FAIR WARNING: 1) This story is smutty. Not every chapter, but it'll be there, and it'll be pervasive. Proceed (or don't) accordingly. 2) This is a continuation of the saga begun in "Days To Come," and "The Third Domain." Feel free to skip them... but if you want to know how Crowley and Aziraphale became human, you might want to check them out!

As the story begins, Crowley has brought up a question about their new human bodies (especially his) and reminisces about the entity he calls "Mind's-Eye-Aziraphale," with whom he has had quite the fantastical, lustful relationship over the past several millennia.

Heads up: there's a description of Crowley having sex with someone other than his favourite angel. Take heart - it's still all about Aziraphale.

Also, this chapter may enhance for you (or ruin?) some of the scenes in the episode 3 cold open. ;-)

So, nothing sexy HAPPENS yet, but it's still managing some passable smut, right out of the gate. Enjoy!

INSPIRATION APPEARS

Two human males awoke to the sound of a really annoying electronic song.

The song played for about fifteen seconds, stopped, then started over.

"What the hell is that?" asked the blonder of the two men, without actually opening his eyes.

"Phone," groaned the ginger, who was on the 'sinister' left, as he always had been.

The flat didn't have a land line, and the man who slept on the right side of the bed didn't own a mobile, so when the song started over yet again, he snapped, "Well, get it. It's dreadful."

"Ngk," said the man on the left, as one long arm reached out from under the covers and his hand seized the vibrating apparatus, and killed the music.

"Who is it?"

"Anathema. Sent it to voice mail."

The man on the right, who was thoroughly a man, and nothing else, sat up groggily, and asked, "Why? It could be important."

"She's probably just calling to answer my question," said the man on the left, who was also just a man. "Go back to sleep, angel."

"What question?"

"Mm?"

"What question, Crowley?"

"Does it matter?"

Aziraphale clicked his tongue, and pouted for a moment, with a childish little grunt. When he didn't move nor say anything else for another half-minute, Crowley groaned and turned over, sat up and reported, reluctantly, "I wanted to know about how she keeps fit, all right?"

Aziraphale smiled. "You what?"

"Well," Crowley whined. "I can't just will myself lean and lithe anymore. I have no reptilian stock to fall back on, or had you forgotten?" When he asked this, he did so by pulling back his eyelids to show his very human brown eyes to his companion, illustrating the total lack of serpentine yellow irises, or vertical pupils.

"No, no, I can hardly forget. Well, then, let me know what she says. Because, I haven't been as… well, diligent about willing my body to do things as you have, these past six thousand years," Aziraphale said, suddenly very aware of his own nakedness. "Well, I've had less reason to, haven't I? And, you've probably noticed I've allowed my corporeal form to become a bit…"

"You're perfect, Aziraphale," Crowley lilted. "Whatever you're going to say, just save it."

"Oh. Thank you," said the former angel shyly, with that barely-restrained beam that Crowley absolutely adored, but used to pretend irritated him with its daft innocence.

"Having said that," said the former demon, with a sigh. "It wouldn't hurt for us to find a regime to follow together, so things don't get away from us. We have no idea how these bodies will metabolise, how they will decay. It's not like either of us has a family history or genetics to fall back on."

"Decay?"

"Yeah," Crowley shrugged. "Haven't you been paying attention? Human bodies are made to decay. They begin leaning toward entropy, the moment they're born. In the old days, they used to pray and try to exorcise demons – fat lot of good. These days, they're constantly dodging germs, taking maintenance medicines, and fighting the ageing process."

"Good Heavens," said Aziraphale, staring off into space. "I suppose you're right. 'Leaning toward from the moment they're born.' That's daunting."

"Indeed," Crowley agreed. "Which is why so many of them do things like, say, take vitamins and do aerobics. Or weight-lifting. And ugh, bloody jogging in the park! Now there's a pursuit that looks absolutely torturous, and yet, there they are. Jogging in droves."

"Seems to be a relatively new development."

"Newish, yeah. Cars and television made them all pudgy and clogged up their arteries."

"So, why ask Anathema? Why not just consult a professional?"

"Because Anathema knows that we're coming at this from a position of knowing quite a lot about humanity, and almost nothing about the less-fun aspects of the human body," Crowley answered. "I mean, I forgot that hangovers were a thing, didn't you?"

"I did," admitted Aziraphale.

"She'll answer the questions as though we're working from the ground up. And we are. I know she's not an expert, but I thought maybe she could show me – or us – what she does, and we can go from there, while sidestepping any difficult questions about past illnesses and injuries, and what, in fact, the human body can do. And if we think we're ready, maybe we can consult a pro at some point."

"Ok… not the worst idea I've ever heard. But what makes you think that Anathema has any sort of regime? Other than bicycling everywhere?"

Crowley smirked. "Trust me. She does."

Aziraphale's eyebrows went up, realising what Crowley was saying. "Oh. I suppose I hadn't noticed."

"Well, you wouldn't, would you?"

"Well, now that we're up, you might as well listen to that message," Aziraphale said, climbing out of bed. "I can't go back to sleep now because, well… these blasted bodies. How do humans cope with visiting the toilet a dozen times a day for ninety years?"

He padded into the bathroom and shut the door.

Crowley watched the bare bum as it crossed the room, and felt a welcome twinge between his legs. He hadn't wanted Aziraphale to know he had contacted Anathema last night with questions about fitness, because he knew it would lead to his companion feeling insecure about the shape of his 'corporeal form,' and that was the last thing Crowley wanted. Because the fact was, he hadn't been lying when he'd called Aziraphale perfect – to his eyes anyway. He'd long, long, long ago fallen in a decadent, lustful love with all aspects of the angel, and wasn't any less smitten with the man.

He decided to wait until he could have a few moments alone before checking his voice mail. He didn't want Aziraphale to think he was too keen about fitness, because to him, it was a non-urgent question of maintenance, not of improvement.

Thinking about the shape of the naked angelic body that had just vacated the bed, taking in the evolving scent of his partner in the sheets, and seeing that round, pink bum in his mind's eye made him feel suddenly quite amorous. And also, of course, hardened his cock as the thought always had.

The Aziraphale-induced erection was nothing new to him. In The Garden, they were just acquaintances who had some things in common and were able to commiserate a bit, but by the time of the Great Flood, they were bona-fide friends, and the attraction (at least for Crowley) had begun. He absolutely loved flirting with the persnickety angel, and relished in the barely-restrained beam, the breaking of eye-contact, the subtle hints of pulling-away that Aziraphale would display, while still clearly staying engaged with the demon… in conversation, in ribbing, in competition, in drinking…

One evening, just before The Flood, Crowley found himself in the throes of some really boring sex with a tax collector whom he had spent seven weeks tempting into the act. His dalliance with Crowley, it was hoped, would lead to his ultimate disgrace, and the temporary chaotic breakdown of a small corner of economy in that particular town. The man seemed to be feeling pretty good, but all in all, the whole experience was not going to be worth it to the tax collector, considering that his entire career would be toppled by this one indiscretion. Crowley was behind him, thrusting, grasping his hips, making the appropriate sounds, saying the appropriate words, but practically rolling his eyes with the tedium. If watches had existed at the time, he'd have been glancing at it.

Truth be told, he wasn't sure how exactly this thing would end. His cock was not interested enough in the proceedings to allow him to come anytime soon, and the way things were going with the tax collector, he seemed a bit too nervous to orgasm properly.

And then, quite without warning, a face appeared in his mind.

He wondered later on if he'd nodded off while shagging the tax collector, and Aziraphale had actually come to him in a dream. But it didn't matter how, it just mattered that it happened.

Ah, the angel. That face, that voice, those hands…

One thought, unbidden, renewed Crowley's waning erection, much to his own shock, and it renewed his vigour. He was inspired quite suddenly.

"Aziraphale," he had moaned, accidentally, while suddenly digging his fingertips into another man's fleshy hips.

"What?" asked the tax collector.

"Never mind," Crowley had growled. "Just don't talk."

He closed his eyes and began to thrust faster, imagining the angel's voice in his ear, begging him do it harder and harder. He obeyed the voice in his mind and began pulling the man's hips onto him with such roughness that the tax collector cried out in surprise and probably also a bit of wicked euphoria. The man blasphemed then, in a way that had anyone heard it other than the jaded demon fucking him, he'd have been thrown in jail for his words.

But as it was, no-one cared about the blasphemy – the two of them suddenly cared quite a lot about their bodies. Namely, the heat inside, and the impending release. Although, it was for very different reasons.

With the angel's eyes and lips held in his mind, Crowley had the first truly explosive orgasm of his life. This was the very first punch-to-the-gut, bottle-rocket (if bottle rockets had existed then), blinding, uncorked, scream-inducing climax, of the sort that caused any corporeal being to begin seeking more of it.

He bit his tongue as Aziraphale's name nearly fell off of it again, and before the angel's image could fade into post-orgasmic haze for better or for worse, Crowley held onto it, imagined him begging now to be released, to come, to feel everything he could feel with the demon's body pressed to him. He tugged on the hair of the man in front of him with his left hand, urging him upright. He bit the other man's shoulder, and with his right hand, Crowley reached around to the front, grasping the tumescent cock, and pumped it until he felt something wet and slippery splattering his fist.

"Oh, angel," he groaned in the tax collector's ear, fully feeling the white curls between his fingers, and hearing Aziraphale's blasphemous grunt of obscene pleasure. Fortunately, the man either didn't hear it, or didn't think it was odd, because he didn't say anything, thank Somebody.

And when the tax collector finally collapsed onto the bed, the one he shared with his wife (who had gone to the next town over to visit her sick sister), Crowley regained consciousness, as it were. He realised where he was, and what he had done. More to the point, he realised how he had done it, and who had been unknowingly involved.

It was an odd feeling. It wasn't guilt, exactly, just… a feeling of wrongness. Wrongness was something he was accustomed to, of course, but this was different, and he couldn't put his finger on why.

But what mattered was that the man's neighbour had heard them fucking, and had seen them through the animal skin-covered doorway when he'd come peeping, which had led to the tax collector's downfall in their town, and to Crowley receiving kudos from his supervisors for a job well done.

Similar things happened a few times over the years, though not all of his temptation shags involved angelic fantasies. Not even all of his boring temptation shags involved angelic fantasies. The Aziraphale of his mind's-eye seemed to have a mind of his own – he would visit, or not, whenever he felt like it. He was always of help when he did, though.

And then, a couple of millennia down the road, at some point during Crowley's stint in Ancient Rome, his relationship with Mind's-Eye-Aziraphale changed quite dramatically.

They had run into each other in a recreation den just off the marketplace, and Aziraphale had mentioned eating oysters and then used the phrase, "Let me tempt you." Crowley had reacted to this with bemusement, but had been intrigued, and allowed himself to be tempted. They'd shared a truly unique meal in a new restaurant - the first experience of many, many similar ones over the coming centuries – not to mention some wine, and excellent conversation.

Incidentally, this was when Crowley first realised that he adored watching the angel eat. He found that Aziraphale appreciated his food in almost a full-bodied, sensual way, and that flavours for him were much like the bodily pleasures that Crowley himself enjoyed (such as a warm bath, sleep, and of course, sex).

So, perhaps it was all those oysters they'd eaten (and perhaps the wine) that had caused it in the end, but Crowley retired to his rented bedchamber that night with Aziraphale's yummy moan fresh in his mind, along with the "quick temptation" he would have to perform in the morning.

He knew that tomorrow's task would probably not involve any sex, but as he threw himself onto the bed face-down, he almost wished that he could look forward to a temptation shag. At least that way, there might be a chance of conjuring the angel's lovely face and form in his head, and becoming inspired by them…

But wait. He was one of the few demons with an imagination. Even if there would be no shagging tomorrow, what was to stop him from using his imagination tonight?

And so, he turned over on his back thought about how voracious the angel had looked, eating fresh oysters, and how erotic it had been, listening to him moan over them.

And immediately, there was stirring in his groin.

Crowley had then moaned himself, keening with lust and palming his cock through the toga he wore. He was whispering, "Aziraphale… oh, angel…" and in no time, his lust was tenting his garment – it hadn't taken much.

Crowley took off every stitch of clothing, lay down spread-eagle, and indulged in a fully-fledged fantasy of his angelic counterpart that night.

It began with Aziraphale eating oysters, slurping them hungrily through those gorgeous, taut lips of his enjoying them to the point of indecency. Then it advanced to him serving and feeding the oysters to Crowley by hand, and asking to be fucked on the table where they had just eaten. And so, amongst the other foods, Aziraphale lay on his back with his knees in the air, his own member in-hand, pumping away while Crowley shoved himself in and out like the fiend that he was. The two of them confessed to always having had crazed, lustful affection toward one another, and would come hard, simultaneously, whilst panting and moaning each other's names.

The demon had imagined every sordid minute, in great detail, by turns pulling, stroking, jerking his own cock, the entire time. He saw every hearty thrust in and out of the angel's smooth, thus far unpenetrated arsehole, and he invented every word, every filthy piece of dialogue that they might exchange. He could practically hear Aziraphale's pained, orgasmic breathlessness, as he erupted all over himself several times, lying there on the bed in the boarding house.

Each time, he felt a new stirring in his loins, the images would come back out to play, and the fantasy would start all over again…

Until, at last, Mind's-Eye-Aziraphale, gave his last grunt of pleasure, Crowley came, and he looked down at the careless, wanton mess he had made of himself and the bedclothes…

And it had all been in the wicked, unholy pursuit of hedonism, of self-pleasure, using the image of a truly good, unsullied angel to sate his own filthy need. Aziraphale was a beatific child of the Almighty. He was pure, and innocent, had hailed from Heaven, had earned the right to remain in its good graces. He walked the Earth trying to help, doing blessings, performing miracles, doing the Almighty's bidding, and here was Crowley, lecherously defiling the image of him. Who was he, a demon, even to think of Aziraphale?

And now came the guilt.

This was horrible, even for him. This was beyond his usual brand of cool, detached indulgence. This was highly personal, and a terrible blasphemy. Blasphemy was part of a demon's job, but it felt as though he had forced Aziraphale to commit the same blasphemy, and that was a violation of the angel's trust – a little bit like an assault, even. There had to be a line that even demons shouldn't cross, hadn't there?

Crowley had then rolled over on his side, and burst into tears. The sobs welled up in his chest, one after another, uncontrollable, long, and deeply-wrought. The tears were burning hot, and the emotion was so intense, he thought he might discorporate.

He remained this way – messy upset, guilty, self-loathing – all night.

When the sun came up, he knew he had a temptation to do, so he forced himself upright, and into his clothes, and he did what he had to do. But on his way back to the boarding house, he ran into Aziraphale again. The sight of the angel caused his breath to hitch, so he had initially tried to trot by, pretending not to have noticed him. But it didn't work. He had been forced to stop and talk, but he was restless, and Aziraphale could see that. Even through the dark glasses, the angel could tell that Crowley was avoiding eye-contact, and asked what was wrong.

Nothing, no, nothing was wrong… Crowley was a demon, things didn't go wrong with him, he made them go wrong, eh? Right, then, well, yes, maybe they'd bump into each other again.

He decided to stay in Rome for a while – which became just short of a decade – especially after learning that Aziraphale had returned to the Holy Land. Twice more during his stay there, he had allowed his brain to dive into scenarios with debauched thoughts of Aziraphale, thinking it "would be fine," that the guilt was out of his system, and it would be worth the string of ridiculously forceful orgasms he could have, while revelling in the possibilities, and the staggering charms of the Angel of the Eastern Gate…

And he did have a string of ridiculously forceful orgasms, whilst imagining Aziraphale with a naked body, filthy mouth, and insatiable desires…

…just before breaking down into a puddle of Odegra-coloured sadness.

It became, increasingly, not worth it.

After leaving Rome, it was another century before he dared have another "session" with Mind's-Eye-Aziraphale. But when he did, the same thing happened.

Next, he waited two centuries, then another two. It became a rare, self-destructive "treat" he would grant himself, after enough time had passed. Each time, it would result in a great deal of rigorous physical exertion, which felt so fucking delicious while it was happening, followed by an incredible plunge into guilt and sorrow and shame. And if he should see Aziraphale himself at any point soon after, there was always avoidance, quick escapes, and on the angel's part, feelings of rejection and confusion.

Clearly, those fully-fledged filthy fantasies of Aziraphale were more painful than pleasurable, but there were times when he just couldn't stop himself. The last time had been in 1967, in a seedy motel room, having just received a thermos of holy water, which was waiting for him in the Bentley. Somehow the venue lent itself to overindulgence, followed by regret and crying.

Falling in lust with Aziraphale had been easy. Falling in love with him had come later, and had been even easier. Both feelings were pervasive (and basically mutual, if often buried) throughout the last millennium of their purported friendship. So, of course, there had been thousands of times when Crowley had thought about Aziraphale – even thought about sex with him, at length – when it wasn't an all-out dick-pumping fantasy. Those instances were abundant, normal, and ultimately harmless. They very often took place with Aziraphale sitting right beside him, or across from him. Quite often while the angel was eating.

But going further with his mind and body in high-gear always caused disaster for Crowley.

Mostly, he stuck with generalised wank-fodder if he needed it – usually calling up memories of particularly decadent encounters with women, rather than men, just to be safe – to get him through the night.

This morning, he was remembering all in the space of whatever time it took for Aziraphale to use the loo, these stories, these phenomena that constituted part of the evolution of the Aziraphale-induced erection.

He had one now, and it throbbed insistently as he reminisced about the nasty fantasies he'd had, much to his own great detriment.

But the beauty of it was that now, he could think about that stuff and not feel guilty. He could have fantasies if he wanted… but it wasn't necessary, because he could just reach out and have the man himself.

He lay on his side, and began to stroke his cock, and resolved that he'd let Aziraphale catch him doing it, which would be quite likely to lure him back into bed.

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