as possible, to torture the priest. This had thus far included spreading his legs and running his fingers over his inner thighs and the swell of his clothed cock, sucking on a finger if he was relatively positive those sitting around him could not see him do so, and mouthing sinful phrases that he hadn’t even been certain Aziraphale would be able to read from a distance, but apparently his lips clearly formed ‘fuck me, Father’ and most recently ‘need you, Daddy’, if Aziraphale’s timely coughing fits indicated anything at all.

“Oh, are we going to lie under this hallowed roof now, my sinful dove,” Aziraphale growled, pinching at Crowley’s piercings and rutting against him with enough force that he stumbled forward, nearly falling into the altar and tripping over a creamy poinsettia, “because the amount of times you have behaved accordingly during a mass is…well, startlingly close to none, if I’m being quite honest,” Crowley was caught and held upright by those hands, though, and did not fall, not until Aziraphale pushed him where he wanted, bending him at the waist and placing his hands on the edge of the wooden surface for support as he snapped his hips into Crowley, “that first instance may count, though your beguiling eyes and overall mesmerizing countenance did distract me into misspeaking—”

“That wasn’t my fault,” fuck, Aziraphale had not yet fucked him on the altar, something that Crowley was craving about as much as he suspected the priest was, if their discussions were accurate; Aziraphale had been fantasizing about that for some time now, he had almost shyly admitted to Crowley during one of their talks, and Crowley hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it, he was close to begging Aziraphale to do just that right now, or perhaps with any luck some cheekiness would inspire Aziraphale to do so swiftly and roughly, “how was I to know, then, that you were so besotted with me— oof!”

He found himself being spun around and lifted onto the altar, and then he was face to face with Aziraphale who, Crowley noted with a skipped beat, heartbird rush of flight, was flushed close to the color of the holly berries nestled around the church, and that uneven heart rate stuttered further as Aziraphale stepped between Crowley’s spreading legs, pulled him to his waist and whispered, eyes blazing, liquid quicksilver encircling beautifully spreading pupils, “I have been besotted with you from the very first moment that I saw you, little lamb; I just refused to acknowledge it until I could simply no longer find the strength to continue denying it,” their noses touched, and the mood shifted in a ripple of shivers between them, Crowley whimpering softly as Aziraphale cupped his cheeks with the measured manner of an man clasping something precious to him, the care in his hands as obvious as the blush on his cheeks, as evident as the adoration in his eyes, and that in itself was something Crowley could scarcely believed he had accepted so fast, that the look that presented in Aziraphale’s eyes so often was adoration, was care and affection and dare Crowley hope something else, something further.

It was moments like these where the three words nearly left him, and they were bubbling up more and more, they had taken the place of ‘Daddy’ waiting to be freed and were just as persistent in their escape attempts, were just as eager to break out of his mouth. Aziraphale had been incomprehensibly wonderful when Crowley had let ‘Daddy’ slip, he’d been unbelievably warm and lovely and supportive and encouraging, and what Crowley had hardly even allowed himself to consider turned out to be blessedly true; that Aziraphale wanted to be called that, he wanted to embody that for Crowley and had been thinking of it for a long while. He was getting spoiled by these serendipitous instances between them, and perhaps that was also partly why his desire to tell Aziraphale that he loved him had been on the tip of his greedy tongue; they had seen eye to eye on everything else so far, who was to say that loving each other was not the same?

Still, though, it was a big thing, it was a monumental thing to say to another human being in this context, and they had only been together for a few weeks. The last thing Crowley wanted— one of the things he actually actively worried about in the moments when his past engulfed him, when he fell victim to his fears— was for Aziraphale to think he was too clingy, that he was far too needy or that he— that he was irreparably shattered, that his mind was as broken as it often felt. Aziraphale had witnessed several spiraling, splintered bouts of panic by now and didn’t seem to mind so far, he seemed happy and thankful to guide Crowley through them (and guide him through them he did, with endless kindness), but how long would that last? Lucius had at first been convincingly supportive, but as Crowley had crumbled, so did the patience and what he’d believed to be genuine empathy of his dominant, and in time Crowley became nothing but a nuisance to him and eventually, became nothing at all.

How long until Aziraphale’s patience and comfort faded away along with his adoration and care?

“Come back to me, my little bird,” the quietly whispered, tender plea did indeed bring Crowley back to the present and pulled him out of his darkening musings, it diffused the clouds that had been gathering and coaxed him back from the brink of a dangerous path, and he blinked a few times, pushing away the worries he was vulnerable to as Aziraphale went on, his eyes far lighter in hue and closer to aquamarine than hematite edged lapis, “there you are, my lovely Crowley.”

Somehow, his hold on Crowley’s cheeks grew even softer, even more cherishing, and Crowley leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and squeezing his legs around his waist, pulling him closer still as he kissed his curls and silently thanked whatever it was— chance, coincidence, fate, God or everything and anything in between— for bringing him into Father Aziraphale Fell’s renewing, protective arms.

“Here I am, angel,” he murmured into Aziraphale’s ear, kissing the shell of it and nuzzling his temple, inhaling his milky tea richness that was now mixed with evergreen, “right here, with you.”

“Right here, with me,” Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley couldn’t help but arch into him, he couldn’t help but grind against the priest as his grip responded to Crowley’s body, as it changed ever so slightly from light into something sensual, his hands gliding down Crowley’s neck and then sinking into his shoulders, “are you alright, my dove? How is your heart, my dearest boy,” he groaned softly as Crowley snapped his pelvis forward, “Crowley, you tempter—”

“‘M alright, Father; fuck, I want you,” Crowley whimpered, and he did, with every simmering nerve of him, “but— not because I’m avoiding the question, you just—”

You drive me mad in the most glorious of ways, you chase away the dark and the shame and you bring me hope, you care for me like no one else has and I love you, I love you, I love you.

“—‘s just,” he whispered, reaching up to adjust the sprig of holly he’d carefully tucked behind Aziraphale’s left ear earlier, one that was not so prickly as to scratch or poke, and Aziraphale smiled, “you make me feel so good, angel— Daddy,” Aziraphale’s catch of breath went straight between Crowley’s parted thighs, the priest’s obvious delight in being called Daddy so wonderfully clear, “and you make my heart feel good, too, my body and my heart, just, ngk— so good.”

You make me feel loved, Crowley nearly admitted, I had forgotten what that was like—

“I am so very happy and privileged to do so, my dearest Crowley,” Aziraphale’s murmur was an ember singed burst of sweetness, and his hands massaged down Crowley’s arms before relocating to his waist once more, kneading and firm, “you deserve to feel good, all of you deserves nothing but the best,” he bent to mouth at Crowley’s neck again, and Crowley dissolved into whines, needing to be filled, needing to be fucked on this altar more than he needed to breathe, “and you deserve to be exalted, my beautiful lamb, you should glorified; you should be laid upon this consecrated wood and make it all the more hallowed as I dedicate my body and blood to yours,” Jesus, that hot tongue was writing scorching psalms down the path of Crowley’s neck, and he was so hard it hurt, the pressure pooling in his cock climbing to unbearable within a span of seconds, “in all of my years of blessing and sanctifying and sacrificing, you are the most sacred thing I have been granted the honor of touching.”

When Aziraphale said things like that, when he said them like that and like that with the beautifully naked wonder of a man deeply moved, Crowley believed him, and that belief was not lasting, not just yet, but it was sticking around longer and longer each time, it was beginning to become as real as Aziraphale’s touch and his voice and his scent and his presence were, and it continued to be overwhelming and a practice in acceptance, but ultimately one at which Crowley was, day by day, improving. He had enough self awareness alongside his perilously fragile self esteem to recognize the strides he had made in such a short time, and he kissed Aziraphale’s brow as his eyes closed in even more prayerful, silent thanks to the unknown. Only weeks ago he had convinced himself that Aziraphale might fuck him a few times for a an unknown sum of money until he tired of him, and yet here he was, sat on a holy altar being told that he deserved glorification, that he was beautiful and sacred and it was an honor to touch him…

“And I should be so lucky to be an offering to you,” Crowley murmured, and he felt himself leak against his thigh; Christ, he was aching, his heart was as swollen as his cock and he was aching, “please, lay me down and use me as you will for your holy needs, Father,” he moaned as a hand squeezed his inner thigh and a thumb pressed into his hammering pulse there, “take me as your sacrificial lamb, and do what you want; take me, please.”

Aziraphale stepped even closer, grabbing Crowley’s hips as he ripped him flush with his own cock, which was now obscenely tenting the holy garments he wore, and Crowley’s mouth was watering in want as much as his cock was dripping.

“How you ruin me,” this was growled against the neckline of Crowley’s jumper, and his breath stuttered as a tongue swiped at the skin just under the wool, “how you ruin and wreck and remake me all at once, my beauty, the architect of my salvation,” one hand left its place of Crowley’s hip and reached, but Crowley scarcely noticed where once he’d been called that.

It really was unfair that Aziraphale was, along with everything else, a poet, and one that routinely whispered things so beautiful they made Crowley want to fall to his knees for new reasons other than the ones that constantly lurked beneath the surface, they made him want to weep into Aziraphale’s lap for even thinking of Crowley in such a breathtaking manner and as the very thing he craved to be for the priest, and his elation hearing this coupled with its awestruck, devoted intonation even subdued the shadowy evocation of an undeniably similar cluster of words that had been delivered with a serenity that would otherwise flood Crowley with chills to recall it: “I am the architect of my own fate; everyone is.”

Tears of trembling, rapturous overwhelm and relief at successfully moving past a memory that would ordinarily incapacitate him bloomed and fell from Crowley’s eyes within the same breath Aziraphale stole from his mouth, kissing Crowley deeply as he gathered his hands and carefully wove what Crowley recognized by feel to be one of the long vines of ivy around his wrists, barely tightening the length of it but pulling it taut enough to meld with his skin, effectively binding his wrists together as Aziraphale whispered, “is it truly as delicate as you once described it? Would it hold you, my dove,” fingertips grazing over his cock pulled a cry from Crowley, and he tried to chase the friction, thrusting his hips forward with a sob as he found Aziraphale’s palm which mercifully cupped him, “or would it be no match at all for what is sure to be your undone writhing upon my altar?”

“It’s stronger than it looks, f-fuck,” Crowley whispered faintly, picturing the ivy snaking around his wrists and his waist and his thighs, perhaps even his ankles as well, all lengths of it lashing him to the altar and presenting him as a perfectly positioned, tethered little bird for his divine keeper to worship as well as devour, “care to test it out?”

It was a testament to just how enamored Crowley was with the notion that he would even think of using the ivy in such a way, that he felt no anxiety whatsoever as the tension marginally increased around his wrists. Somehow it did not feel like a waste, but like a divinely ordained purpose for the vines, it felt right to be constricted by the very thing that also kept Crowley safe in the event that he needed to end a scene, and the sensation of his wrists being bound by a conscientious, gentle dominant was amazing. The last time Crowley had been tied up, it had been with an entirely different shade of green, and he found he was eager to bear a replacement of the color that had once intersected over his skin in ropes of jute and hemp and lengths of leather and that still haunted him.

“Such a dreadful shame we do not have the time for me to attend to you as I want,” Crowley whimpered in dismay as the vines around his wrists went slack and Aziraphale stepped backward, pulling the green length with him slowly enough that not even one leaf fell from it, “and you know I would not use this lovely flora unless I could dedicate the proper time and reverence.”

“Fuck— please, angel,” Crowley didn’t think he could stand it, sitting through two masses without any sort of relief beforehand, “Daddy, please—”

Aziraphale’s eyes had darkened once again, glittering with mischievous intent, and Crowley knew that the priest would touch him no more. The denial was as agonizing as it was arousing, and when Aziraphale slid two fingers into Crowley’s open, begging mouth, Crowley sucked on them vigorously, grateful to be filled in at least some way. It would sustain him for a little while in theory, as would the way Aziraphale was looking at him just then, covetous and heated and hungry.

“There’s my good dove,” that murmur, too, would help Crowley in his quest to be good, “my patient, good little lamb. You can be so very good for me and wait, can’t you?” Crowley’s vision pulsed gold as he nodded, suckling Aziraphale’s fingers like he would die if he did not worship them with his mouth and tongue accordingly, “of course you can. You’re so very good, Crowley, you’re Daddy’s good boy—”

Crowley’s moan was muffled by the fingers sliding in and out of his mouth and fucking his tongue, and his hips bucked as Aziraphale played with his mouth as his need to kneel and serve grew. He was worried about overdoing the Daddy kink, but then when Aziraphale would refer to himself as such, it was almost an unspecified reassurance that no, Crowley was not saying it too much.

“I’m your good boy, Daddy,” Crowley whimpered as Aziraphale withdrew his fingers and closed the distance between them, kissing him as his pleased hum resonated in Crowley’s mouth, “fuck, yours.”

A strangled noise broke inside Aziraphale’s throat, who enveloped Crowley into his arms, cradling him close as he murmured, “mine,” into his ear, sweetly possessive but not at all alarming in its warmly forged strength, and it did the opposite of what that word used to do to Crowley when hissed or snarled at him as if he could even begin to pretend otherwise; it made him melt, it drew a little cry from him as he slumped into Aziraphale’s embrace and grabbed at the back of his chasuble, nodding into his chest as he sniffed, a few more tears falling and staining the front of Aziraphale’s raiment.

Fuck, what a thing it was to belong to someone who wanted to empower him and not pluck the feathers of his wings.

“Come along, my darling,” Aziraphale’s murmur was quiet as he picked Crowley up and helped him off of the altar, brushing his hands over his jumper and straightening the neckline, untwisting Crowley’s necklace carefully before he brushed his thumbs over his tear stained cheeks, “my sweet boy, there you are. People will begin arriving soon, unfortunately.”

“Mmmph, I know,” Crowley grumbled, wanting nothing more than to keep doing all they had started doing on the altar and then the floor and the confessional and the pews, “d’you need my help with anything beforehand?” He reluctantly began arranging the few stems of ivy around the altar, the wetness against his thigh making itself very known as his he willed his erection to fade.

“I think I have it all in hand, my dear,” Aziraphale sounded wistful, and Crowley looked up at him from his task, “though all I want in hand right now is you, all of you, letting those lovely tears fall without hesitation as I make you come on my cock.”

“Jesus,” Crowley groaned softly, close to tripping again, “seems to me you’re more interested in torturing me tonight, Father Fell, since you won’t be able to touch me until later—”

“And only if you’re good, we musn’t forget that, my wicked little bird,” Aziraphale said merrily, and Crowley sighed, shaking his head as he placed the very last bit of ivy where it looked best.

“No, we can’t forget that,” he muttered as he sighed dramatically, pouting in order to hide his smile.

The Christmas Eve vigil mass turned out to be lovely, but to Crowley, all of the masses he had attended had been lovely thus far simply because of the priest who gave them. He still had no real belief in God or any of the rest of it, but the opportunity to listen to Aziraphale deliver his liturgies was a gift Crowley would take advantage of when he could. It was difficult to sit still for so long, that he could admit, but one look from his lover soothed his jittery limbs, a tiny quirk of his mouth into a smile directed at Crowley for even a second relaxed him to the point of sinking into the centuries old wood of his pew.

Crowley also, for once, did not tease Aziraphale during the mass; he did his best to listen to the tones of his voice without getting hard again, which he was mostly successful at, but not entirely. Watching the ivy dangling from the altar waft in the air as Aziraphale walked around was also not the least bit helpful— all it did was make it easy for Crowley to visualize himself tied with it as Aziraphale used him how he deemed fit— but still, Crowley didn’t touch himself anywhere with a tantalizing hand, he did not mouth lewd suggestions that would possibly cause his priest to stumble. Although he was on his best behavior due to the promise of reward later, this was also in part due to being surrounded by more people than usual, and he couldn’t be sure that his antics would not be noticed. Even taking communion (something Crowley did often, now, getting off not only on the sacrilege of his not really being Catholic and the act of accepting something from his dominant’s hand in such a submissive manner) was something Crowley fought to keep chaste today. He had not knelt for communion since that first time, knowing that he would not be able to keep himself together if he did so now that he and Aziraphale were together, but he sometimes did discreetly lick the pad of an index finger if a small gathering of parishioners allowed it, he would look at Aziraphale with doe eyes that surely only highlighted his arousal at the whole thing, but not now; now he opened his mouth, ignored the twitch of his cock and accepted the Eucharist without incident, but Aziraphale’s eyes flashed nonetheless as Crowley swallowed and met his gaze through his lashes in what he’d intended to be a demure way, but perhaps it hadn’t been, according to Aziraphale biting his own lip.

Once everyone had filtered out and Aziraphale had chatted with those who lingered for a few minutes, they were alone again, and Crowley smiled as Aziraphale walked up the aisle towards him, his snowy vestments flowing gracefully with every step.

“Do you know how positively enchanting you are, my dear?” Aziraphale asked once he was once again in front of him, and Crowley blushed, “you were so beautifully behaved, as pious as could be and all the more alluring,” Aziraphale extended his hands palm up, and Crowley laid his into them, palms down, smile and flush both growing as the priest continued, “it seems that you fluster whether you set out to tease me or not; your presence continues to be dizzying in spite of such things,” a kiss to the corner of Crowley’s mouth left him gasping and seeking more, but Aziraphale pulled back, teasing and delightfully pointed, “and I for one cannot get enough of you in my church, whether you adopt a pure and devout air or a wonderfully depraved one, although I must confess,” he leaned forward to whisper into Crowley’s ear, low and burning, “I do miss seeing you on your knees to receive communion, even if it would likely stop my heart to see such a glorious sight again.”

Crowley’s heart skipped with the weight of wanting to kneel for Aziraphale at any given moment, communion or not, and perhaps this was the moment, the one to tell the priest just that. He, too, missed the kneel of that day, he missed the way his body had joyously arranged itself into position and how Aziraphale’s presence kept the trauma of kneeling for Lucius at bay. That still happened now, when he knelt for Aziraphale— the joy and the comfort and the safety— and Crowley loved the sexual undertone and context of kneeling for him as much as he loved the submissive aspect, but he was longing to get on his knees in that devotional manner, too, in the breathtakingly intimate way that may or may not be accompanied by sex of any kind; he wanted to kneel in the mornings or evenings or whenever he was unsettled, or whenever Aziraphale was unsettled and needed grounding, too. He was aching for that next level of connection that could only come with these interactions between a dominant and submissive, and Crowley knew that with Aziraphale, he wouldn’t ever have to worry about his posture, he wouldn’t have to fret over how he looked and presented himself; he could just be, and exist in a space Aziraphale lovingly crafted for him.

“I would kneel for you whenever you liked,” Crowley whispered, looking down at his hands cradled in Aziraphale’s to admire the differences in their fingers and how Aziraphale’s curled protectively around his own, “I want to kneel for you more, to receive anything you want to give me, or even on just to kneel as its own act. I—” he took a breath, testing out the still unsteady waters of sharing his desires that he was navigating more smoothly as time went on, “I want to kneel for you in so many ways, angel— when you’re reading, when you’re stressed, in the mornings when you’re having tea before you have to leave for church,” Crowley’s voice was a wavering a bit, and he was still not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes; he focused on the way Aziraphale’s thumbs caressed the top of his hands, though, tranquil and gentle, “I want to be on my knees in your office under your desk while you write and work on homilies, and I want to kneel when I— when I’m anxious,” he bit his lip, picturing it; sinking into a kneel when he was fighting with himself, wondering if it would be as helpful as Aziraphale pulling him into his arms, “it’s so grounding, being able to kneel for you; makes me feel safe, makes me feel like I’m— well, almost like I’m praying to you with my body, I ‘spose, with— with all of me, like I’m—” finally, his eyes flicked up to meet swimming blue in a shade so lovely it caused him to falter over his words, “— l-like ‘m trusting you with all of me. Does that make sense?”

He was self conscious about it being too extreme, which had been in part why Crowley didn’t mention this until now. It was intense, he supposed, the concept of wanting someone to have dominion over him and especially after his last experience of such, but Aziraphale was not a domineering, impossible to please deity. He was, in essence, true to his name— a guardian, and Crowley wanted to rest his head against his thighs as he fell asleep there in the position his body loved the most, with fingers threading through his hair and maybe even some humming wafting down to his ears in a sweet, thrumming lullaby.

Aziraphale bowed his head then, and his hands tightened around Crowley’s briefly, their grip strong and unyielding, and when he raised his chin, unshed tears shone, catching the candlelight from all around them and holding it within his eyes. He opened and closed his mouth once, then twice, clearly moved, and when he smiled, it was a quivering thing, tender and undone.

Crowley had never loved anyone more.

“Darling,” Aziraphale’s words shook, they stuttered a bit as he murmured, hushed, “my darling Crowley, I would— I cannot even begin to say how much I would adore that, how much it— how much it means to me that you would want to honor me in such a way. I have thought of this, and quite a lot, to be frank,” he raised Crowley’s hands up to kiss them, to whisper over the contours of his knuckles, “but I did not want to assume it was something you were also interested in, I never want—” his eyes closed as if he were in pain, as if it caused him harm to even say it, “I never want to touch on anything in your past that would be upsetting for you to speak of, hence my hesitance regarding some subjects.”

“Angel,” Crowley mumbled, touched; he had wondered, sometimes, if Aziraphale censored his desires in order not to remind him of any trauma, and he had told Aziraphale not to hold back, but the conscientious way in which the priest approached these things regardless didn’t come across as coddling; it was genuinely kind, and Crowley appreciated it, God did he ever appreciate it, “I— I don’t want you to worry about that, but it means a lot that you even think of it, it means— fuck, it means so much,” and it did, it was difficult to begin to describe just how much it meant that Aziraphale was worried he would bring something up that would through Crowley into panic or even discomfort, “just let me say this one thing, because you need to hear it, and I need to say it— you are not at all like my ex, and there are so many things I want to try with you specifically because you are the opposite of everything he was. I can’t promise I won't be…triggered, or able to talk about everything right away, but I’ll try to talk about anything and everything with you, even if I may need some time to gather my thoughts about it. Is that— is that okay?”

Aziraphale nodded instantly, and he wiped a tear that had escaped from his face as he whispered, “oh, my dearest, it is more than okay. Please don’t ever push yourself to talk about anything, and thank you, for saying that. Truly, I— it’s a heartening thing to hear, that I’m not like him.”

God, did Aziraphale worry that he was similar to Lucius? That wouldn’t do, not at all, and Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s cheek, thinking that two elements could not be more opposite than Lucius Morningstar and Aziraphale Fell. He thought of how afraid he had been towards the end, how every breath was poisoned with fear and self loathing and hopelessness, and then he thought of how Aziraphale had never frightened him. He had been frightened by the chance of a deep and intimate connection, yes, but that was different, as was his inherent anxiety when it came to doing the wrong thing in a relationship, but Aziraphale himself had never scared Crowley with his actions or his words; he had only ever empowered him, held space for him and comforted him when no one else would have.

“Aziraphale,” he whispered, now curling his arms around Aziraphale and pulling him close, “you have been healing the broken parts that he tore out of me and left on the ground to disintegrate into— into the nothingness that he saw me as. I’ll say it as many times as you need, as much as you want,” he trailed his lips to Aziraphale’s forehead, where he pressed them to his brow, warm and soft, “you’ve been bringing me back to life when he only took it away, and just— just leeched it out of me,” he shifted his face so that their noses were right against each other, just like he had done when he promised Aziraphale he would not fly so far away from him that he would not be able to follow, when he told the priest he was not going anywhere only a few meters from where they stood right now, “you’re not him, alright? You don’t have to worry,” their eyes met as best as they could this close together, but Crowley saw pale blue and the tear filled shimmer and what looked like relief, “don’t worry, angel.”

I love you, he whispered in his head, I love you, angel.

And the way Aziraphale was looking at him, the way his hands reached up to cradle Crowley’s cheeks as Aziraphale kissed his brow and murmured “my dove, my perfect one”¹ felt exactly like he was saying the same words Crowley only dared to declare in his mind.

Since the next mass was only a few hours away, they had decided to stay on the church grounds instead of rushing to Aziraphale’s home for only a short amount of time. They walked down by the pond after Aziraphale was convinced Crowley’s thick, black wool pea coat was acceptable attire for an outdoor activity, hand in hand as they strolled in a companionable, comfortable silence. When they got to the bench, they each moved to sit on their customary sides without discussion, and Crowley adjusted enough (read: sprawled) so that he could lay his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, sighing in contentment.

How many times had he wanted to do this since last April, how often had he pictured this very moment; leaning against Aziraphale while draped on the bench where they first began getting to know each other, where they spent the most time in each other’s company and where Crowley had begun falling for a seemingly quiet priest whose sexuality, dominance and sweetness were simmering below the surface of his pious veneer?

Crowley drifted a bit thinking about it as Aziraphale hummed (Good King Wenceslas perhaps?), pleasantly warm and relaxed, the evening air kissing his cheeks not so cold that it was uncomfortable. The sun was setting and about half of the pond was frozen; Crowley wondered if it would freeze entirely as the winter went on, and far too quickly came Aziraphale’s voice saying they should get back inside. Crowley wasn’t at all chilled, the combination of his jumper and coat and scarf more than enough, but he didn’t object. He knew Aziraphale still felt badly for their last winter walk ending as it did, and Crowley didn’t want to cause him any anxiety.

The rest of their evening passed in Aziraphale’s office, yet another sanctuary for Crowley as they ate their way through a bundle of butties and pastries from the cafe nearby that they had secured in the afternoon; luckily it had been open on Christmas Eve until the afternoon. The redhead who was always there— Crowley suspected she was the owner, and that her name might be Tracy, but he wasn’t good with names— had seemed wildly delighted to see the two of them when they came in, her eyes lingering on Crowley as they sparkled, and Aziraphale’s entire face had been bright red from the moment they stepped into the little shop and all the way to the church after. Crowley had sipped his coffee quietly on the drive, smirking about whatever was going on there, but he hadn’t pried, amused by Aziraphale’s frankly adorable reaction. Perhaps it was because they had gone somewhere in public together quite near the church, and while Crowley did keep a reasonable distance from the priest in case anyone from the parish was around, it was likely very obvious, the way he looked at Aziraphale; he also could have sworn he saw Tracy wink at Aziraphale after he’d paid and they turned to leave, which she then repeated as she made eye contact with Crowley, smiling conspiratorially.

Then it was nearing midnight, and Crowley kissed Aziraphale one last time before they split up in the nave, lighting the many candles they had set all over earlier in the day and glancing at each other right up until the first people began to arrive.

The candlelight bouncing off of the stone walls of the sanctuary cast everything in its gentle, dancing gleam, and Crowley eventually settled into his customary spot on his pew, waiting and peering around him with interest at those who were filing in to sit. It was far more crowded in the church than Crowley had ever seen it, the pews packed with people of all ages, and there was a buzz around him he’d not yet experienced, either. It was different from the vigil mass to be sure, and the air was spiced with greenery and something else that might have been atmospheric, maybe.

Crowley particularly enjoyed the choir that began singing before midnight, and he knew in his heart that Aziraphale likely had a hand in selecting some of the carols— Lo, how a Rose E’er Blooming felt like a pointed reference to one of the priest’s endearments for him, O Come, O Come Emmanuel was one Crowley had expressed enjoying a little while ago when it had played over the radio and of course, The Holly and the Ivy, which transported Crowley right back to that conversation in the bench about the Advent greens and their first date, the one where Aziraphale first called him “my dear Crowley” and that had ended with Crowley panicking and needing to bolt as he nearly convinced himself too call it all off, that Aziraphale deserved better than a tainted, broken shell of a thing like him.

God, how long ago that seemed to him now. Was it possible to live a full lifetime over the course of four weeks? If you’d asked Crowley four weeks ago, he would have given a definitive no, but now he wasn’t sure. Time didn’t hold the same quality when he was with Aziraphale, apparently. It seemed like it counted for more, somehow— the minutes and the hours that trailed into days spent with Aziraphale were imbued with so much delight, so much kindness and warmth and healing that they undid what usually required years and years. They were rewriting over the scars left behind by trauma, and while they would never be completely erased, Crowley couldn't believe how much they were receding, and how quickly.

When Aziraphale walked out and began his liturgy, the beautifully golden, flickering glow illuminated him much like the sun had done that first mass Crowley sat in on the morning after he’d been held by an angel and had, for the first time in years, felt safe, and Crowley felt that way again as he listened to that glorious voice address the crowd that seemed to hang on his every word. He was mesmerized by the priest as he spoke, his voice somehow projecting enough to reach the very back of the church but was not at all loud, or harsh.

“The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: to them that dwelt in the region of the shadow of death, light is risen—” ²

To them that dwelt in the region of the shadow of death, light is risen— a shiver passed through Crowley as those words left Aziraphale’s mouth, solemn but hopeful, beautiful, and his eyes locked onto Crowley’s as he spoke, pulling yet another shiver from him with their silvery brightness.

He himself had been dwelling in a land of gloom ever since Lucius cast his shadow over Crowley, which really was a death of sorts, really— the death of autonomy followed by the death of self assurance and trust, and the terrible, hollow death of hope— and that he had been walking in darkness with no expectation of light shining on him again. Crowley had slogged through the muddied dimness of his days for so long that the concept of a kind sunlight had not remotely been a possibility or even a thought until the beacon that was Father Fell cut through the fog, just like his eyes were cutting through the pews to find Crowley and hold in gently in his observation, and Crowley smiled as the urge to cry threatened from his throat, the doves in his heart particularly affected this tonight.

The service was lovely, but by the time he went to take communion for the second time within so many hours (which he was allowed to do; he’d checked with Aziraphale earlier, which had earned him a fond smile and kiss to his cheek) Crowley was itching for Aziraphale’s touch. The surface of his skin prickled and sparked under the drag of his jumper, and something about the smell of pine and cedar on his fingers from his earlier arranging sent him to the evening of December first when he had straddled a crying priest in the confessional and kissed away his fears. He didn’t even care how, but he needed Aziraphale to touch him, and soon, especially after Aziraphale dipped the tip of his thumb against his tongue once he’d placed a wafer onto it, a movement that could have been explained away as an accident but which Crowley knew was intentional, beyond any doubt— fuck.

And then at last, at long last after Aziraphale addressed the last parishioners as they trickled out agonizingly slowly, they were alone, and Aziraphale bolted the front doors of the church, effectively shutting them inside its stone walls and candlelight ambiance. He turned and walked up the aisle, and the feral glint in his eye was one Crowley recognized, primal and ravenous, and his knees twitched.

“Good boy,” Aziraphale breathed as he reached for Crowley’s face and pulled him in for a kiss, his hands warm and firm, his mouth searching, “you were so good for me, starling, and if I am not inside you within the next two minutes, I think I may die—”

“Well, that won’t do on Christmas Eve, now would it,” Crowley breathed, returning that sentiment twice over, and they kissed their way up to the altar, hands and arms colliding as they touched and grabbed and squeezed and bucked into each other, and thankfully, thank God, even, Crowley found himself sitting on the altar again, his black velvet leggings pulled down to his ankles as Aziraphale worked two spit slick fingers inside him and sucked on his neck, replanting the fading roses he so often scattered over the skin there.

“I promise that I will take my time with you on this altar soon, rosebud,” Aziraphale vowed as he bit Crowley’s collar bone, “if I had the patience of a decent man I would do so right now, I’d open you up until my fist was inside you,” oh fucking Christ, “but I am not a decent man, and I need you now—” Aziraphale was still worshipful in his touch, but mercifully he was true to his word and and not slow; there was a barely restrained, frantic energy in him as he fingered Crowley open and twisted his other hand round his cock, which was already weeping again, gushing so much precome that its entire length was shining with it. Aziraphale went on to growl that he loved how wet Crowley got for him as he lined the head of his cock up with Crowley’s hole, steadily pushing inside, stretching and stinging and ecstatic, and finally the priest was inside him with a snap of his hips forward, that holy, divinely thick cock was spearing Crowley open to the base as he cried out, at last made into what he knew he was meant to be; Aziraphale’s sacrificial lamb, Aziraphale’s holy dove, Aziraphale’s, Aziraphale’s, Aziraphale’s. The drag of each thrust was a claim, every drive from Aziraphale’s pelvis was one of an ownership Crowley had yearned for, had dreamt of and likely unconsciously prayed for, and he let himself be taken just how he liked as he fell back and keened loudly— hard and deep, almost punishing but edged with so much reverence it only made him feel as sacred as Aziraphale deemed him to be.

“Oh holy fuck, ffffuck,” Crowley wailed as the cock inside him found a perfectly aimed angle that was on the verge of too much, his back curling up off of the altar as his thighs were spread further and pinned open, Aziraphale’s fingertips delving and marking, blessing and bruising, “fucking God—”

“My blaspheming cardinal,” Aziraphale panted as his hand reached forward and rested around Crowley’s neck like a collar, holding him there but not stifling his cries by any means, “fuck, I knew your sinful song would echo so beautifully in this church, that it would reach all the way up into the rafters and compose a gospel all its own,” his forehead was glimmering with gathering sweat, and Crowley wanted to lick it, but he couldn’t move. He was paralyzed by pleasure, he was all but delirious with it as hands slipped under his back and pulled him up, and then Aziraphale brought both of his hands to lay in his lap. He was still inside of Crowley, but his thrusting stopped as he shakily wove vines of ivy he pulled from the arrangement on the corner of the altar between and under Crowley’s wrists, locking them together in an over and under configuration, and Crowley’s cock throbbed, it jumped from the pressure against his prostate and the sensation of being bound. Aziraphale then fumbled beneath his bunched up vestments, his breath coming hot and fast as he looked at Crowley with euphoric eyes, and it was quickly made clear what he’d been doing as he leaned forward and wrapped a gold, twisted cord around Crowley’s waist which he then held in each fist and pulled, bringing Crowley closer as he resumed fucking him even more deeply, his legs held open as they bracketed the priest’s driving, pounding hips.

“Fuck, Daddy,” he slurred as his head lolled backward, his orgasm suddenly right there, glinting and sparking behind his eyes and cresting between his legs, and he was wonderfully helpless to do anything but offer his body and heart and soul to the one he wanted to have all of him, “right there, r-right t-there—”

His climax was one of the most intense he’d had as Aziraphale took him hard on his altar, as he fucked him through it and cooed sweet, adoring filth, his own hips beginning to tremble and jerk out of rhythm as he groaned and slammed into Crowley’s contracting, squeezing hole over and over and over until he froze, throwing his head back while he came, the emptying of his flexing cock pulsing pulling wet, tearful cries from Crowley, who slumped against Aziraphale’s chest, undone and destroyed in the best of ways, in the holiest of them, even, cleaved open and cleansed by his priest who Crowley loved so much he could not withhold it anymore.

“I— I love you,” Crowley sobbed into Aziraphale’s neck, just above his collar and against his pounding pulse point that matched the fevered tempo of wingbeats within his heart, and he found, as Aziraphale’s cincture pulled tighter around his waist, that he was not afraid as he said it, he wasn’t filled with fear of any kind as he confessed on the altar, “love you, love you, love you—”

“Oh, my darling, darling dove,” came Aziraphale’s wrecked reply, his mouth finding Crowley’s bruised lips, and the tension from the cord disappeared as a hand cradled the back of his head and tucked it beneath Aziraphale’s chin briefly, holding him tight and warm and safe, safe, safe against his chest, “I love you, Crowley, I— God, how I love you, my dearest,” he cupped Crowley’s wet cheeks and gently guided him to lean backward so that their eyes could meet, lit by candlelight and reflective tears, his face so impossibly soft and angelic and beautiful, “I love all of you, every single part, and I have for far longer than I knew,” Aziraphale dipped his head to kiss away Crowley’s tears, but it was no good; they were falling steadily, abluting and endless but sweet, “you brought me back to life, little bird, do you have any idea,” his lips moved to graze over Crowley’s trembling ones again, delicate and swollen; “do you have any idea how— how dark things were, before you came? How hopeless, how dead? Thank you for finding me, my Saint Anthony, thank you, thank you.”

They remained like that for a while, Crowley weeping as he caught his breath, pliant and liquid, hands still tied, Aziraphale clutching him like he would never let him go and whispering what sounded like prayers in his ear, and Crowley wished they could stay like this all night, entangled and entwined within each other. He was so at home, so whole like this that he nearly started sobbing anew as Aziraphale started to slip out of him, slick and softened, and he did whine reflexively, missing the fullness, missing the closeness.

“Dearest heart,” Aziraphale whispered as his clumsy hands worked at the ivy, untwisting and untying it so that Crowley’s wrists were freed, which he kissed tenderly, “my dearest, dearest heart; be a good lamb and see to my altar, darling,” he pulled Crowley down from the ledge and turned him around, placing a hand in the middle of his back and pushing just enough so that Crowley bent at the waist, his voice strained but beautifully commanding, and Crowley was all too grateful to obey, he was jubilant in doing so as his legs shook.

“That’s it, my love,” Crowley shivered as Aziraphale’s arms encircled his waist and his chest blanketed his back, whispering into his ear as he supported him and held him up, “I’ve envisioned this so many times, dove, and none of those visions could compare to the glory of actually seeing you lick my spend from my altar…” Jesus, Crowley’s cock twitched in interest even thought he’d just come, his still slick hole clenching as his tongue dutifully slid over the smooth, polished wood, gathering up what holy sacrament his body had not kept inside as the priest’s personal vessel, moaning at the delectable taste of it, “you are so shockingly beautiful like this; good boy, that’s my good boy, my perfect little pet—”

“F-fuck, Daddy,” Crowley whimpered once he’d licked the surface clean, gasping for breath, arching his back and pressing into Aziraphale, uselessly grinding against the front of his vestments, wanting more even as exhaustion pulled at his limbs and his eyes. He could feel more come dripping down his inner thighs; he should have brought a plug with him.

“I know,” Aziraphale’s murmur sizzled on Crowley’s skin like the wax that shimmered at the base of the Advent wreath candle wicks, like the beads that had overflowed down the tapers and pillars set around the church and had burned quite low, “if only I could take you again, and again, and again— let me taste, my sweet thing,” he reached up to Crowley’s neck and twisted it backward with his hand, the space between his thumb and forefinger fitting against Crowley’s jaw as he licked into his mouth and purred, “mmm, lovely; my lovely, lovely boy. Oh, how I love you, Crowley, I love you—”

God, was this real, was all of this really real, Crowley wondered as Aziraphale lowered them both to the floor, moving Crowley’s boneless body with ease and perching him on his lap as the priest leaned back against the altar; he could be hallucinating, this spun gold, candyfloss dream of a night could be a candleglow figment he lit within his cavernous need to be loved, but it was real, Crowley knew as his breathing finally began to even out, as Aziraphale’s fingers shakily combed through his hair and pulled his velvety leggings back up over his still trembling hips and guided Crowley to lay back against his chest between his thighs, it was real. The most dizzying combination of adoration, lust, dominance and love was right here, in the sanctuary of this church that had become one of Crowley’s safe places by the side of his priest who was Crowley’s safest place; no dream, no hallucination, could even hope to be this good, this raw and this intimate.

It was real, and not even his inner dialogue argued, no false evidence of the past reared its head here in Aziraphale’s arms. He was safe, and he was loved.

“Happy Christmas, my most precious lamb,” Aziraphale murmured into Crowley’s temple once their breathing had matched and calmed, his mouth hovering over the tattoo that hid the scar Crowley loved for the priest to touch, to kiss, to bless and redefine, “my beautiful dove, my brightest star, my love.”

Crowley melted into the solid heat of Aziraphale’s torso, snuggling against his warmth as arms protectively laid across his chest, sniffling amongst breathy whimpers and curling his fingers around Aziraphale’s wrists, bending his neck to kiss his hands and knuckles. He was surrounded by cedar, poinsettias, fir and ivy, cocooned by the fruits of the season he had always loved and by the healing wings of an angel he never would have expected to find, whose coming at first scared him but who was now freeing him from the Hell that had plagued and trapped Crowley for years, casting light on that darkest of the darks that had been keeping Crowley locked in their clutches and it all was, he thought, nothing short of some sort of miracle, if such a thing did exist. He supposed it was the right night for such a thing, after all.

“Happy Christmas, angel,” he sighed, more content than ever as he looked out over the candlelit church, more settled, more loved than he had known it was possible to feel, the waltzing shadows on the walls and arched stained glass windows dancing along with the wings fluttering behind the cage of his ribs and a fervent, glowing hope that the time of his walking in darkness and his years of being entrenched in darkness were, at last, over, “I love you, too.”