Chapter Text
It’s a lovely spring day, just the usual. For once though, there is a waver of uncertainty in Aziraphale’s greeting. Only a minor blip, but he’s taken a little off guard. Still looking, calculating exactly what is going on. “Crowley.”
“Angel.”
“Fancied a change?”
“Yup, just flung around a splash of paint, you know, tweaked a few bits here and there.” Crowley sits daintily beside Aziraphale on the bench and crosses one shapely leg over the other at the knee. He huffs, clearly uncomfortable at being dignified, uncrosses and opens his legs again, spreading as wide as usual. “S'been a couple of years since I had… ladybits. I missed ‘em.”
Aziraphale looks away primly, rolling his eyes, but can’t keep the smile from his lips. This man will be the end of him. Speaking of which, “I don’t like to presume, my dear…?”
He knows it’s not hard to offend or hurt Crowley; he is a lot more sensitive than he pretends to be, always has been. No matter how much he flips his hand around and pretends he’s casual about this whole thing, Aziraphale knows it’s deeper than that. So, Aziraphale refuses to bugger up something so simple as the words humans are currently using for their genders and which Crowley may prefer. Luckily, the demon understands him instantly and for once does not insist on prolonging what could be an awkward discussion.
He just waves a careless hand, “Meh, the usual. Demon. Man. He. They. Snake. Foul fiend. Not fussy.”
Aziraphale nods. OK, that’s fine. Shouldn’t be too hard to keep on top of that. They let a few minutes of silence pass, both lost in their own thoughts.
“Cunt.”
All credit to him, Aziraphale doesn’t flinch. Once he would have, now he reins it in to a small flutter of blinking. “I beg your pardon?
“Not me. Well, yes me, I am a bit of one, but… What do people call ladybits these days? They’ve always had such ridiculous names for them.”
“Like ladybits ?”
Crowley pouts his lips and nods in acceptance. “Touché.”
His hair is long, like it used to be, curling naturally in gentle auburn ringlets. His skin looks softer, but that could be from the lack of stubble. His top lip is a little fuller, his chin possibly gentler, his jaw less confrontational. He has narrower shoulders and wider hips, breasts proportionate to his slender frame, finer hands and feet. His cheekbones are the same though, and his eyes.
Aziraphale wonders on it for a while. Personally, he has never really felt the need to change his body for anything but work. He tends to just do with what he’s given. Crowley has never been settled in his shape, changes it around every few decades, occasionally spends the odd week here and there as a giant snake.
Aziraphale has never once failed to recognise Crowley, in any form he’s taken. This time he’s not changed all that much, but somehow so much at the same time.
“Lunch?”
“Why not?” Crowley’s voice is still low, but not as deep. Aziraphale can’t decide if he likes it or not. Well, he knows he likes it, but preference is fickle. Or at least his is, when it comes to Crowley. Generally whatever he is doing at that moment is Aziraphale’s favourite thing.
They have lunch at a small bistro. Aziraphale eats, his companion does not, apart from picking a few bits off the edge of Aziraphale’s plate. A strand of spaghetti, an olive or two. Shielded golden eyes stare at the young waitress for a few beats too long, and the next time Aziraphale looks up from his plate, Crowley has lipstick on, a shade or two darker than hers.
“You look beautiful, my dear.” He says gently, emptying the last of the bottle into their wine glasses. He does, look beautiful, always. Male, female, neither, both; Aziraphale has always been struck by the beauty of Crowley (except for the 70s - that moustache was awful. He had, however, truly flourished in the early 80s, with the emergence of glamrock and new-romanticism - wild make-up and tight, sheer clothing).
It’s not just physical appearance either; it’s the lazy natural grace of his movements, the sensual swing of his hips, the juxtaposition of his wild gesticulations and delicate touches, his languid energy that just flows along steadily. Aziraphale likes to feel steadied by it.
“Shut up.” But burgundy lips curve into a smile as he takes a mouthful of the wine. His fingers on the bowl of the glass are tipped in matching colour. He leaves a perfect lip-print behind on the glass.
“Would you like dessert?” Aziraphale asks as he dabs at the corner of his mouth with his napkin.
“We could pick up some pastries on the way home.”
“That we could.” Aziraphale doesn’t ask whose home. “I’ll get the bill.”
They’re several bottles of Rioja down, when Aziraphale moves onto brandy. Crowley is lounging on the sofa, long legs stretched along the seat. He has had to put the throw over the back, because his shoulders are bared in the glamorous black camisole top he’s wearing and he was moaning about sticking unpleasantly to the Chesterfield leather. He’s taken his boots off, which is nothing new, especially when slightly inebriated, but Aziraphale watches as he takes a moment to colour his toenails bright red. He wiggles them to watch the shine catch the light.
“So do you feel fenim— femim— like a lady?” Possibly he’s even a little more wasted than Crowley. How fun.
“Not greatly.” Crowley lays his head back to look at the swaying ceiling. “Having ladybits doesn’t make you a lady.”
“Of course not. There are numberous… lots of humans who have the parts that humans have decided are for human ladies who aren’t actually ladies but are humans.” Aziraphale frowns, wondering if he’s making sense, as if it really bothers either of them at this point. They have 6,000 years of experience understanding each other’s nonsense.
“Eggsss-ACT-ly.” Crowley agrees, sloshing his glass around in agreement. “I had a dick, and now I have a cunt. And, yeah, I maybe did it to feel a bit lady-ish-ier than before. But still not. We don’t really fit any of it, do we? It’s hard enough fitting all of us,” Crowley makes a grand gesture, waving his arm around the room in some kind of movement possibly meant to convey the enormity of their natural forms, possibly, it’s quite hard to tell once he gets rambley. “All of that… ness… Into these little squishy bodies. None of the available options ever feel quite right. Nah. I just wanted a change now I can be who I like. And to fiddle with these parts for a bit. Still just me.”
Aziraphale is quiet for a minute then. He often is, when they are drinking. Companionable silence is a wonderful thing, and they have plenty of it. He slurps at his brandy, which is a noise Aziraphale will only ever make when incredibly plastered. He’s trying desperately not to think about Crowley fiddling with his parts.
Crowley evidently knows this, hums and offers, “Do you wanna see?”
Aziraphale nearly loses his eyebrows in his hairline. “Ah, ha, no, I don’t think that will be necessary, thank you.”
He shrugs, draining his glass and belching. “I don’t mind.”
“That’s very kind of you, but m’quite arright.” He will not let himself contemplate the idea. It would be awful. He’d never be able to stop thinking about it. His life would never be the same again.
“Are you a bit curious?” He rolls off the sofa, onto the floor and sort of slithers towards the wine. It’s more of a staggering crawl, but Crowley doesn’t do crawling, obviously, he slithers, he’s a snake.
“Well,” Aziraphale huffs and tips his head to the side consideringly. He is curious, very, always. But he doesn’t want Crowley to feel like some sort of exhibit. He’s interested in whatever parts he has, whenever he has them. He’s interested in everything about him. He will not say that out loud. He has managed for this long. “Yes, but it’s fine. You can just…”
Crowley gives up on the glass that he left behind and sticks with the bottle. Aziraphale frowns at his lack of propriety, but forgives him immediately, as he appears to be somewhat stuck on the floor right now. He has managed to shuffle back to lean on the sofa, but heaving himself up onto it is possibly asking a bit much. “I’ve got lovely tits. And my pussy is..” He kisses his fingers dramatically, like a french chef.
Aziraphale swallows hard. “I’m sure it is, my dear.”
“Really are wonderful things, fannies.” Crowley wriggles his backside on the floorboards a bit.
This is… not going to end well, Aziraphale can tell. He can clearly see the minute rolls of Crowley’s hips and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s doing there. Crowley doesn’t seem to realise that though, fairly fellating his bottle of wine as he drinks and casually pleasures himself on the floor, with the tightness of his own clothing, the seam of his jeans tight and cutting in. Or, does he?
“Would you mind, my dear?” Aziraphale gestures to the movements.
“Not at all, my sweet.” Crowley deliberately misunderstands him, quirks a mischievous grin and slouches a bit further down, raising a hand to rake his hair out of his face. His long fingers stroke delicately at his still sharp collarbone, before sliding decadently down his torso, over the new curves and old leanness, and down between his legs. Oh, Good Lord.
“Not what I meant.” Aziraphale manages not to expire immediately on the spot, but his voice does squeak a little.
Crowley spreads his hips wide, so it’s clear to see the way his fingers part and skim down, framing what Aziraphale can picture as a rather delectable set of genitals. He maintains eye contact throughout, though his eyelids droop as he strokes back up the centre seam with his middle and index fingers.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale warns. Though, unfortunately, he’s a little breathless and it sounds a bit pleading. This is so unseemly, but still, rather fabulous.
He starts to sober himself up a little in preparation to take the demon in hand (not like that!), but is interrupted by the rasp of a zip and gets irreparably distracted. The black, sinfully skinny jeans have been unfastened, and Aziraphale can’t quite stop himself from watching the dark nail-tipped fingers creeping in. Crowley’s eyes completely close as he gets fully inside, and he hisses slow and sibilant. Aziraphale can see the movements of his hand beneath the constraints of the denim and he fidgets in his chair. Crowley is stroking, up and down his slit, teasing at his clit already, and Aziraphale can smell the arousal across the distance between them. His collar feels suddenly too tight, and he fumbles at the top buttons, wondering if he should really be stopping this nonsense a bit more firmly.
“I think you should... remove your hand from… there. Um, right this instant.”
Crowley opens his eyes, glowing and intense. “Ok, Angel.”
But that was far too easy, and Aziraphale shouldn’t have taken him seriously for a second. Because he does as he is bid, but he does it slowly and seductively, raising his hand to his mouth to lick at his used fingers. His tongue is still human, but as it slips between his digits it may as well be elongated and forked, because it is lithe and slippery and Aziraphale has to clench his hand into a fist to stop from feeling the echo of it on his own hand. Crowley raises the other hand for a little more wine to chase down the taste. Fuck.
The scent drifting across the room is divine. Sharp and cloying, sugar and salt, and Aziraphale wonders what the harm is. What is the harm? They’ve been cruising around this for at least the last few millennia. This might be the prime opportunity. He downs the last of his brandy and puts the glass down with a thunk.
“Put it back in.”
A clearly pleasantly surprised Crowley re-licks his fingers and shoves them back down his, now slouching, trousers eagerly. The thrill of contact makes him tip his head back onto the sofa, heavy, lazy. He pulls his legs up, bending his knees, bare feet flat on the floor for grip, and wriggles his hand about in there. It makes his thighs shake and Aziraphale almost has to sit on his hands to stop from going over there to hold them down and still for him.
He wants him to take off the jeans, but it feels so much naughtier like this. Crowley likes naughty. It would seem Aziraphale does too. He is shifting in his seat when Crowley lifts his head again. The eye contact makes Aziraphale’s belly burn, hotter than the brandy ever did. His own trousers feel too tight and he can’t seem to sit comfortably. He sees Crowley shove his hand further into the cradle of his clothing.
“Ungh.” Is a noise. That sort of seems to push out of the demon involuntarily. Aziraphale can only imagine what is going on out of his view. Digits, he imagines, one, perhaps two straight away (because that’s just what he’s like, impatient and needy) have sunk into Crowley’s newest entrance, possibly straight up to the base knuckle.
Aziraphale makes an effort to quirk an eyebrow at him, a smile peeking out on his lips. The lust is making his head swim, in a more pleasant way than alcohol ever has. Crowley puts the wine bottle down beside him to free up his hand to pull at his top, tugging the fabric down to reveal his breasts to the air, to Aziraphale.
Oh, yes, they look like they'd be a perfect handful. Small enough to go braless, but generous enough to fill the palm of his hand. A stunning curve of ribcage at the top, before they fill heavily and round into pale pink-brown peaks. Aziraphale's fingers are twitching with the need to touch.
He is nibbling on his bottom lip, eyes moving keenly, watching as Crowley rolls a hard nipple between a finger and thumb, and pushes the palm of his other hand down against himself to grind on. Crowley lets his jaw drop, breathing heavily through his mouth as he bucks a little from the sensations. Aziraphale wants to taste him, his skin, his sweat, the slick between his legs. He needs, suddenly, to see it. He wants to know how wet he is, if it glistens in the light, if the swipes of Crowley’s hands are leaving smears of shine on the inside of his thighs.
Aziraphale raises a hand, as if to call him to a pause. Crowley doesn’t do that, but he does gasp at him, “What now?”
“May I…?”
Crowley, clearly has no idea what he is asking, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. “Go for it.”
Aziraphale drops his hand and the jeans are gone. Somewhere, who knows where - Aziraphale himself has very little idea. Disappearing things like that is rather instinctive and if he doesn’t concentrate they can turn up in the oddest places. He doesn’t care, Crowley’s new parts are out in the open: distinctive tight, auburn curls at the apex of his slender thighs, pink-kissed vulva, lips open around his fingers, which are obviously pumping in and out, slowly and indulgently. Crowley rubs the base of his thumb, nestled within the wet embrace of his labia, capably over his clit. His legs are shivering as the cool air kisses at his newly bared skin.
“Oh, my darling.” Aziraphale, elbow on the arm of his chair, rests his chin in his hand and does not look away for a second.
There haven’t been many carnal experiences in Aziraphale’s long life, but Crowley has featured in most of them, whether he knows it or not. The great sexual awakening of 41AD, for example, when Crowley drank wine until his teeth stained blue, and slurped oysters, and Aziraphale accidentally grew himself a penis under the table. That was the first.
This is proving to be the most magnificent of all.
Crowley is panting, sharp teeth gritted and back arched. He rolls himself over, pulling up on the edge of the couch to half lie on it, belly down, knees on the floor, arse in the air. He’s still got one hand buried between his legs, and from the new angle, Aziraphale can see his middle and ring fingers plunging in and out between his lips and the shine of his natural lubrication smudged on his skin. There’s a disgustingly delicious juicy squelching sort of sound starting up and it’s having the oddest effect on the angel. He makes the effort not to cup at his own genitalia, because that will be a very slippery slope.
Just when he’d thought it couldn’t get any more lewd, or fantastic, Crowley spreads his legs a little wider and starts rolling his hips. Aziraphale finally has to close his eyes, because that will be the end of him. The demon picks up his pace, moaning into the woolen throw on the sofa, and Aziraphale snaps open his eyes just in time to see the quivering start in his muscles. The moaning pitches higher, more stuttered, and then with pure and devastating undulations, Crowley is coming, wanton and loud. Aziraphale’s cock twitches eagerly, as if it had something to do with it.
Crowley stays where he is afterwards, half collapsed, half lounging. “Could you come and fuck me now please?” He requests into the cushions.
“I’m not sure that’s the best idea.” Although it seems to be the only idea he can think of. And actually, it sounds marvellous.
He whines, “Come on. I’m right here, just… slip it in.”
That would be rather nice.
“Asssziraphale.” Ok, the hissing. If the demon is reduced to hissing his name like that, Aziraphale will not refuse him anything.
He’s across the space between them in an instant. Too fast for human movement. He hopes that wasn’t a miracle, because explaining that away will be a nightmare. Except… he doesn’t have to explain anything to anyone anymore, does he? He can do as he likes. And what he likes is to crowd up behind Crowley, place his hands gently on his round backside and smooth them forward, pushing up over his back, sliding under the bunched up remains of his camisole and drag his fingers back down. He’s going to feel this skin as much as he can.
Crowley is having none of that though, no slowness, no softness. He wrenches up off the floor, grappling Aziraphale, lifting him bodily and dumping him back onto the couch. Crowley straddles him immediately, wrestling with the fastenings on his trousers. Clinking belt, button popping off, and ripping the zip so hard it will likely never recover. He pulls and shoves at Aziraphale, positioning him exactly where he wants him, and Aziraphale can only smile and hold his hands out, waiting to be put where he should be.
“This is not exactly me just slipping it in .”
“Shut up.”
Crowley pulls his own top off, small breasts bouncing (that must surely have been uncomfortable, so Aziraphale reaches up to… comfort them, and they feel surprisingly heavy and unsurprisingly soft in his hands), and wriggles his way forward. A hand roughly grasps hold of Aziraphale's cock. Really, that contact is rather marvellous in itself, and it punches a grunt of pleasure from his chest. Crowley angles it the way he wants it and simply sits.
The slide in is wet and hot and feels purer than heaven itself. Crowley’s head rocks back in ecstasy, a long loud moan dropping his jaw. Aziraphale echoes the sentiment. There is no way this act is not holy. There are tremors of pleasure echoing through his body. He pushes them down with some difficulty.
“You might want to wait a second,” Aziraphale manages, tense. He doesn’t want this to end, certainly not when it feels like he’s waited his whole lifetime for it to finally begin.
Crowley looks at him thoughtfully, tips his head from side to side. “No.” He says simply, grabs hold of the front of Aziraphale’s clothes, all of which he is still wearing, and fucks him. Hard.