Author's Note—So, if you look at the cover photo, you'll see the picture that this was based off of. You have my friends to thank for emailing it to me and giving me this idea… *shakes head in mock disappointment* Enjoy!
For some reason, whenever Crowley and Aziraphale did those sickeningly sweet things that people in relationships always seem to do in the movies, it was always at Aziraphale's bookshop. Crowley hated to admit it, but it did happen, especially when Aziraphale wanted to catch up on his weird television shows. The demon liked to think that it was because Aziraphale was always a little…well, incredibly a. depressed, or b. terrified, and instead of allowing Crowley to do what he did best and seduce him, he ended up asleep on the couch with his face in Crowley's shirt. Yeah, that's what he liked to think. But when one looks at it realistically, with an exhausted, thoroughly pleasured angel in one's bed, one can see why said angel would prefer to keep the slightly less pure and of the relationship at the demon's apartment. Not that Crowley minded at all.
There was a lot Crowley didn't mind when it came to his and Aziraphale's somewhat restructured Arrangement. Such as the way, after a particularly enjoyable evening, Crowley would lie on his stomach and Aziraphale would trace the intricate pattern of the snakeskin tattoo over Crowley's spine. He had gotten it on a whim, sometime in the late 1970s, because he had been incredibly bored. Besides, if he ever grew tired of it, he could simply will it away. Contrary to popular belief, he hadn't found it that painful, but that was one of the perks of not being human.
A small, contented smile tugged that the corners of Crowley's lips as his eyes, for once not hidden behind his usual sunglasses, slid shut and he focused on the light touch of a manicured finger floating up and down his skin. He almost whined at the loss of the sensation when he felt Aziraphale shift next to him, that same finger tracing a new pattern over his bicep. "Crowley, dear?" the angel's tone was curious and just a little bit…amused?
"Yeah?"
"Since when do you have an image of me tattooed onto your body?"
Crowley's face reddened. "Since…since last week," he mumbled, half into the pillow. "Kinda surprising that you didn't see it before."
It was Aziraphale's turn to blush. "Yes, well…I was…otherwise occupied… That is not the point," he said, moving closer to inspect the mark. "You do know that I no longer carry the flaming sword, do you?"
The demon cracked open an eye to look at the angel, watching him as he inspected the ink with an expression reserved normally for the inspection of first-edition books and flawed Bibles. "Yeah," he answered, "but I liked the sword. You looked cool with the sword. The sword was sexy."
"Thank you, dear," Aziraphale chuckled. "Though I am curious as to why you chose to do this. You could have simply settled for one of those wallet-sized photographs."
"Couldn't pick a favorite," Crowley said casually, leaning over to softly brush his lips against Aziraphale's.
The angel smiled into the kiss and pulled away, running a hand though Crowley's somewhat messy hair. "I'm flattered, dear," he said, going over the pattern a second time. "I'm assuming you are aware of the fact that tattoos are permanent?"
"Yeah, that was kind of the point," Crowley's face was pink, but his voice was steady. They understood that Crowley could get rid of a tattoo if he really wanted to, but it was kind of like willing away a stain on one's shirt—you'd still know it had been there. The demons, having had enough conversation, pulled Aziraphale closer to him and hissed into his ear, "Now how about round two?"