When last we checked in on our duo, they were watching "Golden Girls," and discussing the merits of watching modern television in pyjamas. Though Aziraphale has not been, historically, much of a sleeper, he's always appreciated the feel of good sleep-wear, for lounging, puttering about with one's cocoa... or perhaps an indulgent tryst with one's very tempting lover. You know, whatevs. ;-)

Enjoy!

FOR SATIN'S SAKE

Aziraphale was learning that part of being human was eating a lot of unremarkable meals. As an angel, he only ever put fine, lovingly-prepared foods in his body. But back then, he could go days and days without eating, or stop eating altogether, if he so chose.

But when a busy human doesn't have the time to eat because he is studying prophecy, inventorying ancient volumes from the Middle East, or rearranging furniture in order to cater to houseplants, he gets suddenly, annoyingly hungry, and occasionally must eat a quick, salty Cup-o-Soup, with limp noodles and small, disturbing chunks of "chicken" in it.

He had skipped meals as a human, but he didn't like it – skipping breakfast had made him feel faint. So, he had learned to make waffles, fry bacon and eggs, and make toast.

And then, watching a second episode of the "Golden Girls" the previous night in which the "girls" attempt to lose weight, he was reminded that he could not afford to have a decadent breakfast each day, loaded with carbohydrates, sugar and grease. He was already just on the edge of pudgy (though Crowley argued heartily with him every time he said so), not to mention there was a thing called cholesterol… though he wasn't exactly sure how it worked.

He was rinsing a too-acidic salad dressing and a mushroom sauce off the dinner plates, and sighing. This had been a passable meal, save for the dressing. Crowley, who had taken it upon himself to learn to cook for the sake of his angelic companion, was far more adept in the kitchen than himself, had thrown together a sort of stroganoff meal with a lean cut of beef and a bit of egg noodle. Aziraphale had, on occasion, attempted baking with some success, but never had any actual interest in creating culinary delights, only in devouring them. He supposed he'd have to learn to cook more things, and could probably learn to really enjoy it.

He supposed he'd have to learn how to cook healthy things. What would that even look like?

"Do we have a rendezvous set up with Anathema, to learn about… what was the word? Calisthenics?" he asked, as Crowley mopped up the last of the debris from the kitchen table.

"Yeah, next Friday. There's a little park not too far from here."

"Good," said Aziraphale.

"You don't have to, if you don't want to, angel. You know that, right?"

"I know," Aziraphale said, shyly, opening the dishwasher. "I want to. It's only wise for a man my age..."

"There are no men your age," said Crowley. "Except me."

"You know what I mean. Fortysomething is where Michael dropped us. So, metabolism and cholesterol…"

"Oh yeah, cholesterol," Crowley mused. "Forgot about that."

"Well, as I understand it, things aren't dire now, but in the next decade or so, I'll be glad to have nipped it in the bud. And Crowley, perhaps we should go a bit easier on the alcohol."

Crowley made a bitter face, and sighed. "Ugh, being human is hard."

"Indeed," agreed Aziraphale. "Listen, I have a gift for you."

"Another gift? Be still my heart."

"If you'll finish loading dishes in this… apparatus, then I'll go fetch it, and meet you in the parlour."

"Ah yes, episode two tonight," Crowley responded, taking a dish out of Aziraphale's hand. The latter smiled, a tugged at the lapels of Crowley's designer jacket, feigning straightening it, then kissed him on the cheek, and left the kitchen.

The previous evening, after their surprising foray into "The Golden Girls," the pair had begun watching a limited Netflix series about a group of four university students who had been forced to work together on a project. Each one had a unique superpower, though none of the other three knew about it – each thought they were toiling with their own semi-shameful secret. At the end of episode one, the four of them were sitting in the university library, discussing plans for their project. The student with the ability to create air currents had accidentally got a bit too emotional and a gust of wind had torn up the book they were working with. The last frame was of the other three students staring at him with surprise and terror.

"Oh! Are the other three going to find out about Brayden's power, and will they then open up to one another?" Aziraphale had asked.

Crowley had chuckled. "Well, it's cliffhanger, and it's meant to make us ask that very question. Although, my guess would be, no, that won't happen this early in the game."

"Well, what do you suppose is causing them to have these powers?" asked Aziraphale, excitedly, almost with the voracity with which he would inquire about the ingredients in a pie filling.

"I reckon that issue will become part of the intrigue and mystery of the series, angel," Crowley had answered. "Didn't you read periodical serials back in the day? It's the same sort of thing."

"Yes, I suppose I did," Aziraphale answered, happily. "And I suppose now you mention it, 'cliffhanger' is a word that hearkens back to those times."

After that, they had discussed watching a second episode, but had decided to wait until the following night... which had now become tonight.

And so, tonight, Crowley finished loading the dishwasher, then ran it, and he and Aziraphale arrived in the parlour at just about the same time. The latter was wearing a set of pale grey satin pyjamas, clutching a shopping bag from Harrod's. He held it out to Crowley.

"This is for me?" Crowley asked.

"Yes, my love," Aziraphale responded, with a delightedly. "A minor creature comfort, for settling in with some good on-screen serial theatre."

Crowley chuckled, at his companion's insistence upon calling it "on-screen serial theatre," refusing to admit that there was such a thing as "good television," and took the bag into the bedroom to change. Meanwhile, Aziraphale went back to the kitchen to pour two glasses of wine.

Again, they arrived in the parlour at just about simultaneously, and this time, Crowley was dressed in black satin pyjamas.

"So, what do you think?" asked Aziraphale.

"I like it," Crowley answered, coolly.

"I wasn't sure how you'd feel about the button-up top, or about us matching exactly, so I decided to find a variation for you. I mean, not that anyone would see us…"

"I noticed that. Thanks."

Aziraphale set the two glasses on the coffee table, then did something he rarely did. In fact, what he did was usually part of Crowley's possession/seduction routine, and had been for ages and ages: he walked around his partner, and looked him over. Though, Aziraphale's objective in doing so was less about possession or seduction, and much more about admiring the clothing, and how it fit. At least, that's how it started.

Crowley's variation was a v-neck tee-shirt-like top, made of stretchy, soft rayon. It fit like a glove, and Aziraphale couldn't help but run his fingers across Crowley's stomach, arms and back, feeling the fine fabric against the lean, sinewy body he loved so much. "Oh, that's lovely," he cooed.

"I agree," Crowley replied, softly, standing uncharacteristically still, allowing himself just to be touched.

The bottoms were loose-fitting satin, and when Aziraphale took a second spin around, his hands now explored the tight bum that fit in his hand like an apple, and a bit of the thigh below. It all felt so different, slippery and delicious under the cover of the silken material. He ran his hands down the sides of Crowley's legs, then round to the front, and stopped.

"No pants, I notice," Aziraphale sang, as he came back round to face his partner. He also noticed then that there was a slight bulge in the front of the black satin trousers that hadn't been there before, probably induced by his hands exploring as they had… but he decided to ignore it for now, and try to put his own respondent desire into check. This wasn't supposed to be about lust. It was supposed to be about comfort.

"No way, angel," Crowley said, fingering the fabric at his hip. "I'm not letting anything get between me and this."

"Very wise."

"Don't tell me you've still got those linen things on underneath?"

"Oh, no," Aziraphale insisted. "I'm like you: satin and skin."

They locked eyes, and a goofy moment of mesmerized, adolescent infatuation passed between them, during which they both wondered if they should scrap episode two, and take full advantage of the satin-on-skin moment…

But ultimately, it was Crowley who stopped the lust-train, by taking his lover's hand, and pulling him toward the sofa. He knew that Aziraphale had been looking forward to this combining of creature comforts, and was determined to deliver.

Aziraphale sat down on Crowley's left, which hardly ever happened. He took one glass of wine in his hand, and leaned back. He placed his bare feet on the coffee table as Crowley arranged the television for episode two of 'The Quad.'

The episode began with Brayden the wind-conjurer arriving home, and angrily slamming his belongings down onto the kitchen table, and cursing. A middle-aged man appeared, calling him "son," and making small-talk that revealed that he knows all about Brayden's power. The young man ranted about not being able to control himself, and asking his father what happens if he loses it when it really matters, or if his friends don't so readily accept his stupid, improvised lie next time.

The following scene was about the two female members of the group of four, having coffee and talking in a stilted manner about what Brayden had done, each clearly trying to suss out whether the other thought that the event was a terrifying abomination, or a cool, unique take on nature.

Crowley remained entertained by Aziraphale's wicked-obvious commentary, such as, "Oh, now we're finding out that Brayden isn't alone after all!"

"Yeah, it's kind of sweet. Batman has an Alfred," Crowley muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind."

"You know, it seems to me that each of the girls is wondering whether she would be accepted by her friends if they knew about her power, and that's why each of them seems to be probing the other for an opinion or reaction of some sort."

"D'you think?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said, emphatically.

And Crowley wondered how long before the commentary got old. Ultimately, it didn't matter, because for now, Aziraphale was very happy and learning how to unwind a bit.

About midway through the episode, Crowley leaned forward and took his wine glass, and when he leaned back again, he placed his left hand on Aziraphale's thigh, and stroked rather absently with his thumb. Then, with all of the fingers.

After a couple of minutes, he said, "Ooh, now this does feel nice. No wonder you had your hands all over me."

Aziraphale just sighed, "Mm-hm."

Crowley's hand wandered further to the left, and around the thigh, stroking and squeezing, no longer absently.

"Flesh through satin," he mused. "Who knew?"

Aziraphale could clearly see Crowley trying hard not to overtly sexualise these moments – the closeness, the pyjamas, the evening that had been designed with a bit of everyday intimacy in mind. He could feel his companion holding back, and reckoned it was for his sake.

He appreciated this. But he also couldn't blame Crowley for being stirred by it. Perhaps it wasn't a particularly sexy situation (or perhaps it was), but their relationship was still new… all of this was new to them, and their desires were hair-trigger at the moment.

Slightly distracted, they managed to get through the episode, and Crowley asked, "Would you like to continue? We could do another one."

"I would like that," Aziraphale said. "But first, more wine?"

"Sure."

Aziraphale took both glasses back to the kitchen, and returned with both refilled. He set them on the table, but before he could sit, Crowley perched on the edge of the sofa, and wrapped his hands around the backs of Aziraphale's thighs, and pulled him in closer.

"Sorry, angel, I can't take anymore of not touching you."

"That's quite all right," Aziraphale whispered, as Crowley laid his head against him, and locked his arms round his bum. He plunged his fingers into the soft red hair, and pulled, and was rewarded with a low, sensual groan from the depths of Crowley's throat.

"That makes me hard," he mused.

"I know."

Crowley then let his hands rove over the round bottom underneath the satin trousers, and the thighs and calves, the back up again. "I can't believe how good this feels." He pulled back and then did the same down the sides of the thighs, now locking eyes with his angel. He smirked a bit as one hand wandered into the area between the thighs where a bulge had been forming. He stroked the burgeoning erection through the satin, and Aziraphale groaned, allowing his head to loll back, and his eyes to close.

Crowley's manipulation resulted in almost an immediate, completely hard cock jutting forward from Aziraphale's body. The latter moaned, and let a hiss of "Yes," escape his pink lips as Crowley's fingers savoured the sensation of cool satin enveloping an engorged phallus.

Though, he could not help but take advantage of the position in which he was sitting. He was at eye-level with Aziraphale's navel, and practically drooled with hunger.

He undid the bottom two buttons of the light grey pyjama top, then tugged on the bottoms until Aziraphale's purple-headed cock bobbed in his face. He wasted absolutely no time burying it in his throat, and pressing his nose against his lover's body, with a delicious, voracious moan. Crowley thanked Whoever that his old reptilian lack-of-gag-reflex was still in force, now that he was human.

But this particular idyll didn't last long, because though Crowley thoroughly enjoyed pulling back and forth, unsheathing then re-burying Aziraphale's cock, moaning, sucking, tonguing the precome-leaking hole, pumping pleasure out of his partner with his mouth, he began palming his own hardness through the satin trousers. Again, he marvelled at how sensuality became heightened with just a bit of cool, smooth, fine, fabric, much in the same way as a lubricant. He had always enjoyed the sensation of having his dick in someone's hand (even his own), although with some saliva, or olive oil, or soap (back in the old days, anyway) or some lovely modern KY, everything changed. It was a different experience…

And tonight, with Aziraphale's little creature comfort, he'd found a new facet.

Then, he was reminded of something Aziraphale had said a couple of nights prior. The fact was, the imperfect angel had never learned how to get himself off. Crowley was sure that he'd be a quick study as he had been at every other aspect of pleasure, but for whatever reason, he had not yet been able to bring himself to take his orgasms in-hand, so to speak. He had even lubed up and toyed at his back door with a glass sex toy – and then inserted it and left it there! - but had decided to try and will away the urgency, which must have been excruciating.

Crowley released Aziraphale's cock with a wet pop, and pulled the waistband back up, not exactly concealing, but no longer exposing the protruding member.

"What's wrong?' Aziraphale asked, breathlessly.

"Sit down," Crowley told him, not stopping his manual attentions on himself. "Beside me."

Aziraphale, as usual, did as asked. "Why?"

"It occurs to me that this is another teachable moment, angel. Lean back a bit, let your cock stand up inside your satin bottoms. Like this." Crowley then demonstrated his favourite position for having a good wank.

Aziraphale tried it, but he looked a bit uncomfortable. "Like so?"

"Yeah, sort of, but… well, angel, let me see you stroke your cock."

"Really?"

"Yes," Crowley insisted. "Just touch it with your fingertips. Pinch gently through the satin, and tell me you don't want to touch it more."

Aziraphale took the covered head of his dick between the tips of his thumb and forefinger, and moved in circles slowly. Immediately his posture began to look more relaxed. "Oh, that is nice."

"Mm," Crowley replied, doing the same. "Now let your fingers wander. Do what feels good."

"How far do I go?"

"All the way to the end," Crowley answered, flitting a naughty eyebrow at him.

Aziraphale's eyes met his partner's while he stroked. "All on my own?"

"You're not on your own – I'm here. And I'm watching. But in future, you have another tool, so to speak, for when you are on your own, and your thoughts consume you. Or when you're with me, but I'm not getting to you fast enough. Or if you need to relax. Or you're in the shower and you start feeling a bit… you know. Just thought you might like to learn this bit of the sexual repertoire. It might seem basic, but, well, you missed instruction on wanking 101, back when your body was new, and jumped straight to the… "

"Advanced level?"

"Yeah. Well, six thousand years later, but yes."

"Well, seeing as how I missed the self-teaching stage, I'm very glad you'll be here to watch." He adjusted his position, sinking into the cushions a bit more. "You can make sure I don't go wrong."

"You can't go wrong," Crowley breathed, then moved over to the other side of the L-shaped sofa, so that he could see his companion more easily, without having to turn his head.

Aziraphale's fingers moved smoothly over his satin-covered member, and he moaned. "You were right – it's hard to stop."

"Mm-hm." Crowley mirrored his actions.

They both continued to pleasure themselves for a while, and eventually Aziraphale got to a point where he seemed to be all alone in his own mind. He tried different things with his fingers – flitting all five over the head, one after another. He pinched, then he pinched harder. He held the base, then toyed with the head with the other hand. He whispered to himself, "Oh yes – that's lovely," and he moaned without compunction. His language became expressive, and Crowley delighted in hearing this – the "Oh my... oh fuck!" that would fall out of his exquisite angel's mouth, and the occasional, "So good…"

Once in a while, he did something that prompted Crowley to give a strained, sensuous chuckle, or moan, "Oh, angel," while he gave himself the same treatment – a bit of satiny self-pleasure, an unexpected indulgence.

Crowley relished in watching his angel uninhibited in this way – this lascivious self-administering of pleasure that he had never experienced before. There was nothing like a good wank – knowing precisely how to move, for the maximum effect, the guaranteed drive toward explosion, the exacting movements that not even a familiar lover could deliver every time. To know that Aziraphale was feeling that, the perfection of uninterrupted masturbation… he was ready to come surprisingly soon.

But he edged. He held himself on the brink, for a minute, then pulled back. He took a deep breath, and relaxed, then started again. He had learned all manner of self-control techniques as a demon, and enjoyed the back and forth of this, the rise and fall, the anticipation of his lover's release…

And he fully intended to watch Aziraphale make a total mess of himself before he let himself go.

But then, quite suddenly, Aziraphale ripped the fabric away from his distended flesh, and began simply pulling hard on his exposed erection, looking for release. He grunted, and bit his lip, and for the first time, watched his own hand as he wanked toward the finish-line.

When he did this, Crowley gasped, involuntarily grabbed his dick hard, and almost came in his trousers. But he found the wherewithal to parallel Aziraphale's actions quickly enough to spurt his milky come into the air, and sully the outside of the garment, rather than the inside. All the better he reckoned, as he groaned, and pumped out the last bit… if he was going to ruin a clean pair of trousers, he'd rather watch it get ruined.

Aziraphale seemed oblivious to his partner's orgasm, and continued careening. He braced himself differently on the sofa, and began to thrust his hips up and down, in addition to moving his arm up and down.

Crowley swirled his fingers lazily about in the pools of come that had landed on his stomach and shirt, and watched. "Fuck that hand," he whispered, though it was loud enough for Aziraphale to hear. "Oh, you bad, bad angel…"

And when Aziraphale's slippery white cream shot out all over his own fist, it was with a crackling groan of, "Oh… oh no… here it comes…"

Crowley gave an involuntary groan of his own, and shoved two fingers in his mouth to taste the emissions he had let out just a few moments before. He licked the splats of come off his fingers hungrily as he enjoyed the show, Aziraphale finishing, letting out the last oozes of his own pleasure, and then snapping to, and realising the spectacular mess he'd made.

Fortunately, he responded with a bit of drunken laughter and a joke about keeping the dry cleaner in business.

A small bit of smut intertwined with our creature comforts once again... just to make your day! How about making mine, now? Leave me a review and I'll love you forever!

Thank you for reading!