Chapter Text
The sun hung low over Soho, but very few of its rays managed to pierce through the cluttered windows and shelves of A.Z. Fell & Co. The random patches of sunlit dust, drifting around in the narrow walkways where customers ought to be, should have been a welcome sight— but as late as it was, Aziraphale found himself praying for someone to walk through the door and break the day’s monotony.
It didn’t help that he’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed, well before his alarm was supposed to sound. Now he sat alone, bitter, and far too hungry to make any sense of his thoughts, which meant reading would be just as tiresome as leaving the shop to hunt for a meal. All he could do was settle at his desk where the sunbeams didn’t reach, and hope something enticing wandered in before his hunger got the better of him.
Aziraphale was good at waiting, but he breathed a sigh of relief when the chime of the shop’s bell finally pulled him out of his daydreams.
He looked up a second too late; all he saw was an empty shop, the visitor having already disappeared into the forest of tilting shelves. Aziraphale rose from his chair instinctively, keening towards the sound of creaking floorboards to pinpoint which section they’d wandered into. He hesitated to rush out too eagerly to meet them— he certainly didn’t need a reputation of good customer service lest people actually start coming and buying things, but his patience was worn down thinner than it had ever been.
The man he found browsing antique recipe books was not the sort Aziraphale pictured to walk into his shop for anything other than directions to get out of it. His all-black clothes looked tight enough to be a second skin, except for the bulky leather jacket that looked at least two sizes too big for him. His shoulder length hair was pulled away from his face into a half-up bun, revealing a delicate snake tattooed on his cheek and a dark pair of glasses he had absolutely no need to wear indoors.
To look as effortlessly handsome as he did surely meant there was some vanity to blame, and as bafflingly gorgeous as he was, Aziraphale didn’t have the faculties to make vapid small talk about the new releases he certainly didn’t stock. He dithered at the end of the aisle, wary of getting any closer and catching the man’s eye, but managed to do exactly that the moment he turned back towards his desk.
“Oh, hello!” the divine creature chirped at him, his red locks bouncing when he threw his head up to meet Aziraphale’s eye. “D’you work here?”
Aziraphale fretted mindlessly with the fraying hem of his waistcoat as he relented closer to the customer.
“Yes, what can I do for you?”
The leather-clad stranger snapped his random book shut and slotted it back on the shelf without a second glance at it.
“Any chance you’ve got Agnes Nutter?”
Aziraphale blinked.
“The Nice and Accurate Guide to the Night Agnes Nutter?”
“The very same!” The man leaned forward, his smile widening with recognition.
Aziraphale stammered as he gestured to another shelf at the back of the store. The man, who looked like the last person on earth to know the name of Aziraphale’s favourite esoteric author, let alone take an interest in her, shot off in that direction at once. Aziraphale drifted along after him to guide the way, hoping he would find his voice by the time they got there.
The customer seemed perfectly happy filling the silence in the meantime, nattering, “The Nice and Accurate one would be a real treat, if you’ve got it. It’s been a nightmare to try and source online, what with all these auto-bidders everyone uses nowadays. Every copy I’ve spotted ends up flying off at triple the asking rate.”
Aziraphale nodded amicably when the topic of internet auctions jittered through his brain like white noise, but quickly found his footing on the topic of impossibly rare books.
“You don’t have to tell me twice. I’m still on the hunt for one of those myself, so I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint today.”
He came to a stop at the cabinet of preternatural history, and plucked up a thin volume of Nutter’s Guide To The Unknown before his customer could express any disappointment. Aziraphale was shockingly invested in whether the man was interested enough to feel any, but equally desperate to stop it from ever surfacing.
“However, I do have some volumes of her almanacks available. I’m not sure if you’re familiar—“
“Oh, these little guys!” He ignored the one in Aziraphale’s hand in favour of grabbing another from the shelf. He flipped it open to a random page, much like he had with the book of recipes a moment ago, but tipped his glasses down to read the page in earnest. “My friend is always on about these, but lost her copies in a flood. Or a fire— something like that.”
Aziraphale automatically drew his volume a little closer to his chest, tightening his grip around it. The thought of losing any of his collection to a house fire was a bone chilling thought indeed, but it was the unexpected sight of such softness of the man’s eyes that had him clutching for a lifeline.
There was something bewitching in the way his forehead creased when he smiled, and how his hips swung with the slightest of movements even whilst standing still. One of his slender fingers meandered down the old yellow page as he inspected it, and Aziraphale couldn’t tear his eyes away from its path.
“Um... I-is there anything in particular you’re interested in?”
The man lifted his head, but his eyeline dallied over the page for another moment before catching up.
“Said friend is doing a… Er… Something of research. An assignment, or a thesis or something.”
He shrugged and turned right back to his page, eagerly flipping to the next one. He spoke so nonchalantly, as if picking up groceries from a list he didn’t write, and yet the enthusiasm he held for Nutter’s works was undeniable.
“If you don’t have Nice and Accurate, then…” He paused to think, then raised a hand to count off his options, “Vampires, werewolves, mimics…”
“Phoukas?” Aziraphale offered before he could stop himself.
The man beamed and stuck up another finger, apparently adding it to the list. “Phoukas, good thought—”
“Your friend is researching shape shifters?”
“Shape shifting mythology, yeah.” He closed the almanack with much more care than he’d given the old recipe book, and even double checked its place on the shelf before returning it there. “So anything you’ve got on the subject would be a help, with a preference for vampire mythos, hence the Nutter. But anything you think would be—”
“Oh, but she really is the best,” Aziraphale gushed as he began plucking spines from the cabinet and stacking them in one arm. “She goes into such exquisite detail, one can’t help but wonder if she was a vampire herself.”
He was veering dangerously close to info-dumping territory, but the man beside him didn’t look deterred in the slightest.
“If only she hadn’t exploded in the 1600s, we could ask her,” he grinned.
Aziraphale felt an undeniable flutter in his chest over the casual knowledge of obscure seventeenth century authors, which he hurried to brush away with a shy chuckle.
“Wouldn’t that be something? I often wonder what she would have to say about the impact of, of modern society, and how today’s technology has impacted and interacted with the supernatural beings of this era, compared to when she—”
The man snorted softly in the back of his throat, bringing Aziraphale’s spiel to an abrupt halt. His smile wore the ghost of a laugh, but he swayed gently where he stood, as if trying to lean closer without committing to a proper step forward. He had an odd look in his eyes — still visible over the top of his tilted sunglasses — more charmed than amused, but Aziraphale certainly hadn’t flashed any glamour that he was aware of. The thought of someone looking at him like that, entirely of their own accord, was… Unfamiliar, to say the least.
“It’s a nice idea,” he finally chirped, grinning a little wider, making the butterflies in Aziraphale’s stomach flutter a little harder. “Except for the part where, you know, monsters aren’t real.”
Aziraphale smiled with tightly shut lips, hiding the fangs that grew involuntarily sharper behind them.
“Of course,” Aziraphale hurried out with a polite laugh. “Speaking hypothetically, that is.”
“So what’s the damage here?” A finger tapped the top book on his pile. “Money’s not an issue for her, but… Well, I wouldn’t want to make it an issue.”
“Right, yes—”
Aziraphale bustled past him to get to the paydesk, where he spread out the titles to inspect each one more clearly. He jumped when the customer brushed up beside him rather than stand on the other side of the counter— he’d heard him approach, smelt the undercurrent of cologne as it intensified at his side, but still couldn’t tamp down the goosebumps that flared when their shoulders touched.
“This one is an excellent resource of Celtic mythos, whilst this one is a bit more generalised. The most you’ll find on vampires is in here.” His fingertip barely grazed the cover of Nutter’s third almanack before the man picked it up from beneath his hand. “With the benefit of a chapter on changelings and some rather detailed phouka history.”
It was also one of the few books that Aziraphale had multiple copies of, which would make it much less painful to let go of.
“You’re a lifesaver,” the man declared as Aziraphale wrapped and bagged the volume for him. “She’s going to be buying me drinks for the rest of my life. I’ll have to bring her by sometime.”
He fixed his sunglasses up his nose and slipped back into that cool slouch once the bag was in his hand, bottling the enthusiasm that had drawn Aziraphale so strongly to him. There was still a hint of it in the air though, and he leant against the counter with a heavy aura; a hesitating question on his tongue.
“It’s a lovely place you’ve got, really,” he stammered, glancing out the window that now offered nothing but lamp light and a sunset smear of blue and purple. “Weird spot, though. Soho. You seem like the type to appreciate the odd phenomenon or two; ever, uh…. Witnessed anything yourself?”
His jitters suddenly made sense, his clear interest in the supernatural shining through whilst flustering not to sound like a total maniac. As much as Aziraphale wanted to indulge, there was only one answer he could safely give for either of their sake’s.
“My dear, I thought monsters weren’t real, remember?”
The man scoffed out a startled laugh, either taken aback by the bastardry in his tone, or— no, there was definitely something to be said for the choice of endearment, for Aziraphale could hear the rapid uptick of his pulse, and see clear as day where his cheeks darkened with a dusty blush.
“Right,” he grinned with beautiful snaggled teeth and stepped back from the counter. “Well, I’ll… I’ll let you know how it goes.” He held up his paper shopping bag with his promise, and finally made for the door.
“...And I’ll let you know if I encounter anything,” Aziraphale called back, unable to help himself. It was worth it to watch the man stumble over his own feet as he turned back to laugh, stammering joyously before giving up on words and offering him a stiff wave.
Aziraphale collapsed into his armchair with his gaze fixed on the nearest window, where the cool white light of the streetlamps replaced the day’s hazy orange glow. He kept one ear fixed on the doorbell as he picked out a familiar Austen from his desk, but simply stared at a single page of Persuasion for an hour before finally accepting that he’d already found what he was looking for, and began closing up the shop.
Even after waiting another few minutes for the last of the sunlight to set, it was remarkably easy to find the stranger again. Aziraphale was so utterly drawn to him, his natural fragrance of patchouli and bergamot lighting up Mayfair like a beacon, and he practically floated the entire way to the neighbouring suburb in search of that fiery red hair.
He slipped effortlessly between the shadows cast by street lamps and car headlights, fading into the city’s periphery. Pedestrians who bumped into him as they passed gave him an apologetic wave, then promptly forgot they’d ever stopped at all. His will was to blend in, to disappear in plain view, and so he did; stalking the streets as an indistinct face in the crowd, even where the crowd was thinnest. He was but a fleck of dust; a flickering lightbulb. Forgettable as an abandoned flyer, peeled off a wall and skittering down the pavement in between all the hurried footfalls.
Aziraphale stopped on a street corner when he saw him. The view across the road was of pubs, bars, a kind of nightlife Aziraphale had yet to accustom himself to, but the sight of him made him stop and sigh with breathless wonder and relief alike. He was there with friends, meandering down the street from pub to pub with a sway to his hips as fluid as vodka. He was talking with his hands, gesturing every which way as he spoke to the man walking next to him, with that wrinkled smile lighting up his whole face again. Aziraphale smiled involuntarily and began down the pavement, following from the other side of the street.
The row of neon buildings with shiny glass walls and velvet roped entryways was intimidating to say the least, but Aziraphale didn’t need to worry himself with them. As long as he kept the red headed stranger in his eye line, he could happily stalk the shadows for the rest of the night, waiting patiently for an opportune moment alone. When the man walked, Aziraphale walked with him, and when he paused, Aziraphale waited.
His attention was piqued when the group of friends peeled away, filing into an old pub and leaving Aziraphale’s prey on the street outside. Aziraphale continued a few steps forward as he watched, tilting his head curiously while the man dug around his pockets to procure a light and cigarette. It was an awfully cold night for it— did people not smoke in pubs anymore?
Aziraphale tightened his overcoat around himself and adjusted the scarf at his neck, hiding where his cool breath refused to fog like everyone’s who passed around him. It was good timing too, because the second his hands pulled the white tartan over his chin, the lenses of the man’s sunglasses glinted in his direction and a smile cracked open his face. Aziraphale froze, but found no one behind him when he glanced over his shoulder, and turned back to see him waving his whole arm over his head in a plea for his attention.
“Hey! A.Z. and Co!”
Aziraphale’s blood ran cold.
(Well, colder)
The man glanced hurriedly up and down the street, then jogged straight across to meet him on the curb. Aziraphale was still frozen in place, eyes widened by the sheer prospect of being perceived when it had been his will to fade.
“H-hello,” he barely managed past the wool of his scarf. “...Fancy seeing you here.”
“Just what I was thinking.” He suddenly stuck out a hand. “Sorry about that, bit rude, but I don’t know your… I’m Crowley.”
Aziraphale stared at the offered hand and swallowed. Crowley. That suited him a little too well. It conjured thoughts of sleek black wings, of ravens and shadows that fell damp upon petrichored earth; of shiny leather like that which wove rivers up the length of his arms, where the sleeves bunched around his elbows and exposed beautiful freckled wrists; winding like the snake on his cheek that postmarked him with ink and scales.
Aziraphale reached out, clasped the hand, scrambling for his manners while he fought back the point of his fangs.
“Aziraphale,” he replied, somehow remembering to smile.
“Huh. Aziraphale... Suits you,” Crowley remarked. His grip was firm and eager, with a second squeeze before he finally let go. “Jeez, you’re cold. I’m not stopping you from getting home, am I?”
Aziraphale hurried to shuck his hands into his pockets as if the temperature was bothering him.
“No, no, not at all. Just…” He faltered again, never having needed to prepare an excuse for such a dalliance— never having been noticed while stalking before. “Just out for a walk.”
Crowley looked at him curiously as he brought his cigarette back to his lips. Aziraphale couldn’t help but watch, holding his breath while he waited for the cloud to disperse through his teeth.
“A little evening constitutional, eh? Got to be honest, I thought you’d be the type to be all tucked up by six.” The smoke came spilling out with his laugh, and Aziraphale exhaled in kind.
A.M., certainly, he thought.
“Not quite,” he said.
“Well, in that case—” Crowley suddenly whipped off his glasses with the haste of someone who’d only just remembered they were wearing them, allowing Aziraphale to see the way his eyes flitted nervously everywhere but his face. “D’you fancy a drink?”
He glanced at Aziraphale once, then focused on his cigarette for an excuse to keep his gaze away and appear nonchalant, but Aziraphale could hear the rising tick of his heartbeat as clearly as the distant blaring of car horns and emergency sirens. If he’d had one of his own, it would be pounding even faster. Of course the man looked even more handsome in the moonlight, nerves and all.
Aziraphale watched unblinking as Crowley tipped his head back, eyed the beautiful stretch of his neck as he exhaled a lungful of cold smoke and warm fog.
“I’d love to.”
Crowley led him over the road to the pub his friends had disappeared into, ground his cigarette under his heel and rushed inside to escape the cold. The place had a bouncer, thank… Somebody. All it took was a single look from Aziraphale, a sudden fizz in the air, and the bouncer was graciously inviting him in with a kind gesture and a step aside. Aziraphale hurried to catch up before Crowley could notice his pause in the doorway.
Inside was far cosier than he’d imagined, with a long wood-topped bar that shone with a rich glossy varnish. If it weren’t for all the television screens mounted on the walls, the old but well-maintained decor made the place feel just like the rustic kind of pubs Aziraphale poked his head into fifty years prior. It was a small comfort that distracted from how giddy and untethered Crowley’s attention made him feel.
He didn’t know what to expect when they sidled up to the bar together, still slightly on edge from being noticed mid-stalk, but he felt strangely light when Crowley just… chatted. He even chatted back a little bit, gradually easing against the side of the bartop the longer they leaned.
“Large Talisker please,” Crowley requested when the bartender finally found a moment to serve them, then turned to him expectantly.
Aziraphale flustered and he hurried to recall something that would be acceptable to order. He wasn’t a stranger to alcohol— the very opposite in fact, but he tended to hoard racks of expensive wine for centuries at a time and indulge when their vintage had matured into something worth waiting for. He couldn’t get drunk (at least, not from the alcohol itself; blood from a tipsy victim was another story), and it wouldn’t sate his appetite, but his love of food and exquisite drink continued to haunt him from his mortal life.
Crowley seemed like the type to know what he wanted, demanding brand over beverage, but Aziraphale settled for something safe that hopefully wouldn’t be an affront on his tastebuds.
“Sherry for me, thank you.”
The bartender whisked away for the bottles, leaving him alone with Crowley’s unabashed stare. He worried at first that he’d said the wrong thing, but watching Crowley’s faint smile dissolve when his teeth toyed with his lower lip filled Aziraphale with a different kind of flutter.
“I hope that’s alright,” he murmured to fill the silence.
Crowley quickly nodded and leaned a little closer. “Yeah. You order whatever you like, it’s on me.”
Aziraphale’s gaze couldn’t help but wander as he exhaled slowly. There was certainly something charged in the way Crowley was looking at him, but the night was young, and Aziraphale’s hunger was persistent. Forwardness was not his forte, even on the best of days, and he couldn’t trust that he wasn’t seeing things through a hopeful lens.
“You… Your book,” he said eventually, eyeing Crowley up and down again. “Lost it already, have you?”
Crowley snorted and rolled his eyes, somehow making the movement look cool as he reached over to pluck up the glass that the bartender offered to him.
“I dropped it home first. Anathema would kill me if I lost it— I live nearby.”
“Oh. That’s nice,” Aziraphale murmured, hurrying to store that piece of Significant Information away for later, and not think too hard about the Significant Look Crowley was giving him. “It’s a lovely area. Much nicer than Soho.”
Crowley’s smile softened into something even more charming, if not sweet. “You live there too?”
“I do. Right above the shop, as it happens. I’ve been there for…” He glanced into his drink, stumbled ungraciously over the maths, then shook his head. “A long time.”
Back on the topic of his shop, the conversation flowed easily. It was safe territory, provided that Aziraphale didn’t go into specifics about when he’d procured some of his favourite items, but in the end, Crowley didn’t seem all too interested in the specifics of what he had to say. He smiled at everything, leaning forward and idly scratching his chin while Aziraphale spoke as vaguely as he could about his large religious and supernatural collection, simply nodding along with most of it and arching his brows whenever he wanted to urge Aziraphale to continue. If it weren’t for his genuine enthusiasm for Agnes Nutter, Aziraphale would’ve assumed Crowley was simply humouring him.
It worked, anyway. He hadn’t even realised Crowley was subtly waving the bartender to refill their drinks until he finished his third glass, and Crowley’s friends were approaching them from across the pub. Aziraphale hurried to finish the last of his sherry with no interest in staying once they whisked Crowley away, but to his surprise, the other humans simply waved their goodbyes to him and gestured in the general direction of their next establishment. They kissed cheeks and bumped fists, then disappeared out the door whilst Crowley remained fixed to his barstool.
“Sorry, did you need to…?” Aziraphale pointed after them, and Crowley waved a hand at him before he could finish.
“Nah, nah, they’re fine without me. I’m not into their scene, anyway; I like a place where I can actually hear people talk.” He glanced around the pub approvingly, then shifted on his stool as if to stand. “Speaking of which… There are booths back there, if you’d like to get more comfortable?”
Those shy little flutters filled Aziraphale’s stomach again, but he was already rising off his seat. He should have been urging him home, getting Crowley to bed so he could slither back into the shadows and feed, but he dreaded leaving the man’s company far more than an empty stomach.
“I’m terribly sorry, I’ve been prattling on all night,” he muttered as Crowley led him through the crowd.
“Bad habit, that,” Crowley tutted. “People will think you’re having a conversation or something.”
“Oh hush, you fiend.”
A hand guided him to sit on one side of the booth, then Crowley set down their freshly poured drinks before slouching in the seat across from him. The subtle change from sitting side by side to sitting opposites shouldn’t have been so electrifying, but now he had nowhere else to look but Crowley’s eyes, and proceeded to get all too lost in them.
As soon as they picked up their drinks and settled into their new seats, the flirting started in earnest. Aziraphale couldn’t lie to himself, he may have danced around it a bit at the bar, but every quip landed that little bit harder when they were tucked away in the corner without the lingering presence of Crowley’s friends in their peripheries. He was still a little shy and far too rusty, but Crowley made it so easy to flirt back while they teased each other about old books and fancy alcohol.
His eyes were incredibly sharp from this angle, giving Aziraphale an up-close view of the way his smile stretched far beyond the curve of his lips. The line of his shoulders leaned much further over the table than necessary, tipping forward into Aziraphale’s space to crowd him with all of his attention. He spoke plenty himself, finding just as much nonsense to blather on about whilst Aziraphale sipped, but stared so openly wanting whenever Aziraphale opened his mouth.
When the toe of Crowley’s boot grazed the inside of Aziraphale’s ankle and sent a jolt of electricity straight up his spine, he realised he was admiring far more than just the man’s neck.
Crowley was so, so delectable, and Aziraphale was so, so hungry. Apparently in more ways than one.
“This has been… Well, that is to say, I wouldn’t mind, er… If you’d like, we could—”
He shook his head at his own dithering and pushed his empty glass across the table. Crowley watched far too amusedly as he stammered around his point, but didn’t leave him floundering for long.
“Would you like to come back to mine for a nightcap?” he offered coolly. Aziraphale exhaled a toasty, wine-soaked breath and nodded, afraid of how his voice might sound if he tried speaking again.
When a hand grazed the back of Aziraphale’s elbow to lead him outside, his whole body felt alive. Figuratively speaking, of course.
Aziraphale’s teeth were eager to sharpen when Crowley kissed him against his apartment door, but he withheld the urge to bite. They’d both need all their energy for this.
Crowley hesitated rather sweetly once they finally got the door open, gesturing awkwardly around the open-plan apartment that barely needed a tour to explore. He shucked off his jacket and glasses, wandering a few steps inside as he muttered offers of drinks, perhaps a little music.
Aziraphale looked straight into his eyes as he shook his head, and practically felt the shiver that ran down Crowley’s spine.
“Thank God. Get in here,” he demanded, and dragged Aziraphale over the threshold, laughing as he was hauled back into his arms.
Something clattered onto the floor when Aziraphale pushed him against the kitchen counter, but Crowley didn’t care to stop and inspect the damage. He kissed back just as furiously, grabbing non stop at different parts of Aziraphale’s body to pull him closer. He tugged his shirt, palmed his hips, and even squeezed around his biceps, suddenly so unrepentant in his desire.
“How do you like to do this?” he gasped against Aziraphale’s mouth, unwilling to break their kiss for even a second. Aziraphale was equally as stubborn, already so addicted to the taste of his lips, the heat of his blush that spread as far as the tips of his ears. Aziraphale’s eyes were shut as he kissed deep into his mouth, but he could feel it so clearly— smell it as it heated up his skin.
“You— inside me,” he confessed, blushing a little himself when he heard his own desperate plea. “I want you… Please.”
Crowley made a small noise as Aziraphale sunk his fingers into his backside and pinned their bodies together. How foolish of him to be so taken with the idea of Crowley’s blood when there was so much more of him to enjoy. He could’ve stood there all night cataloguing every muscle and twitch beneath his touch, but his thoughts turned rapidly into static when Crowley fell away from the kiss to drag his teeth across Aziraphale’s neck. He gasped, eyes wide at the sensation; an unfamiliar, vulnerable touch that he was normally on the other side of.
It should’ve made him panic, flit through thoughts of blood and prey caught limp after a chase, but all he could do was thread his fingers into Crowley’s hair and anchor him there, keening into the pressure of the man’s blunt teeth.
They unbuttoned and unzipped as they started towards the bedroom, too impatient to stop kissing long enough to shed their clothes in one go. When finally bared, Crowley made no comment about his pale complexion nor the plush body that tended to ebb and flow out of fashion as the ages stretched on— he descended the length of him with nothing but reverence, kissing and dragging heavy breaths over every ridge and crease of his body, pouring over them with mounting appreciation that crested at the head of his cock.
Crowley teased him with his tongue, holding just the tip of him in his mouth as he smeared his hand with lube and began to open him on one slender finger. The initial breach was effervescent, curling Aziraphale’s toes and tipping his head back into a pillow in welcoming the long forgotten sensation.
His skin thrummed under the wet heat of Crowley’s mouth, but the spark of the match quickly faded into a pleasant warmth as his body healed unnaturally fast around the stretch.
“Another?” he gasped, wrapping his fingers delicately around Crowley’s wrist. The request, or the touch, seemed to catch him off guard, but he complied with a second finger eased in alongside the first.
He lingered only a knuckle deep at first, perhaps following a personal flow rather than the cues Aziraphale’s body was giving. Desperate to chase the satisfaction that first stretch had given him, Aziraphale wet his own fingers with his tongue then slipped his hand down between his legs. He held Crowley’s eye as he eased one of his fingers in with the warm digits already inside him, sighing delightedly at the comfortable fullness of the three together. Crowley’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates and he moaned around the head of his cock, until Aziraphale felt the vibrations in the back of his teeth.
They worked together at first, hands thrusting in tandem to relax him inside and out, but when Aziraphale tried to nudge a second finger inside, Crowley adamantly pulled him away so he could take charge and let his own four fingers do the work. He was a fast learner too, slipping the full length of them inside, and only had to roll his wrist three or four times before he pulled away to slick up his cock.
Aziraphale had always envied the suave, cool and collected vampires that graced the pages of history and fiction alike. Their brooding silences and hard-set jaws were painted with such appeal he’d never been able to achieve, too beholden as he was to his appetite: by the time Crowley climbed back up the bed to kiss him, to press his cock against Aziraphale’s rim, he was begging.
But even though he was unabashed in his hunger, Crowley still looked down at him with as much awe as any of the lovesick heroes and heroines in those novels, and had no problem giving him exactly what he wanted.
It had been far too long since Aziraphale indulged his body like this. His appetite flared into desperation even as Crowley was pounding into him, startling him with how much delicious damage that lithe frame could do. He winced when he clawed into the man’s back and smelt the trickle of blood before it ever hit his fingertips, but Crowley only groaned and fucked him harder— so he let himself scratch, let his grip tighten, and lifted his hips off the bed to meet every thrust half way.
He was thoroughly exhausted by the time Crowley came, spilling onto the sheets from between his thighs. His arms were trembling to hold himself up, the poor dear clearly at the end of his tether after holding off his orgasm for as long as he could manage. He’d done so well for such a small human; it wasn’t his fault that Aziraphale’s constitution was naturally hardy, and though his body acclimatised to pain in seconds, it sometimes took him far longer to climax. Crowley pulled out before his peak, but his body still felt racked with electricity for the relentless pleasure that had been given to him.
And, even though the man’s limbs were tired and his body was drained, he still sank between Aziraphale’s legs without an ounce of frustration on his face. He looked more akin to awestruck as he took Aziraphale’s still hard cock in hand, his smile flashing brightly before disappearing to wrap his lips around the girth of it. Three fingers slipped right back into him, slicking through his spend and curling the obscene length of them against his prostate, while he hollowed his cheeks with nothing but determination around his dick.
Aziraphale melted into the sheets after he came, his head tipped back and chest heaving with needless breaths. Crowley slithered up alongside him, pressing their sweat-slicked bodies together and draping boneless limbs over his torso.
He jumped when he felt that lovely mouth on his neck again, but this time his stomach was fluttering to return the favour. He could practically hear Crowley’s pulse where it thumped in the fingertips that caressed Aziraphale’s chest, smell the metallic sweetness of it dripping down Crowley’s back. He tilted his head to meet their lips, kissing him fervently in an attempt to busy his lips and stave off his hunger.
“That was— fuckin’ hell. That was something,” Crowley muttered against him. It turned quickly into a laugh. “Maybe file your nails next time.”
There were so many things jammed into that sentence that made Aziraphale’s vision twirl. He decided to push past the boyish glee he felt at the concept of a next time and instead ran soothing fingers down the ridges of Crowley’s spine.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”
“No no, it’s fine,” Crowley hurried, still talking with his lips rasping against Aziraphale’s jaw. “It was— Like I said, that was something. Felt amazing.”
He dropped his head to nuzzle into the crook of his neck, muffling his words in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. Aziraphale sank his fingers into the mess of ginger hair and urged him back up, missing the sight of him too much to keep laying there tangled together. It only took a soft nudge to guide Crowley onto his side, to rearrange them until Aziraphale was spooning behind him, with the warmth of his chest pressed soothingly to the scratches on his back, and burrowed his face into the curve of the man’s shoulder. He breathed him in like expensive perfume, and cupped the curve of his ribs with a broad hand.
“You’re welcome to stay over,” Crowley offered nonchalantly, but Aziraphale could hear the way his heart raced the second he opened his mouth.
“I have to get up early tomorrow,” he apologised sincerely, smiling against his neck.
“I don’t mind,” Crowley replied too quickly. Aziraphale kissed his shoulder and held him a little tighter.
“I’m afraid I don’t sleep so well outside of my own bed, that’s all.” (Or, at all: entirely unable to find peace or rest without the Roman soil he kept inside a hollowed out book beneath his mattress) “I have something of a… Sleep disorder.”
“Oh!” Crowley perked up at the most peculiar moment. “I’ve got one of those. Delayed sleep… Clock… Phase, thing.”
Aziraphale smiled wider against his shoulder, so utterly taken by him.
“Yes, that one,” he mumbled. It was as good as any.
“I get it. Stay as long as you like, though. I sleep like a brick, so you won’t bother me when you get up,” Crowley assured him, and laid a hand over the top of Aziraphale’s to intertwine their fingers together.
“Alright, thank you. And for tonight, too. This was all very…”
Crowley turned his head just enough to catch his eye, and flashed him the corner of a smirk.
“Good time?”
Aziraphale nodded, unable to stifle his smile. “Very. I’m holding you to that ‘next time’, you know.”
“Good. Do. Very holdable, me,” Crowley muttered, his smirk stretching into a fully fledged grin, right before Aziraphale leant over to kiss it away.
They laid together for another few minutes as the moon crept higher in the sky, basking in their own warmth and slowing breaths. Aziraphale tried to wait until Crowley was asleep, but the longer he stayed there beside him, the harder it was to resist the pull of his craving. The man may have been drifting, held barely aloft by the tangle of their fingers, but Aziraphale was pinned awake by the scent of their ebbing adrenaline. The only smart thing to do would be to feed now, before the twinge in his belly turned into an ache.
He shifted upwards slightly, dragging soothing kisses against Crowley’s neck to keep him relaxed and pliant as he crept towards his ear. A touch of hypnosis would keep him settled whilst he drank, and give him the room to return for more once the man’s body recovered in full.
“You won’t feel a thing,” he whispered into his jaw, letting the suggestion fizzle into the air before it took hold in Crowley’s synapses. Then he dragged his lips lower, letting his teeth finally flare to their full, pointed length over his neck.
But before he could even think about pressing a kiss to the vein thrumming in his neck, Crowley stirred.
“Wossat?”
Aziraphale froze.
Never in his immortal life had a hypnosis target asked him to beg his pardon.
When he didn’t reply, Crowley twisted in the sheets to roll onto his back. Aziraphale only just had the wherewithal to retract his fangs by the time the man looked up at him with a drowsy smile and half lidded eyes.
“Did you say something?”
Aziraphale quickly shook his head, just as thrown as when Crowley waved hello and trotted over the street to meet him.
“Just talking to myself. Sorry to wake you,” he excused, then hurried to kiss him and ease him back into sleep. When he pulled back, Crowley was smiling with eyes already shut, an arm thrown languidly onto the pillow above his head.
It was only then that Aziraphale sat back to pay proper notice to the thatchwork of tattoos across his chest. Even those on his arms were entirely hidden by his clothes, and Aziraphale had been far too preoccupied to give them any attention once they’d started to strip down. Really, he should have recognised them for what they were, but the sigils inked into Crowley’s skin were old magic; the equivalent of a foreign, long forgotten language, written in an artfully cursive hand.
The second his eyes landed on the ward against hypnotism, Aziraphale realised what he was looking at. This was not an aesthetic collection of geometry, plucked randomly from a flash sheet in a back alley tattoo parlour. Each one was intricate and intentional, guarding him against all kinds of dangers, including what Aziraphale had just tried to whisper in his ear. It explained him seeing right through Aziraphale’s glamour in Mayfair, spotting him across the street when he had been stalking in the shadows, unseen to every other eye that surrounded them.
Crowley was protected, immune. He was prepared.
He was, undoubtedly, a hunter.
His body may have ached for sustenance, but Aziraphale’s head spared no more thoughts to hunger. He bristled from head to toe, shaken by how close he had come to exposing himself to his most dangerous kind of hereditary enemy. He could only pray that the man wasn’t paranoid enough to line his floorboards with salt or something equally ridiculous but effective. He had gotten inside just fine, so he should’ve been able to leave just as easily— but he was not at all eager to stay and find out what else Crowley might have on hand.
He slid out of bed and crept silently through the house to find his discarded clothes, his hands shaking as he hurriedly pulled everything back on. He moved like a shadow, weightless and fluttering, leaving no trace of himself behind, even whilst part of him longed to stay.
He strayed back into the doorway of Crowley’s bedroom, just enough to peer inside, and let out a mournful sigh at the beautiful sprawl of limbs he was leaving. His hunger was bone deep and desperate, lilting him forward through the doorway even as he swore at himself for entertaining the risk. Below them was a city full of prospects, millions of teeming veins that would not be a danger for him to feast on— and yet his teeth sharpened at the mere sight of the man who stretched languidly across one side of the bed.
Aziraphale sat on the empty side and admired, telling himself that’s all that was allowed. Crowley had flipped onto his stomach and tucked his arms under the pillow, creating a beautiful arch from the nape of his neck to the curve of his backside. Aziraphale wanted all of it, but even sitting there now, held back by a brittle spider web of self control, knew he couldn’t risk a bite when Crowley was in such a shallow slumber.
His stomach churned and his heart yearned. Perhaps just a scrap. He could settle for that; he would gladly settle for that.
Aziraphale leaned down and kissed him, lips tenderly brushing the top of a shoulder blade. When he did not move or acknowledge it, Aziraphale kissed a little lower, trailing his lips until he found one of the scratches he’d inflicted with his momentarily sharpened nails. He parted his lips against the worst of the welts, allowing his tongue to press and linger against the surface of the flesh. The acidic tang of copper bloomed upon his taste buds and his eyes fluttered shut, matching the relaxed sigh that fell from the man beneath him.
One kiss was not nearly enough, but it had to be. He pulled away slowly, peppering another against the small of his back.
“Dream of whatever you like best,” he whispered against his spine.
“Hmmm?”
Aziraphale winced, disappointed that even the kindest of hypnosis fell deaf on Crowley’s ears.
“Nothing,” he murmured, then more softly to himself as he finally left the room, “Force of habit.”
