After a heart-to-heart in the previous chapter with Anathema on love, patience, and sexuality in supernatural beings, as well as Aziraphale/Crowley's very telling aura...

Aziraphale expounds on rock music, and Crowley apologises for ruining the world. Aziraphale practically brims with lust and Crowley gets a very nice surprise when they get home. :-) Read: a bit of smut.

(The smut might seem unnecessary, and I'll admit it was unplanned and just sort of came out of nowhere. I took that as a sigh that it "felt right" after the motor show, and the day they've had. I hope you'll agree. :-))

Oh, and this chapter sets up two more creature comforts.

Enjoy!

OUR CUPS RUNNETH OVER

Aziraphale tried his best to explain to Anathema how and why his aura appeared red and throbbing whenever Crowley talked motor-show-ese, and how it had nothing to do with cars. He felt he didn't do a very good job of explaining, though at the same time, wondered why he cared. What was it about Anathema that made him want to divulge? Was it simply because she had helped them so much in learning about their humanity? Or perhaps the fact that she seemed to be able to see the truth eventually, anyway?

Sometime after that, Crowley and Newt found them, and announced that they had notified a sales associate of an intention to buy the light-blue Camaro, and that he'd be back with the paperwork momentarily.

"Okay, cool," Anathema said, standing up. She walked up to Crowley, took his hand, stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek and said, "Thank you for helping Newt choose the right thing. You're a gem. I mean that. Both of you are."

"Thanks," he said, charmed by her as usual, but also a bit confused. She now took Newt's hand and they walked away together, to stand by the car and wait for the associate to return with paperwork. Crowley said, with a big smile, "She thinks I'm a gem. No one has ever said that to me before."

"I think you're a gem," Aziraphale offered lightly.

"Too little, too late," Crowley joked.

"You know, Crowley, you should acknowledge what high praise that is, coming from her, considering she blames you for all institutionalised misogyny since the beginning of time."

Crowley's jaw dropped. "I… I… I've said I was sorry like a billion times!"

"I know. I've heard the story. Adam was asleep," Aziraphale said with a smile.

"It's true. I was on a schedule! I couldn't bloody well wait for him to open his eyes after the sun had already reached its pinnacle in the sky, now could I? But Eve, she was an early-riser. And humankind would have been just as buggered if it had been him tempting her!"

"Crowley, I know – I was there, remember? Anyway, I told Anathema that – well, the thing about Adam sleeping – and also pointed out that you're not responsible for how the humans interpreted it, and chose to apply it, once the story got written and distributed."

"You did? Because no part of me wants…"

"I know," Aziraphale lulled. He patted the cushion to his left, inviting his companion to sit. Crowley did, and Aziraphale spoke. "As you have probably already guessed, she and I have been having quite a frank discussion. Mostly about you, and how I feel about you. I think that knowing what she knows now, she feels quite close to you. I'd guess that she's already forgiven you."

"How you feel about me? Well, that's quite the personal topic, for the likes of you, angel."

"She read my aura. What she found was somewhat embarrassing. But she reminded me of all of the times she's answered our disquieting questions about being human, which was very effective in coercing me into answering hers."

"And what did your aura say? That you're barely holding your burning desires at bay when you're near me?" Crowley asked whimsically.

"Essentially, yes," Aziraphale admitted. "She may have used the phrase, 'burning red and throbbing.'"

Crowley laughed out loud.

"Referring to my aura, not… anything else," Aziraphale corrected frantically.

Crowley moved a bit closer to his partner. He put his arm round the back of the sofa behind Aziraphale, and leaned in to whisper, "So, my showing-off is working, then."

"I should say so," Aziraphale answered, shifting a bit, with the onslaught of hot breath and innuendo in his ear.

"I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm doing it to help Newt, and I think he's paying attention."

"He most definitely is. Anathema used an expression... something like, Newt has a non-sexual infatuation with you."

"A man-crush? Well, yeah, that's pretty bleeding obvious," Crowley said flippantly. "But no matter why I'm doing it - this impassioned art-connoisseur gearhead routine (which is actually totally genuine)… well, it's the whole reason you're here, is it not?"

"Yes, it is. You should know as well, Anathema also knew about the episode in Claygate Common on the way down here."

"I imagine she did. Something like that has got to show up on one's aura."

"Evidently it does."

Crowley smiled, and laid his head back for a moment. He could hear the Rolling Stones playing over the sound system. "Tell me, what would happen if a Queen song came on right now?"

Aziraphale took a deep breath and imagined he could hear the phrase, 'Ooh, you're making me live! Whatever this world can give to me…'

"I would feel well and truly immersed in you, even more than usual."

"And if I asked you to accompany me to a toilet cubicle to… get immersed?"

"I suppose I would have no choice," Aziraphale breathed.

"I wonder if the deejay takes requests."

"Crowley." It was a gentle scold.

The two of them sat in silence for about a minute, and then Aziraphale said, "You know, it's not just you and the Bentley that make Queen rather an exception to my non-liking-of-modern-music rule."

"Really?" Crowley asked, with interest, moving slightly away, so as to be able to turn and talk more effectively.

"Freddie Mercury, it must be acknowledged, had a voice worthy of the West End."

"I would agree with that."

"He was a strong lyric tenor if I ever heard one. And I always found their music rather more meticulously-rendered than any other rock 'n' roll I've ever heard."

"Meticulously-rendered?"

"Their harmonies remind me a bit of Barbershop Quartet, which takes a decidedly taut understanding of melodic intervals, not to mention an excellent ear."

"Interesting," Crowley cooed. "Do go on!"

"Their arrangements are somehow symphonic, or seem to lend themselves to a symphonic absorption by a trained ear, if you will – that would be me, of course. And if nothing else, the melodies do stick with you."

"Angel," Crowley said, shifting positions so as to lay his ankle across his opposite knee. "Would you be interested in a Queen cover band?"

"What is a cover band?"

"Cover bands are groups of people who tour around in costume, playing the music of famous, classic bands. Like Queen, the Beatles, Led Zeppelin... They try to sound as much as they can like the band in its heyday, and replicate the experience of seeing them. It can be a laugh."

Aziraphale smiled. "What a brilliant idea, given that the band is no longer touring, and the principal singer is, in fact, deceased. Brilliant, that is, if they are competent musicians."

"The band is called Seen Queen. The front-man – or the principal singer, as you call it – sang with Saddler's Wells Opera for a season and a half. He was in the chorus, but still. One of the guitarists is also a Suzuki-trained cellist, who participated in a Yo-Yo Ma masterclass."

"Well, you have to be fairly elite to do that."

"I know."

"You need a recommendation from a tenured music professor at a leading university."

"So it's safe to assume they're competent musicians. What do you say?"

"I'll give it a go," Aziraphale said, with a smile.

Crowley smiled in kind. "Excellent!"

"On one condition."

"Yes?"

"The London Philharmonic is performing Stravinsky's 'Rite of Spring' this Thursday night. I'd like you to accompany me."

Crowley smirked. "Fair enough."

"The ballet is not being mounted, just the symphonic piece."

"I don't care," Crowley shrugged. "Ballet, I could take or leave."

"Lovely, it's a deal, then," Aziraphale said, delightedly. "Music, as you know, has always been a great comfort to me."

"And to me."

"A creature comfort I suppose? Given that humans have been driven to produce it, and other types of art, as a way of keeping civilisation alive, a way of keeping sanity about the human animal, almost. It's like it seeps from their pores – the rhythm, the need to dance and sing…"

Crowley sighed. "And angels and demons are generally immune to its charms. Except for those of us who bothered to keep an open ear and mind. Actually, I take that back. They do have the occasional dance party in Hell. But it's hideous."

Aziraphale giggled. "Hideous how?"

"What do you mean 'how'? It's a dance party… in Hell. The music is awful, as is the dancing, and…" Crowley let air escape through his lips in lieu of continuing.

Aziraphale giggled again. There was a long pause while the two of them sat again, comfortably without talking for a couple of minutes. Then, Aziraphale broke the silence. "I suppose it's time we shared music with each other. Perhaps someday I can find out what a Velvet Underground is."

"Well, I'd probably have to get you drunk first, but okay."

Aziraphale stared off into the middle distance for a few moments, then said, "Pity we never went to a performance together back when what is now called 'classical' music was the popular music. Back when we actually shared taste."

"Yeah, that is a pity. I heard 'Rite of Spring' in Paris in 1913."

"No! So did I!"

"It was very controversial. A very primal piece of music – I remember women in the audience fanning themselves, including the socialite I was with. And her girlfriend. And as a demon, I recall feeling rather chuffed that I didn't have to do any tempting – the rough, pounding, insistent music had done the job for me."

"I can imagine."

"Parts of it get under your skin… you can feel it in your bones."

"Yes," Aziraphale agreed, nodding his head gravely. "Do you know, I had the same thought on the way down here when we were listening to 'Another One Bites the Dust.'"

"It's something that all good music has in common, I think."

"I think you're correct about that, my love."

Newt drove a newly-restored Camaro out of the building toward the west gate of the motor show. The steering wheel was oriented like that of most cars driven outside of Britain, so he very quickly got flummoxed and had to ask his American girlfriend to drive, with the promise that he'd get the hang of it.

"It's not like it's a digital clock or something," he joked.

She rolled her eyes, and pulled into traffic.

But before leaving Chichester, they had been invited to a Queen cover band and to the London Philharmonic to hear sometime-controversial Stravinsky music. Newt liked Queen well enough, and had got the distinct impression that Crowley was more than just a casual fan of theirs, and so he enthusiastically accepted for the both of them. Anathema was fired-up about 'Rite of Spring,' calling it a "pagan anthem," and claiming to feel kindred with the piece.

For their part, the formerly supernatural beings did not indulge in any more sexual coups in the car on the way back to London.

They saved it for home.

Aziraphale's bodily desires had been teeming for most of the day, even with their cathartic stop in Claygate Common. A whole new soup of sexual energy had been churning within him since arriving in Chichester, what with Crowley's automotive discourse and the ride home in the Bentley. The closer they'd got to London, the more tightly-wound he was feeling.

Case in point, they passed the first quarter of an hour after closing the door to the flat, just there, in the foyer, without even turning on the lights. Aziraphale spent the time on his knees, and Crowley with his back against the door, more surprised than he had been in a long, long time, being pleasured into a helpless stupor.

Aziraphale, having learned his lesson about self-control (namely, that attempting too much of it generally caused him to orgasm before he could get out of his pants), unbuttoned his own trousers and serviced himself with his right hand. He sucked his lover's swollen cock with the same rhythm as he stroked himself off, and moaned, as Crowley often said, like a slut, as he did so.

His nimble tongue, tight lips and teeth, and skilled hands ensured that for the second time that day, Crowley went cross-eyed with sensation, and shot a torrent of thick cream into his throat. And also that he himself splattered the doormat (and the door, just a little) with his own gratifying release.

Complete thoughts became nebulous mush, and even guttural expletives died limply on Crowley's tongue.

And when they were finished, Aziraphale sat back on his heels, licked his lips delectably steadied himself and asked, "Wine?"

Crowley gave a harried laugh, and asked in kind, "Wine? That's all you have to say? After doing THAT to my Egyptian throw rug?"

"What on Earth else is there to say?"

Crowley laughed again in a somewhat exhausted manner, then said, "I dunno, angel. You've truly surprised me… I'm still… well, I don't know what to say."

Aziraphale smiled indulgently and stood up. He leaned against his lover, their exposed, waning erections pressing together. He kissed the long, sweaty neck just below the ear, and whispered. "You wound me up. You saw to it that I'd feel the need to devour you... with my mouth, and perhaps later, other parts."

"Jesus, Aziraphale," Crowley hissed.

"I'm a pleasure-seeker and a quick learner. When are you going to stop being so shocked at what an insatiable bastard I can be?" He batted his eyelashes as he took a step back.

"I hope never."

"As do I. So, wine?"

"Yeah. I'll get it. Meet you in the bedroom."

"Really?" Aziraphale asked, sceptically.

"Sure, I…" said Crowley, standing up straight. He quickly realised he was a bit shaky on his pins, and his hands were unsteady. "Okay – point taken. You get it. I'll have a lie-down and try to convalesce."

"Good man," Aziraphale said, standing, and heading for the kitchen.

By the time Aziraphale arrived in the bedroom with a bottle and a corkscrew, Crowley had already stripped off most of his clothes, and was lying on the bed in his pants, still breathing a bit heavily.

Aziraphale stopped and admired for a few moments, and then sat down on the edge of the bed and began to twist in the corkscrew. As he did, he rather absently hummed 'You're My Best Friend." Crowley smiled.

The cork popped out and Aziraphale took a sip straight out of the bottle, and handed it to his partner, who did the same. He kept on humming, and stood up to get out of his clothes as well. First the jacket, then the waistcoat, followed by the bowtie. Crowley watched, and drank.

"Don't go too far with the wine, Crowley," Aziraphale warned. "You know what happens when…"

"I know, I know," Crowley practically spat. There were times when he really missed being a supernatural being, and the instances when he had to think about limiting his alcohol intake was high on that list. He continued to watch with interest as clothes hit the floor. Then he said, "You know, it occurs to me, angel…"

"Yes?"

"Well, no offence, but if you dress like that at a Queen cover band concert, well… you and I might have to sit in separate rows."

Aziraphale stopped what he was doing and stared at Crowley flatly. "That's a nice way to talk to someone you love."

"Sorry, but you'll stick out like a sore thumb."

"I usually do. I've grown accustomed to it."

"I know, but… you and I have both agreed to get a little bit out of our comfort zones. It's a rock 'n' roll concert – why not dress the part?"

"I suppose there's a certain logic to that."

"It's not the sort of place where you want to show up looking like an English dandy from 1854. I mean, not that anyone would get weird about it, it just wouldn't be… appropriate. People might take you for some sort of cosplayer."

"I'll have to take your word," Aziraphale commented, now getting out of his shirt.

"Besides, I quite fancy the idea of… dressing you."

"Dressing me?"

Crowley smiled. "We share clothes as a creature comfort as well, don't we? I love style, I love fashion, I love cool. And… I love you. I've always wondered what you'd look like if…" And then he looked Aziraphale over, slowly, hungrily.

"In that case, Crowley, I might as well tell you, I feel that your usual manner of dress would not do at all at a performance of the London Philharmonic. I don't think you're bound to find anyone else there in leather trousers."

"You might be surprised."

"Now now," Aziraphale scolded, stepping out of his trousers. He moved forward and joined Crowley on the bed, taking the wine, and swigging from it. "A refined evening of symphonic music calls for refined dress. And I know you love your high-end trendy brands and whatnot, but that's not what I'm talking about."

"Okay, what do you propose?"

They were now both lying on their sides facing each other. "I'd like to buy you a suit," Aziraphale said delightedly. "How long's it been since you've worn one?"

"I dunno… seventy years?"

Aziraphale ran a hand down over Crowley's bare chest and shivered, keeping his eyes on his lover's body, and on the waistband of his Calvin Klein underwear. "Yes, I think… something well-tailored, fitted. Very twenty-first century of course – I wouldn't ask you to wear what I wear."

Crowley smirked. "All right. Let's spend the day at Harrod's someday soon."

"A capital plan."

The rest of the evening was spent very much this way – bed, wine, and occasionally Crowley played music on his phone – both classical and rock, and the two of them discussed.

And after enough time had passed, and when the mood struck again, they found themselves deliciously tangling lips and tongues. They got out of what scant clothes they were wearing, and formed an even more delicious tangle of arms, legs, hands, and moans. Aziraphale had already announced a desire to devour Crowley with "other parts" than his mouth…

"Tell me what you want," Crowley panted, between wet kisses, as they became desperate.

Aziraphale pulled away and began to position himself on his hands and knees. "Get thee behind me, foul fiend."

"Oh," Crowley moaned. "I fucking love you."

Crowley did as asked, got up on his knees and spent a bit of time licking the tight pink hole in front of him. He probed it with his tongue, throwing Aziraphale into 'slut' mode again, with groans, filthy language, and begging. Then Crowley stretched the puckered opening with his fingers, using a proper lubricant this time.

Eventually, hearing his lover beg to be fucked sent him over the edge. With a shaking hand, he drizzled more lube between the perfect round arse cheeks and into the hungry, readied hole, before sinking his hard oozing dick in with a grunt. Aziraphale, dropping his head lazily forward, groaned, "Oh yes. This is what I've been wanting – needing – all day."

"To get filled?"

"Mm, filled by you," Aziraphale moaned, wriggling his backside just a bit.

"Bright red and throbbing?"

"Positively swimming in the bright red and throbbing!"

Crowley began pounding that tight hole and held nothing back. He wrapped his hands around fleshy hips and pulled them back over and over, impaling the incredibly sweet, sometimes demanding, insatiable angel of a man before him with impunity, fucking him hard, grunting, hissing. Every little bit of tension and control, such as it was, was destroyed. Destroyed… in big slippery crashes and loud slaps of flesh.

Both men cursed. Saw stars. Moaned each other's names. And they did it all again and again until they both came. Hard. Aziraphale heard a deep, visceral groan, and began to feel the telltale pulsations of warm, slick pleasure being loosed into him. This pushed him right past his breaking point. Another creamy mess spurted all over, mucking up another bedspread…

And they both fell to the side when they were finished, panting as though they'd run a marathon.

For Crowley, there was laughter, which, as usual, set Aziraphale giggling as well.

They held hands for a few moments until catching their breath.

"Do you know what, Crowley?"

"Mm?" Crowley mused, on the verge of sleep.

"You might think me a tad pernickety for saying so…"

"No!" Crowley joked. "No way."

"But tomorrow is Sunday, we have nothing in particular to do, unless we choose to, and I think it would be nice to have a good lying-in. Maybe some Mimosas in bed. Perhaps gravlax on bagels. Fresh melon…"

"That sounds great," Crowley slurred.

"But I would not like to wake up to an empty wine bottle sideways on the nightstand, a stained duvet, and clothes strewn all over the floor. I know it's been quite a lovely night for the two of us, but…"

"Seriously? You want to tidy up before falling asleep?"

"No," Aziraphale said. "I propose we move across the hall to the other bedroom. We shall wake up to lighter tones, a tidy room, and clean bedclothes."

Crowley sat up and looked at him with one eyebrow raised. "What if you wake with another bout of morning wood?"

"Then we'll bungle it all up, but after we've awakened and appreciated the tableau."

With that Aziraphale, in splendid nakedness, stood up, and held out his hand. Crowley took it, and allowed himself to be helped to a standing position. For a moment, they stood and locked lips, but then Aziraphale led them out the door. They shut off the lights in Crowley's bedroom, crawled between cool, untouched sheets across the hall, and dozed off soundly.

A couple of thoughts now...

I don't usually do this, but I would like to recommend a video to you. On Youtube, there is an absolutely lovely animatic (I think that's what it's called – a montage of mostly still, hand-drawn, comic-book-like images) of Crowley and Aziraphale, set to the song, "Devil's Backbone." It's a beautiful song in the first place, but with a man's voice, and in the context of Aziraphale's particular plight, the pain and intimacy portrayed in it will make you ache! Please check it out!

Friends, silence is the worst thing for a writer - please let me know you're out there, and that the effort I've put into getting time to write, as well as just getting this damn thing posted, has been worthwhile. :-) I have been hearing CRICKETS lately on this story! It's very demotivating.

Thank you for reading!