For Heaven's sake, did Crowley really need to wear his trousers this tight?
Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably, hooking one too-thin finger in a belt loop of said leather garments. In fact, everything one him was suddenly much too thin. Which was why he wasn't sure why Crowley insisted on trousers that hugged his already rangy frame so closely-unless it was a built-in temptation…
It certainly worked on him. He sighed, but it turned to a low growl in the wrong throat. He was very glad that Crowley-now disguised in his own body-had smartly insisted that they head back to their own residences as soon as possible, to avoid arousing any more suspicion, thankful for the privacy of Crowley's apartment, even if it was gloomy as all get-out. He wondered what his counterpart was up to, and if he was having this much trouble.
Earlier at the Tadfield Air Base, as Agnes Nutter's prophecy had fluttered to him on that destiny-laden breeze, Aziraphale immediately knew what they had to do. Their respective Head Offices wouldn't just forget them after Armageddon had been averted. In fact, they would be after their heads as soon as they could. This was no occasion for a slap on the wrist, or a few centuries of celestial probation. No, this kind of betrayal surely meant death for them. And after all this, Aziraphale thought with gritted teeth, he was not going down in a blaze of hellfire.
What followed was their own little Great Plan. Going off the words of the clever human Agnes Nutter, whispering together with heads bent close in a back alley in Tadfield, Crowley and Aziraphale came to an agreement. They would take on the appearance of the other, survive the punishment that was meant for the other, and continue living their lives; on their own side. The greatest switcheroo that Heaven or Hell had ever seen.
Oh, it had filled him with excitement. And fear, so much fear. Could they actually pull it off? Failing meant that this had all been for nothing. In a way, this was like an Armageddon meant just for them. But if they succeeded… Then they were so close to a life together, unbothered, unrestricted. It made his silly old heart flutter in a way that only happened when Crowley was concerned. Not that Aziraphale was sure he suspected. Six thousand years, and he had never acted on what he'd felt for the demon.
When had he first even known that it was love? Certainly the attraction had always been there… It was the Ark. Had to have been. Something about seeing a demon showing concern over the Creatures of the Earth had given him pause. After their meeting, Aziraphale hadn't seen Crowley for several centuries, but never stopped puzzling over their exchange there. Demons simply weren't supposed to feel empathy, or compassion. They were cold, unfeeling, the natural enemy. But he'd been concerned, and it was genuine, and he was beautiful. Surely he did not belong in Hell. He was a misfit.
Just like Aziraphale himself. Loving the Earth too much, indulging in the pleasures of the simple humans. What could he say? He adored it here. The food, the books, the cultures, the music, the dances, the creatures. They were all beautiful and deserving of love. He knew how the other angels regarded him. It had stopped bothering him at least three millennia ago. His pleasures were nothing to be ashamed of. And besides, Crowley never judged.
But would he judge Aziraphale for the deep, aching love he harbored for the demon? That was the one thing he'd never shared with his best and only friend. Aziraphale wasn't positive, but in the softest place in his heart, he feared that a love confession would send the demon for the hills. And he could not lose Crowley. Even if it meant keeping his desire a secret for the rest of their ethereal lives. Just being his companion, his friend, would suffice, if it meant that they could be together.
All of this thought on love, death, and uncertainty had his heart thumping a little too fast for his liking. Aziraphale instinctively looked around the flat for a kitchen nook, craving a cup of tea, but there was nothing like it in sight. Rolling his eyes and muttering something about "Stupid lizard" under his breath, he miracled a cup of chamomile tea into existence, at the perfect temperature. Gripping the cup in his new-to-him hands, Aziraphale marveled at the size of the hands. The long, spindly fingers. Each knuckle stood out. Fascinated as a child, Aziraphale flexed Crowley's hand, just to watch. The tea wobbled in its cup, and Aziraphale glanced at his own reflection.
Sunglasses, though he didn't actually need them. Reddish hair swept up in a peak. A mouth mostly used for snarling or frowning. (Aziraphale was proud that he could make that mouth smile, smirk, and on rare occasions, laugh.) A stronger jaw than Aziraphale had ever had, even when his body had been brand new.
After thinking for a moment, Aziraphale took the glasses off, revealing the bright yellow eyes underneath. Even though he knew that it was him inside the body, behind the eyes, his pulse quickened. A little shiver ran through him, and Aziraphale instinctively shut down the thoughts that pleaded to enter his mind and run their course.
Maybe it was something to do with the form he was in, or the newfound relief that came with being free of the threat of Armageddon. Maybe it was simply the fact that Aziraphale was tired of centuries and centuries of pretending that his human body didn't have needs.
But most likely, it was the very apparent fact that Crowley's body had produced an erection.
It took Aziraphale a moment to place the feeling of what had happened in the too-tight trousers; the human race was still travelling exclusively in horse-drawn carriage the last time he had produced a penis for himself. Seemingly of its own mind, his left hand snaked down to grasp it-and he squeaked at the lightning bolt of pleasure that shot from Crowley's navel and down through the penis itself.
Distractedly, Aziraphale placed the teacup on a sheer black counter. Some deep, long ignored urgent voice in his mind was telling him that this was a rare opportunity. One that would most likely never present itself again. Bedroom. He has to have a bedroom, where-? The disconnected string of thoughts-needs, really, were telling him that this was his one strange, not-really-but-sort-of chance to be intimate with Crowley. Fuck shame. Crowley would never know. Heaven had cast him out. Just like a night out at one of his favorite eateries, Aziraphale was indulging. Although, it had never made him feel quite like this.
Down a hallway that seemed to be miracled to be too long and confusing for the size of the building, Aziraphale found the bedroom. The bed was a California king, far too large for just the skinny little demon himself. The sheets were black silk, and mounted above the frame was, no, it couldn't be-a a full sized mirror.
Aziraphale was panting in Crowley's voice, rough and soft all at once. His dick was making a wet spot in the trousers, which were squeezing him now. The hand that had moved so slowly to the unfamiliar appendage now couldn't seem to leave it alone, palming and rubbing through the leather. Pleasure was pooling in Aziraphale now, but he knew that there could be so, so much more to this. Impatiently unbuttoning the trousers, he slithered out of them, astonished to see Crowley's bare legs for the first time. That took a backseat to the straining erection begging to be freed from his pants, however, and in a running leap, Aziraphale landed on the luxurious bed.
Spread on his back, Aziraphale was overwhelmed with his form's beauty. Crowley's hair was tousled, cheeks pink, slitted pupils blown wide. He had dropped the glasses somewhere, but that was the last thing on his mind. Focused entirely on his reflection, Aziraphale removed the socks, the blazer, the button-down shirt, the loose grey tie, and finally, the boxers. Crowley's erection sprang free as if relieved, dripping and red and forbidden in its intoxicating sex appeal.
Naked on the silk sheets, Aziraphale watched Crowley's nipples turn hard and pert. One of them was pierced with a silver ring. Though he was overwhelmed with the sensation of this penis, the view, he wanted to drag it out a little, drink all the parts of Crowley in that he had never seen before. He let his hands wander all over, pretending that he was himself, in his own body, worshipping every inch. The pale skin, the arms, stomach with a thin trail of red hair. Skinny legs that seemed to have never seen the sun. Aziraphale wanted them cinched around his waist. As if to bring him to the matter at hand, his dick twitched impatiently. Oh, God, oh Satan, what he'd say to Crowley if they were actually together; the secret fantasies all laid bare.
It then occurred to Aziraphale that he could speak in Crowley's voice, and his resolve for patience shattered.
Aziraphale grasped the penis in Crowley's right hand and jerked, letting out a breathy moan that was all the sweeter for being Crowley's. That voice that demanded his sense of right and wrong was tiny now, and he squashed it, letting instinct and lust consume him.
"Angel," he tried, the word coming out in a somewhat hoarse whisper. Pleasure shot up his spine like a slap, and he increased his movements. Crowley was so wet with pre-cum that he had to squeeze for that extra bit of delicious friction.
It had only been moments, but Aziraphale felt orgasm growing near. Crowley's legs began to tremble-he was torn between wanting to slow down and never stop. "Angel, oh Satan, you feel so good, don't ssstop, I'm-" He was gasping for breath now, hips jerking into every thrust. His eyes were fixated on Crowley's gaze in the overhead mirror, breathless, forked tongue slipping in and out as his lungs worked for something, anything.
The orgasm was building at the base of his dick, and Aziraphale had never known such a pleasure. Tears were pricking the corners of Crowley's eyes.
"Aziraphale, oh, oh, oh! I'm right there! Yes, just like that! YES! I'm coming, I'm coming-"
With a strangled scream, Aziraphale came, strings of ejaculate coating Crowley's naked body from stomach to throat. He wasn't even aware that he'd bitten down on Crowley's knuckle until the orgasm had ended, dull pain from the broken skin alerting him to it.
"Such a mess," he murmured to himself once he'd calmed down, moments later. He didn't regret a single second of it. Though he supposed he should pop into a bath to appear decent for the task ahead. If Crowley even had a bathroom in this bizarre excuse for a living space.
With a long, contented, sigh, Aziraphale rolled himself into a sitting position-and that's when he noticed it. The tattoo. How had he not seen a tattoo? On the right ankle, a simple thing. One beautifully etched white feather, beneath which were scrawled the words "IN PERPETUUM ET UNUM DIEM". He blinked at it like a fool, stared for what felt like days.
Aziraphale bit his lip, felt the tears welling in his eyes, fought them, and lost.