Crawly worms his way back up to Earth with a shocky gasp and phlegmy cough. Dirt and Hell-soot from all the agitated tunneling he'd had to perform to accomplish this most-recent, half-baked resurrection cling to his scales and stop up his facial pits, and no amount of full-body wriggling and careful nosing at some nearby moss can fully dislodge it.
He looks about to get his bearings, and to see and sense if there might be somewhere convenient to manage a proper cleansing. He'd aimed his ascent to emerge in the lee of the Eastern wall, putting his singed faith in Aziraphale's continuing benign regard of his presence that he wouldn't be smote on sight. But, he doesn't feel the static crackle along his Hellish senses that signals an angelic essence is nearby, and when he tastes the air, the scent of the angel is at least a day stale.
Probably, Aziraphale's moved on—recalled to Heaven like the rest of the cherubim guarding the gates, or sent beyond the walls to establish a base camp in one of the areas on Earth where human activity is predicted to concentrate in the next few centuries.
Crawly's disappointed Aziraphale isn't around, and that's a fairly mortifying realization. He'd been hoping to gloat about being assigned to follow along after Adam and Eve, since the first "make some trouble" assignment had gone down so smashingly. It was either gloat or curl up into a ball and go away in his head for a little while. Either way, only time will see the lingering sting-scrape feeling of being under Lucifer's direct regard fully fade, or the lingering miasma of sulfur and mold that pinches his lungs when he tries to take a full breath clear away. And Aziraphale always makes for a great distraction, whether to tease or just lurk near and watch as he putters about; Crawly finds the angel's particular scent co*cktail of helium-flash heat and feathery mustiness relaxing.
The Garden is eerily silent now that not just the humans have departed but most of the animals have been shooed off and out into the wider world. The air used to be chock-full of the chirping and buzzing and cawing calls of all sorts of creatures, but now there's little more than the quiet rustle of the breeze through the trees. Crawly finds himself automatically ducking under the drooping frond of a bushy palm of some sort and coiling up tight. It helps him feel fractionally less exposed to whatever eyes might remain, now that there aren't nearly so many distractions to mask his presence.
The lack of distractions—animal or angelic or otherwise—and the almost mournful hush that pervades the Garden, means that—after his pulse has slowed down a bit—Crawly's able to hear running water coming from somewhere closer to the center of the space.
Water—now, that sounds like a fabulous idea. A cool drink to wash out the taste of dirt and ash; a refreshing dip to scrub the soot and dried flakes of ichor from his scales. Or his skin, if he changes. But walking seems like a lot of work just at the moment, especially since he's still not quite sure what the Hell is going on with his human corporation's hips.
He slinks from one puddle of leafy shadow to another, following the gentle crash-rush burble of what he thinks must be a waterfall as it grows louder. Before he sees it, but after he can start to taste the spray on the air, he realizes Aziraphale hasn't left the garden after all.
There are more irregular splashing sounds that suggest the angel is taking his own dip in the pond. But, Aziraphale's scent is a little… off. The water vapor Crawly gathers in with rapid flicks of his tongue is flavored with magnesium fire, vanillin musk, and… something else, sticky sweet. Nothing like all the many fruits he's watched the angel happily sample; perhaps a flower of some sort.
Crawly slithers close to the bank of the picturesque pond with its low, lazy waterfall and takes a moment to employ a good lurk so he can assess the scene.
Aziraphale is up to his chin in the center of the pond, hair plastered to his head and eyes closed. He's frowning with his whole face as he mutters something under his breath. Then, he ducks his head under the water for a long minute before emerging again with a gasp and a lot of irritated spluttering. Curiosity prickles along Crawly's scales as he wonders what's got his hereditary enemy in such a lather.
After another glance around to reassure there's no other angels hiding in the brush, Crawly slips into the pond and starts changing shape. He keeps low in the water, bracing his newly formed fingertips against the sandy bottom as he swims wide around the angel to approach from behind. The anticipation of popping up at Aziraphale's shoulder and receiving an angelic yelp or tut or possibly even eyeroll is doing as much to improve his mood as the refreshing feeling of Hell's grime sloughing away.
He plants his feet and surges upright out of the water with a terrific splash just behind Aziraphale with a heartily called, "Hallo, Angel!" for maximum startle potential.
Aziraphale doesn't so much yelp as wail in alarm, which is immensely satisfying. What's less satisfying and more "oh, f*ck," is the way he swings around and lunges at Crawly to shove him away. Crawly loses his footing and goes down with a shocked burble, but almost as soon as he's fully submerged, there are plump hands grasping clumsily at his upper arms to fish him back upright.
"Crawly!" Aziraphale laments once his head is clear of the water. "What do you think you're doing?"
Crawly coughs and swipes a hand over his face. Internally, he thinks what he's doing is forgetting to account for angelic reflexes. Out loud, he says, "Nyeh," and tries to glare without it looking too much like a pout.
Aziraphale scowls at him from a distance that is quite shockingly close, actually. And that's because even though Crawly's found his balance again, the angel hasn't let go of his arms. Instead, he's stepped right into Crawly's space, close enough there's barely a handspan between them. Crawly can count the beads of water clumping his eyelashes together.
Despite the significant chill of the water, Aziraphale's face is as flushed as if he were standing under the full blast of the midday sun atop the wall. Suspicion blooms as other weird things bring themselves to his attention: the way Aziraphale's still breathing a little too fast for too long for it to be just down to a good scare; how his pupils are blown so wide the color of his eyes is even more mysterious than usual.
"You all right, Angel?" he asks.
"I'm fine!" Aziraphale insists, far too loud for how close they're standing and the way he's still hanging onto Crawly's arms, like he's worried Crawly might slither away.
"Sure about that?" Crawly asks, making sure his tone is absolutely dripping with doubt, so the angel will be sure to pick up on it. Aziraphale sometimes has trouble hearing when Crawly's saying one thing but means another, which normally is a source of enrichment for Crawly, but can occasionally be inconvenient.
"I have no idea what you're trying to imply," Aziraphale says, too fast and pitchy. "And even if I did, I'd certainly have no idea why it was happening."
His voice nearly cracks on the last word, which is enough to sober Crawly to the situation. Obviously, Aziraphale thinks something is wrong. It's even odds that there's an actual problem and not just something he's talked himself into thinking is one. But, in their handful of interactions thus far, Crawly's decided he doesn't like it when Aziraphale gets upset. Makes Crawly feel all squirmy and hyper alert and in need of something to bite.
"Fine, all right, nothing's going on," he agrees.
Aziraphale's face crumples at the reassurance, but the ridiculous angel still nods in stubborn agreement. "Nothing at all!" he declares, voice wavering like anything. "Nothing at all that won't go away all on its own, surely—so it's nothing to worry about!"
"Of course," Crawly says and promptly makes further study of whatever it is that's most definitely not going on with the angel.
The thing is, the weird pupils and flushed skin are tickling at his memory. He doesn't think he's experienced something like this yet, but he's skimmed the user manuals for human corporations (most of them, anyway). His absorption of the material had been… less than comprehensive—he's more of the learn-by-doing than learn-by-reading sort—but, one thing he'd taken away is that these corporations are devilishly complicated things. When something dangerous or interesting starts happening, they tend to raise all sorts of warning flags, some more obvious than others.
And when Crawly really looks, he spies more odd things going on: the way the flush extends down to the angel's chest; the way it isn't just his breathing that's fast but his pulse too—fluttering visibly at his neck; the trembling and the way his nipples are tightly furled points tentatively get added to the list, in case it's not just a matter of the chilly water. But, then his gaze drops below the waterline, and after he puzzles out what he's seeing through the wavering ripples, he gets hit over the head with a giant clue.
"Is that an erection?"
"A what?" Aziraphale asks, darting a quick glance down on what seems like reflex, because he immediately jerks his head up and makes a study of the clouds, his face going about as red as his rock-hard dick. "Oh! That. Um. It sort of just, er, popped into existence not too long ago."
"Looks angry," Crawly observes.
Aziraphale makes a wounded-sounding noise. "It feels angry!"
"Probably because you've dipped it in ice-cold water instead of doing something useful about it," Crawly says. Now that the surprise is wearing off, the humor of the situation is creeping up on him. "Angel, are you throwing a fit because you're a little horny? Is this an attempt at a cold shower?" Cold showers are a thing, probably. Or will be, someday.
"I just feel so hot! I thought it might help," Aziraphale defends and then brings his gaze back down to Crawly, eyes wide and a little shining with moisture. "You know what this is?" he asks, somehow doubtful and hopeful at the same time.
"Course I do! You're just a little randy. Quick spot of onanism will fix you right up," he says with what is possibly too much confidence for someone who's never directly experienced either thing, but Aziraphale seems like he needs to borrow a whole heap of confidence at the moment.
"This is what sexual arousal feels like?" Aziraphale shrills and abruptly pushes Crawly back to arm's length again, though he still doesn't release him entirely. Then, his eyes go wide enough that Crawly's sting with sympathetic dryness, and he groans like he's been mortally betrayed. "Oh, good Lord—the bower!"
"The bower?"
"The bower," Aziraphale cries, like he thinks if he simply repeats it emphatically enough the knowledge of what the Hell he's on about will leap across the space between them. When Crawly just shrugs in confusion, Aziraphale draws him back in close enough their noses almost touch. "Adam and Eve's bower!" he says, moderately more helpful. "The one the architects designed to ensure they'd—! You know, to facilitate, erm, marital loving-kindness."
And, oh, Crawly thinks he has it now.
"You lot built them a f*ck room?"
"A marriage bower," Aziraphale insists hotly.
"Sure. What the Hell does that have to do with your inconvenient stiffy?" Crawly asks, twirling a finger to indicate what's going on underwater. He glances down to double-check it's still there. Gosh, it's strange looking; like it's pointing at him or something.
"I've been tasked with tidying up the Garden before it gets put into cold storage. Mostly, that's meant picking up after Adam and Eve. I cleaned up the bower today, and those awful flowers kept spitting on me. Honestly, I understand why they didn't spend much time in there."
A half-remembered report from a long-ago meeting bubbles up in Crawly's head. Most of his memories from Before the Beginning are fractured, spilling out like sand from a cracked pot, but the latter days are a little clearer than most. He remembers meeting Aziraphale, once, and though most of the details are hazy, he can recall that's the first time he'd become properly interested in God's little pet creations. After, he'd actually bothered to show up to a few meetings on the subject, to see what all the fuss was about.
"Oh, the camphire flowers!" he recalls. "I thought those turned out a bust?"
"So we thought," Aziraphale says sourly. "Perhaps they simply weren't calibrated correctly. I don't think anyone but me has ever been around them while wearing a human corporation."
The flowers had been a redundancy plan to ensure the success of Adam and Eve's union. Sex and arousal had been a novel concept, and no one was entirely sure how things would shake out. When asked for reassurance, God had simply insisted that the humans needed to f*ck, but She'd made sure the right ingredients were there, so it should all work out. Of course, when the pair hadn't started copulating from go, upper-management had started getting nervous. The flowers, grown along the inner walls and ceiling of their sleeping structure, were meant to help goose things along.
But, apparently, neither Adam nor Eve had reacted to them as expected. In the meeting Crawly had attended, the powers that be had been debating whether or not to scupper a "productive reproductive" plan C, because it was all ready to go. But, since the humans had started f*cking anyway—seemingly out of nowhere—there wasn't really a need for any further intervention. The ensuing debate about whether or not to put the plan into motion anyway, simply because they didn't want to have wasted the effort, had only stuck in Crawly's head because he'd never gotten around to finding a wall against which to bang it loose.
"All right, so, accidental exposure to an aphrodisiac," Crawly reasons out loud. "Still the same solution, though. Just rub one out, and, voilà! Corporation's humors should rebalance, and you'll be all set."
"I do not know what you're talking about," Aziraphale whines and does a full-body motion that bears only a passing resemblance to the adorable little shimmy he normally does when he gets excited about something. Looks more like an anguished writhe.
Gosh, he is really stitched up about this, isn't he.
Crawly sighs and tries again, more plainly spoken, even though the effort of talking about it all so straightforwardly makes him want to perform a little anguished writhe of his own.
"Would have thought you lot had already been given the tip about onanism, since it's slated to develop into a whopper of sin, as some of the more conservative cultures start developing. But, uh, it's like—oh! Think of it like self-copulation. Adam and Eve did it from time to time, when they weren't at it like rabbits together."
"That is not helpful," Aziraphale whinges. "I don't know how copulation's managed."
"Seriously? No handouts on it upstairs? Gosh. Well, but it's not like Adam and Eve were exactly discreet about things. You never saw them going at it?"
"Copulation is private," Aziraphale insists with a scowl. "When they started getting, er, frisky, I did the proper thing and looked away."
And, all right, Crawly's a demon; he should probably be immune to things like shame, now. But, dammit, there's something about the disappointed pinch to Aziraphale's mouth that twinges hard and makes him blush hot and squirmy with mortification. It is not a feeling Crawly likes, and so maybe he gets a little too snappy when he snaps back, "Oh, f*ck off. They were at it all the time. Pretty impossible not to get an eyeful now and then. And given your opera-box view, I have a hard time believing you didn't get the full picture, even if only through a bunch of two-second increments strung together. That's how much they f*cked—together and solo. And I was ordered to spy, wasn't I?"
And that's really the issue, he thinks, in a private, quiet corner of his own conscience. He's accepted, mostly, that this new gig comes with expectations of being a massive bellend. But he'd like to know, before getting into anything, just how much of a bellend he's being at any given time. It hurts in a way that's still too raw and sulfur-tinged to handle, to realize he's broken a rule he wasn't quite aware existed.
"Well, I didn't!" Aziraphale insists, and now he doesn't sound accusing so much as panicked. "I don't know what to do! They said we rank-and-file don't need to know the details because it doesn't concern us, since we're not meant to copulate!"
And yeah, all right, that sounds like a decision in line with Heaven's thinking. Just as Hell's insistence that all demons learn exactly how everything goes down—in every sense of the phrase—has its own grim logic.
"Whatever. The point is, I know what you need to do to get rid of that thing," Crawly says, voice clipped. "So, do you want me to explain or not?"
Aziraphale looks at him, near to tears with how worked up he is across all fronts, gasping for breath and trembling and flushed and miserable. He swallows hard and sobs a despairing laugh before admitting, voice tiny and fragile, "Yes, please."
Crawly takes a deep breath and consciously tries to let go of his own pent-up irritation and upset as he lets it back out again.
"OK, then. So. It's pretty simple," he says with entirely manufactured confidence, given he's never tried it himself. "You just take hold of your penis and, er, rub it. Until it explodes."
"Explodes?" Aziraphale shrieks.
"Just a little bit!" Crawly says hastily. "Stuff comes out the end, like when you squeeze a really ripe, juicy fruit. But it doesn't cause damage, if that's what you're worried about." Though, privately, Crawly thought Adam—and Eve for that matter—sounded a lot like they were in pain when they reached the climax of activities. Must be a good sort of pain, though, since they seemed so eager to do it again and again.
"Just hold it, and…?" Aziraphale asks, trailing off as he looks down at his own crotch with a pinched expression.
"Yeah, grab hold—kind of like you're picking up your flaming sword—and then you just, uh…" He forms a loose fist and makes a vigorous pumping motion with it like he'd seen Adam and Eve both use on Adam's co*ck when they were sticking with hands.
"OK," Aziraphale says and then repeats the word a few more times like he's hyping himself up.
"Going to have to give up at least one of my arms if you're gonna have a go," Crawly points out helpfully.
Aziraphale meets his gaze again, clearly startled, and looks at his hands with something like dawning horror.
"Oh! Terribly sorry, old chap," he says faintly. With what looks like a little more concentration than is really warranted, he peels one hand off Crawly's arm. The newly uncovered skin prickles with gooseflesh in the sudden chill, after being held for so long in such a hot grip.
When Aziraphale tentatively lowers his hand underwater, he caterpillars his eyebrows up in question. Crawly gives him an encouraging nod.
"Go for it, Angel," he says, and Aziraphale bites his lip and blushes harder.
"All—all right. Here goes," he says, warbling and obviously not sold on this idea at all but pushed to the point of being willing to try anything.
Crawly can't see very well with the way the water ripples, but he knows exactly when Aziraphale touches himself, because the angel makes a horrible groaning noise like he's been stabbed and starts to collapse on the spot. Crawly automatically steps in to catch him up under the arms, so he doesn't submerge. Aziraphale falls into him gratefully and drops his face onto Crawly's shoulder. With so much more skin touching, it's a lot more apparent how unnaturally hot his corporation is running.
"Steady on," Crawly advises, a little unnerved, and awkwardly adjusts to get one arm more properly around Aziraphale's back to help hold him up.
The angel all but plasters himself against Crawly in response, warbling a much softer moan this time, and pressing his forehead hard into the side of Crawly's neck.
"Oh, Crawly, it's too much!" he pants, sounding properly frightened. The hand that had done the grasping scrabbles for purchase on Crawly's far shoulder. "It hurts," he insists and keens a little before taking in a few manic breaths as he obviously tries to calm himself down.
"Maybe you grabbed too hard?" Crawly suggests, feeling uncomfortably helpless in the face of a heaping armful of hot, wet, terrified angel. "Try again, but softer."
"I don't want to!" Aziraphale's voice cracks. "This is—! Could you—?" he asks and tugs at Crawly fretfully, shuffles closer so they're pressed more chest-to-chest.
"Yeah, all right, I've got you," Crawly says pitchily and commits to wrapping both arms around the angel in a proper hug.
Aziraphale sobs a watery thank you and snakes his arms around Crawly in return, the strength of his cling so hard that some of the air is squeezed from Crawly's lungs. They stand for a long moment while Aziraphale gulps in shaking breaths and trembles, and Crawly valiantly ignores the raging erection rubbing against the space between his legs where he could theoretically have something too, if he bothered to make an Effort.
The hug does seem to be helping, though, because while Aziraphale's breathing is still far too fast and panting, it's growing less choppy, and there aren't as many half-choked-down tears.
After another minute, Crawly hazards a quiet, "Better?"
Aziraphale's starting to squirm, and it's making their water-slick corporations rub against each other in a way that is actually pretty compelling. Since Crawly doesn't think it would be particularly wise to dwell on that too closely, he's hoping to get whatever show this is on the road sooner rather than later, so he can slither on out.
"Yes, thank you," Aziraphale says and sighs shakily. "You're being awfully kind to me. I do appreciate it."
"Shut up," Crawly gripes. "I owe you one for the wing umbrella."
Mercifully, Aziraphale doesn't press the issue. Instead, he admits, sounding like he's sharing a bit of troubling news, "This is better." He squeezes Crawly pointedly. "It doesn't feel so much as if I'm about to burst apart. I do apologize, though, for the, um… the indelicacy of the matter."
"If by 'indelicacy' you mean your angry co*ck, of course, not to worry," Crawly says dryly, because he's starting to think if he doesn't keep things light and breezy they might get horrifically intimate. This close, Aziraphale's scent is overwhelming, and Crawly's realizing the cloying sweetness he'd been puzzling over earlier must be the flowers.
This, in hindsight, should have been his first hint that things were about to get even more complicated.
"Why don't we relocate someplace where it will be easier for you to see what you're doing," he suggests.
"All right," Aziraphale says, voice going dreamy. He's started shifting his hips in tiny increments, rubbing himself against Crawly in a way that's… that's really not that off-putting, honestly. Kind of nice, even.
This should have been the second hint.
Crawly shuffles backward toward the bank. He has to crane his neck around awkwardly to see, but Aziraphale doesn't seem like he's going to be any help navigating. He's too busy sighing and rubbing his hot breath and face against Crawly's neck and shoulder, kneading at his back, and generally being hornily affectionate. Crawly has the impression the angel's not entirely aware of what he's doing. Because there's a lengthening delay between when Crawly tells him to step up here or move there and when Aziraphale responds, and an absent quality in his tone that suggests the angel's really getting lost in the flower sauce.
Later, Crawly will look back and consider how f*cked-up it was that the only thing that had been keeping Aziraphale's head above the horny water, so to speak, was his miraculous capacity for blind-panic levels of terror. And then Crawly will writhe in smugly horrified pleasure that, in opening his arms, he'd made Aziraphale feel safe and therefore calm enough to succumb.
But in the moment, Crawly is busy trying not to step on any sharp rocks or trip over a piece of deadwood all while a pleasingly lush but inevitably heavy angel is rubbing up on him like a cat in heat. He's too preoccupied to do more than register profound relief that, at the very least, Aziraphale has stopped crying.
Crawly gets them lowered to sitting onto a mossy patch of ground without doing one or both of them an injury—a minor miracle. The landing is still bumpier than his backside likes, and isn't helped by Aziraphale not only not giving up his cling on Crawly's torso but curling in so close he's basically in Crawly's lap. Crawly thinks he should probably mind more than he does, but the feverish heat Aziraphale's throwing off is nice with the breeze chilling his damp skin.
"Angel? Aziraphale?" he prompts and fumbles behind him to grab the angel's wrist. "Come on, focus."
He encourages Aziraphale to bring his arm between them, within co*ck-grasping range.
"Try again, but more, ngk, gentle."
Aziraphale doesn't make a move toward his dick—a dick that Crawly is awfully fascinated to see is leaking beads of something slick from the swollen tip. Instead, he palms at Crawly's chest and nuzzles into his neck, smearing half-parted lips against his skin. Gooseflesh prickles, and Crawly sucks in a sharp breath at how compellingly good it feels.
"Like this?" Aziraphale asks, petting at Crawly in, admittedly, a very gentle manner. His hands are stupidly soft and thick and hot, and Crawly is trying not to melt into it just a bit.
"Good technique," he says, strangled, and once again takes hold of Aziraphale's wrist to encourage him to bring his hand to himself. "Now, do that to you. Gosh, you're really sticky all over, aren't you?" he gripes. There's an increasing tackiness where their skin is rubbing together as they dry off and Aziraphale continues to squirm. It wasn't so apparent in the water, but the sticky spots are a little shinier than they should be.
At this point, Crawly really should have noticed, and then done some healthy introspection and anticipation of where things were inevitably going to lead.
In his defense, he's extremely distracted by the sight of Aziraphale's plump hands making delicate contact with silky-looking, engorged flesh. And by how Aziraphale's moan as he feathers his fingertips up and down his own length is far less pained sounding than last time and way more in the horny-good-more range.
"There, see?" Crawly says, mouth going dry as he watches the angel's co*ck twitch and drool more liquid from the tip in response to the softer handling.
He takes Aziraphale's moaning sigh as agreement and approval both.
For about half a second, Crawly belatedly wonders if he shouldn't look away—since this sort of thing is apparently supposed to be private. But, he's meant to be helping, and Aziraphale's pressing his open mouth more urgently against Crawly's neck, suggesting he's the opposite of upset with Crawly's audience participation.
"It's good," Aziraphale mumbles and laughs a little manically as he gingerly takes himself in a loose grip. "Not so overwhelming. Oh, good God, that's strange," he gasps as he carefully moves his hand up and down in a tentative pump.
Crawly can't get over how hot the angel's breath is, puffing damp against his neck, which is growing hypersensitive under all the mouthing attention.
"Good strange?" Crawly guesses, riveted by the way Aziraphale's flushed co*ckhead looks like it's playing peekaboo as he gets into a steady rhythm.
"Yes," Aziraphale agrees and then gasps louder and groans loud against Crawly's throat, mouths at his skin a bit more ardently. Crawly shudders and convulsively holds Aziraphale to him tighter. "Sorry," Aziraphale sighs—not sounding in the least bit sorry. "Ticklish?"
"Ngk," says Crawly, not sure exactly what it is that it feels like, except it's warm and tingly and restless.
"You smell very nice," Aziraphale says quietly, like it's a secret, and then wetness swipes against Crawly's increasingly flushed neck.
"Did you just lick me?" he asks weakly, absolutely failing to sound as offended as he thinks he probably should.
"Taste nice too," Aziraphale says and giggles. "Sorry—oh, I'm very sorry, my dear fellow—I can't seem to… to control myself. It's all feeling so nice now, and you're so nice, and—and—" His breathing kicks up at the same time the working of his hand gets a little more frantic.
Crawly thinks God Herself could have tapped him on the shoulder then and he wouldn't have been able to look away as the tip of Aziraphale's co*ck swells up and spurts little pulses of milky liquid that drip down to coat his hand and co*ck.
"Oh, there you are," Crawly says, feeling a little far away from himself in the moment, too distracted by the lewd sight of Aziraphale's release and Aziraphale's hot, panting breath fogging up his brain.
"f*ck," Aziraphale groans, slowing down but not stopping. His co*ck is still hard and angry looking, but the movement of his hand looks easier with the slick spend easing the way. "Is it going to stop now?" he asks.
"Uhhhhh," Crawly says dumbly, because it doesn't seem like it, but he's officially reached the limits of his half-absorbed knowledge on the subject. "You were pretty pent up," he hazards. "Might have to get a few more out before it, um, dies down."
"OK," Aziraphale agrees easily and continues mouthing at Crawly's skin. "Do you mind?" he asks.
"S'fine," Crawly says, because he doesn't want Aziraphale to stop. The whole experience—Aziraphale's trusting weight leaned against him; Aziraphale's soft, hot mouth and words smearing against his skin; Aziraphale's decadently appointed corporation transformed before Crawly's gobsmacked eyes by what looks a little bit like ecstasy—has kindled an arresting warmth that's seeping into his bones, sinking down and making him feel at once more centered and grounded in his corporation but also like he wants to move.
"This is good," he admits and then frowns, because he'd not intended to admit that out loud, but the thought sort of slipped out before he could stop it.
"I'm glad," Aziraphale says and hums happily to himself as he f*cks his slippery fist and licks and nuzzles at Crawly's throat and presses them together with hitching arches of his spine. "Oh, I didn't realize how nice this could feel! No wonder they were always touching each other so."
"N'yeah," Crawly agrees, because it's hitting him with all the subtlety of a human-sized boulder removed from a garden wall just why Adam and Eve would sometimes simply watch each other as they did this sort of thing, whether helping or not. Seeing Aziraphale enjoy himself so thoroughly and unabashedly is extremely compelling.
It isn't until he's seriously contemplating offering to give Aziraphale's wrist a break by offering his own tongue instead that things come together in a rush. About the same time Aziraphale spills over his hand again and scrapes his teeth over Crawly's pulsepoint, Crawly gasps as well and realizes, "Oh, sh*t, you've got the sap all over you, and now you're all over me!"
Aziraphale makes an inquiring noise through his rhythmic moaning, still stroking himself and looking no closer to being sated than after the first org*sm. Just a whole lot messier and really f*cking fantastic.
"I think I'm starting to, ngk, get affected," Crawly says, and marvels at how disconnected the thought is from how he thinks he should be feeling. Because he should be outraged, panicked—or at the very least a little irritated—but there isn't room for those sorts of emotions when so much of his consciousness is being stuffed overfull with arousal—because it's arousal he's feeling, he realizes. What a f*cking trip.
"Oh!" Aziraphale says, sounding gutted with both guilt and intrigue. "Do you feel like something is—is winding up, here?" he asks hoarsely and lets go of his co*ck to slide his shockingly hot palm, slick with spend, down over the smooth mound between Crawly's legs.
It's like being struck by lightning: sensation rushes down to meet the touch, and without much conscious thought, between one seized-up, shocky breath and the next, Crawly's manifested a co*ck as well, just to have an outlet for all that concentrated energy to go to ground so he doesn't discorporate. Aziraphale's hand curls around the hard length of it, and Crawly gets why the angel collapsed earlier. He falls back onto the moss with a groaning shout, Aziraphale landing sprawled half on top of him.
"S-sorry," Aziraphale stutters and starts to let go, but Crawly whips his own hand down viper quick to close those gloriously thick fingers back around him.
"No, no, it's good, you're good—f*ck!" Crawly whines and turns his head to press his cheek against the angel's temple. "Holy sh*t, they aren't playing around with these things, are they?"
"Is it different, with the…? The flower spit?" Aziraphale asks curiously and experimentally pumps his slick fist over Crawly's newly fashioned co*ck.
Crawly's back arches so quick and supernaturally flexible that, if it weren't for Aziraphale's bulk keeping him somewhat pinned, he would have levitated right off the ground.
"Neverdonethis!" he admits on a reedy breath. "Might have been talking out my arse earlier—sh*tsh*tsh*tsh*t—keep doing that!" he encourages and uses the trembling hold he has on Aziraphale's hand to help him find a grip and rhythm that has him seeing stars at lightspeed.
"Crawly," Aziraphale scolds halfheartedly, but he says it between suckling nibbles against Crawly's neck while jacking Crawly at a steady pace and rutting shamelessly along the (apparently very sensitive—f*ck) skin of Crawly's inner thigh, so Crawly doesn't think he's too fussed that Crawly, maybe, misrepresented how knowledgeable he is on the whole subject. Or was, anyway, since he's about to complete an unexpected crash course.
"Oh, f*ck," he squeaks and explodes like a dying sun. At least it feels that way, with how fast and sharp all the tension releases in an incredible wave of heat, and stuff starts shooting out in messy arcs.
Aziraphale giggles. "Extraordinary, isn't it?"
He continues to work Crawly over—albeit more slow and gentle—as Crawly goes uselessly limp in every part of his corporation except the one.
"Yeah," he agrees, feeling helpless, at first in a good way but then, quickly, in a not-so-good way. "But it's not—it's not stopping. There's supposed to be, hngh, a pause between rounds—especially with the standard co*ck model—it was only Eve who could sometimes just keep going, and—ah, sh*t, whatever that was, do it again," he begs and then sobs in bewildered ecstasy as Aziraphale again does something terribly clever with his wrist and thumb on the pull-off.
"Oh?" Aziraphale asks, distracted and breathy, and then he shudders hard at the same time wet heat spills over Crawly's thigh and makes the incredibly lewd massage it's getting that much filthier and more sensitizing.
"N'yeah," Crawly whines, and squirms and bucks hard under Aziraphale's pinning weight as the strangely intense heat and tension starts coalescing again with almost frightening speed.
"Am I hurting you?" Aziraphale pants, sounding a little more collected and present. His hand slows down at the same time some of his weight lifts just a bit, like he's trying to sit up. "I can't—goodness, why do those have to make one feel so weak in the aftermath?"
Crawly manages to again tighten his hold on the hand wrapped around his co*ck and grabs the back of Aziraphale's neck to keep his mouth right where it's at, nuzzling against his jaw.
"No! It's just—! Need to move—it's too intense not to, but it's also really f*cking good—but hnnnngh, like you said earlier, feel like I might fly apart, so it helps, you being on me."
Aziraphale makes a thoughtful noise. "In that case, what if I…"
He trails off and heaves himself up and over so he's sitting on Crawly's thighs. The hand that's not casually jerking Crawly to whinging pieces slides up to brace against Crawly's chest, just below one shoulder. Crawly tries to buck, and the feeling of Aziraphale meeting the strength of it, an equal and opposing force that cancels the move out, is so unfairly good and reassuring and really bloody hot that Crawly pretty much immediately shudders apart.
"Good?" Aziraphale guesses, mouthing up to nibble experimentally at Crawly's earlobe.
Crawly makes a feeble assenting noise and then cringes as the warm gust of angelic breath in his ear makes him feel squirmy in a not-good way. He urges Aziraphale back down with the grip he has on his nape, and Aziraphale hums in a "oh, I see" register, like even in the midst of it all he's not just exploring but actively taking inventory.
"You were saying?" he mumbles as he noses along Crawly's cheekbone. "About… You were saying something about… pauses," he says, sounding like he's fighting against a brutal current to fish out each word. "It seemed important."
"Yeah," Crawly agrees vaguely, but his attention is caught by the pressure of Aziraphale's co*ck rubbing through the slick mess on his belly, and the sparks that ignite when it grazes against his knuckles as they jointly fist his dick.
It's good, but not as good as when he was rubbing along the more sensitive skin of Crawly's inner thigh, which makes him wonder just how much ruinously better it'll feel if Aziraphale were to rub his co*ck directly against Crawly's own.
"Hey, angel, what if—"
He threads his fingers between Aziraphale's and uses their intertwined grip to gather Aziraphale's co*ck into the slippery fold.
"Oh, f*ck," Aziraphale whinges against the corner of Crawly's slack mouth as they slide together, hot and wet and incredible.
"Uh-huh," Crawly agrees, panting hard, and turns his head the scant angle required to see if Azirphale's obsession with rubbing his mouth all over Crawly is as affecting in the reverse.
Aziraphale makes a wounded noise as their lips catch against one another, and then he surges in eagerly. Crawly's seen Adam and Eve do this sort of thing too, even outside of sex. And apparently Aziraphale didn't consider it too private an act to peep on, because he starts trying to mimic some of the same movements Crawly was thinking about trying.
They fumble together, each making game attempts at finding some sort of rhythm as the other tries to follow. Sometimes, they both go for the same thing at once, and the kiss gets a little tangled and awkward, but they keep pressing on, gasping and sometimes snickering when their teeth clack or noses mash.
"This is—more difficult—than—it looks," Aziraphale mumbles, but he doesn't exactly sound put out about it.
Crawly remembers again that he has a hand on Aziraphale's neck and guides him to a better angle. It helps for all of a minute before the focus and coordination required is at exact odds with how much of his attention is drawing in to where they're rubbing off together. It doesn't help that Aziraphale is leaning more and more of his weight onto the hand on Crawly's chest, making it hard to catch a full breath just through his nose.
He gives up with a moan, letting his neck and mouth go limp as the roiling heat tingling through his limbs feels like it's getting close to reaching another peak. Aziraphale hums in what seems like commiseration and uses the opportunity to try out nibbling along Crawly's lips and dipping his tongue in to explore.
"They're sharp," he observes quietly and licks again at one of Crawly's eye teeth.
It takes a second for Crawly to decipher what he means, and he groans in horny embarrassment. "Ssssssorry," he hisses and winces over the lisp. "Hard to, ngk, keep hold of the human bits."
"Fascinating!" Aziraphale croons and continues to languidly tongue and suckle at Crawly's panting mouth as Crawly unravels.
Once the most recent peak has ebbed a bit, but the warmth flushing and rolling through him doesn't show any sign of dissipating, Crawly whines, "f*ck, this is ridiculous."
Aziraphale's finally getting to his next critical point, so he doesn't answer so much as whimper. He's left off attempting to kiss in favor of resting his forehead against Crawly's. The closer he gets, the tighter his eyes screw closed, and Crawly squeezes at his nape in reassurance, picks up the slack of keeping their intertwined hands moving at a steady clip. The relentless stimulation is starting to make his own co*ck feel like it's being licked by little tongues of electricity, but he doesn't want to risk changing anything just now—not when Aziraphale is so close.
The angel wails when he comes, and Crawly grunts in sympathy, because the feeling of him pulsing against Crawly, the extra hot drip of spend added to the already filthy slide, is intensely good.
"This is a little disgusting," he observes, not bothering to hide his perverse glee.
"Rather," Aziraphale agrees weakly. "Hold on a moment, my dear. I just need to…"
He trails off and more or less collapses fully onto Crawly's chest, folding his arm down and landing his head next to Crawly's on the ground, turned so he can tuck the silly little uptilt of his nose along the side of Crawly's jaw. Crawly slides his fingers up into his hair to squeeze at his scalp.
"All right?" he murmurs.
"This is exhausting," Aziraphale grumps, and Crawly creaks out a conceding string of vowels.
Because they're both still rock hard where they're squished between their bellies, and even now Crawly has the urge to move his hips in a grinding motion.
"It's like an itch that just won't scratch," he mutters darkly.
"Are we not doing it right?" Aziraphale wonders anxiously, and he squeezes their hands—still threaded together and sticky with come—together.
"How'm I supposed to know?" Crawly asks, equally helpless. "It was your lot who designed the stupid flowers."
Aziraphale sucks in a gasping breath and struggles up onto one elbow just far enough that he can meet Crawly's gaze.
"The flowers!" he exclaims. "For copulation! Crawly, have we been properly copulating or just—?" His mouth screws up in a confused moue as his eyebrows squinch together adorably.
"I don't know what you mean by 'properly,'" Crawly admits. It's taking a lot of concentration to stay focused on the conversation and not just pull Aziraphale down by his silky curls to have another go at kissing again. Crawly thought he had just been getting the hang of it and wants to see what else he might be able to get up to with his tongue that would make the angel gasp.
"Well, it's to, um, bring them closer together," Aziraphale stutters out and then blushes awfully as he smiles nervously down at the demon he's currently half smothering. Crawly nods, absolutely refusing to acknowledge how hot his own face is. "But, the main purpose is to make more humans—to populate the Earth and, and sing God's praises!"
"Wait, this is how they're meant to go about making more of them?" Crawly asks, a little outraged.
Aziraphale stares at him owlishly. "Yes?" he ventures and then frowns. "How is it that you know more about what goes on with the process of it than me, but I know more about what the repercussions are?"
"Wait, is that why Eve's belly was so swollen and they both kept being so weird about touching it? Is that a new one cooking in there?"
"Yes!" Aziraphale says, a lot more exasperated this time.
Crawly groans and thumps his head back on the ground a few times. "Ok, ok, ok, I think I get it. f*ck! They kept going on about planting seeds and bountiful harvests and all that rot when the memos first started going round way back when. I thought they were being literal! That it was a gardening thing and they'd, dunno, sprout new humans next to the cabbages or something. But, if she's growing it in her, then probably it's to do with the way that, ngk, Adam would, uh, put his co*ck inside her. That's what they did the most. Guess he was spilling his metaphorical seed in her bloody metaphorical garden."
"Ooh, perhaps that's why her part is an innie and not an outie," Aziraphale concludes. "So as to have a way to, er, have love planted in her fertile womb."
"See, this is the problem with metaphors," Crawly seethes. "Never know what anyone is actually saying." He cranes his neck to look down at where their chests are pressed together. "Maybe one of us should change? Try doing it that way, and see if it, uh, breaks whatever stupid fever this is the flowers gave us."
"Oh, may I try? Please?" Aziraphale asks excitedly, eyes bright.
Crawly thinks the smile stretching his own mouth wide is unwisely fond. It's just really endearing how, given the slightest excuse, Aziraphale is so keen on trying so much. And even though Crawly is dead curious to know how the other configuration might feel, it's not difficult at all to graciously allow Aziraphale dibs. Not when the prospect makes the angel so excited he's doing that absurd little shimmy with his whole body that Crawly loves the look of.
"Knock yourself out, Angel," he says, and he does wish he could sound marginally less smitten. But, Aziraphale's blinding grin goes a long way toward reassuring him there's no reason to think he'll be teased for it.
"Oh, thank you!" he gushes and then fumblingly sits all the way up until he's kneeling astride Crawly's hips instead of sitting on them.
Crawly does not like how cold the breeze that rushes into the space between them feels, nor how, without all that lush angelic weight on him, he's hit with a sense of vertigo, like he might come unstuck from the ground. A wave of acute desperation and need swamps him, making his co*ck ache to the point of pain. He arches up with a strangled groan and scrabbles desperately at Aziraphale's thighs, seeking contact.
"Aziraphale!" he calls, and it comes out sounding lost.
Above him, Aziraphale's eyes widen in alarm, and he sways, looking lightheaded. "Oh, God," he says faintly. "Why does it hurt? You're right there!"
"Hurry up!" Crawly begs, trying to keep his fingers from digging into plump flesh so hard it bruises. "In about a second I'm not going to be able to stop from yanking you down. sh*t, this is so f*cked! Why did anyone think this was a good idea?" he demands.
"I filed a note of conscientious concern with Gabriel's secretary, but I never received a reply," Aziraphale laments and then moans and sways again. "Good lord, that feels strange! But, oh, I think I understand what they were trying to encourage. Crawly, I feel empty, now. Absolutely aching."
"Oh, you switched it already?" Crawly exclaims and tries to twist his spine to the side to get a better look between the angel's legs.
All he gets is a good look at Aziraphale's hand as he once again takes hold of Crawly's co*ck and guides it up and back. The sensitive head passes through the angel's damp pubic hair with a not-unpleasant scritching sensation and then licks up against smooth-slick skin before finally nudging up into flesh so hot and wet it feels like Aziraphale's put his mouth on him.
"f*ck!" he yelps and bucks his hips up for more. The tip of his co*ck catches awkwardly and skids off to the side and right out of Aziraphale's slippery grip.
"Hold! Still! Slippery fiend," Aziraphale scolds through panting breaths. He places his other hand with a prohibitive amount of pressure low on Crawly's belly as he fumbles to grasp and guide him back to that same spot again.
"Yes, fine, holding still," Crawly grits through his teeth, having to fight embarrassingly hard not to immediately buck again as Aziraphale tips his hips experimentally.
"Is this as far as it's supposed to go in?" he asks, sounding deeply disappointed. He tries lowering down but then clucks his tongue and lifts up again as Crawly's co*ck nudges against resistance.
"Nah, should be able to sit all the way down," Crawly says threadily. Between the slippery friction to the head of his co*ck and the way his brain is frantically informing him, on loop, about how much more amazing it's likely to feel once Aziraphale gets properly seated, he's really f*cking close again. "Think it's an issue of angles," he tries, hearing how useless he sounds but not able to come up with something better under the pounding beat of "almost, almost, almost" thrumming through him in time with his tripping pulse.
Aziraphale hums skeptically and wriggles and tips a little more, and then suddenly he angles his hips back in apparently just the right way because he squeaks an ominous-sounding groan, moves his hand, and sinks down until he's sitting flush and heavy and brilliant on Crawly's hips.
The sudden, engulfing heat ignites a whole-body fire, pleasure racing up his spine to stream out his mouth in a crackling hiss. It feels like Aziraphale's simultaneously gripped hold of something essential in him and is drowning him in liquid ecstasy, like some sort of sexy baptism. And as Crawly bucks and shudders through the resulting org*sm, it does feel a bit like dying and being reborn, except without all the boiling sulfur and stinging, gaping emptiness. But even as all sorts of things pour out of him—come, sweat, hissing moans, even a few ecstatic tears—he feels like he's being filled up. Mostly, with a whole lot of embarrassing, blubbery emotions like gratitude and awe and hope and possibly even loving-kindness.
"My word," Aziraphale says faintly as he stares down at Crawly with what looks like rapt fascination as he rides out Crawly's existential unraveling with a few hitching rolls of his hips, lifting up with the most forceful undulations before sitting again to keep Crawly well contained but not crushed. "Good, I take it?"
"N'yeah," Crawly half-sobs, half-squeaks. "Little bit."
"It is quite nice. On my end," he says, a bit prim.
"Not, uh—f*ck—not like being turned inside out and maybe braided into a hyperbolic amphicherial knot?"
"… No."
"Shame," Crawly wheezes as the last of the twistingly fantastic pulsing heat shudders out of him and he collapses flat.
Aziraphale settles on top of him a little more heavily and leans forward to cup the side of Crawly's face.
"How do you feel? Has the fever broken?" he asks, stroking the thin skin under Crawly's eyes as he looks him over with attention that's starting to feel a little too pointed to just be about the flower spit.
"Abated, maybe," Crawly croaks, because he is feeling a little more clear headed again, but his co*ck is still faintly throbbing and absolutely hard within the clutch of Aziraphale's unfairly amazing body. "Why're you looking at me like that?"
"Your scales have come out," Aziraphale says, eyes crinkling as he smiles fond. "It's quite fetching."
Crawly winces and looks down his own body. And, yep, there are scales stippling up over his sides toward the midline of his torso, black bleeding into red before melting into pale skin. His mouth, when he flexes his jaw feels subtly wider and more flexible, his eye teeth proper fangs, and his tongue split at the tip. f*ck, he's going to start lisping in earnest now, isn't he.
"Iffff you sssssay so," he grumps and squints at the place where their bodies press together. Aziraphale is squirming a little, clenching around Crawly's co*ck with a telling restlessness. "Ssss'it not feel that good for you?"
"Oh! No, I don't mean to complain. it does feel very good to have you inside. It's just not nearly as, hmm, acute as it was when I had a phallus," he says and stares down at his own crotch in consternation.
"One or the other of them usssssually got a hand down there and rubbed at something on Eve when they were doing thingssss," Crawly offers and flexes his jaw to try and work through the urge to elongate every single f*cking sibilant in his speech.
Aziraphale makes an intrigued noise and tentatively reaches down and feels about, an adorable look of concentration on his face.
"No, a little further down," Crawly says and lays his hand along the back of Aziraphale's to help him get to the approximate spot he'd thought he'd seen the humans aim at when they were working on getting Eve to her breaking point. "Round here, should be. Feel anything?"
"Maybe," Aziraphale says fretfully and squirms again, starting to squeeze around Crawly's co*ck more often and more restless. "It's better, now that we're rubbing, but not—oh, wait, was that—?" He scowls and works his fingers in a particular spot for a few seconds before huffing and yanking his hand away. "Oh! I think there's something there, but it's like that first time I tried touching myself—too sharp to feel good."
He looks positively belligerent as he wriggles and tries rolling his hips again. Crawly goes a little cross-eyed when he gets enough lift on one pass that he raises up a little ways and sinks back down, the grip of his c*nt not nearly as firm as a fist but fabulously hotter and wetter.
"Yeah, yeah," he grunts and gets a better hold on the angel's hips, tries to encourage him to f*ck himself on Crawly's dick. "Try a rhythmic thrust—they both liked that."
"Oh!" Aziraphale says in delighted surprise as the added motion obviously sparks some better feeling. He leans forward and braces his hands next to Crawly's head so he can more easily rock himself bodily back and forth, taking Crawly's co*ck in and out with longer, deeper slides. "Yes, that's much nicer!" he sighs.
"How's this?" Crawly asks, perhaps a little overeager, and braces his heels against the ground to try and lift up to meet Aziraphale's hips each time he brings them down. There's a bit more force to the end of each thrust, now, that brings their efforts together with a very slick but satisfying-sounding slap. It's a little grueling and awkward, finding the right angle and leverage, but worth it for the way Aziraphale's eyes flutter shut at the same time his mouth drops open with a gasp.
"Yes, that's wonderful," Aziraphale breathes out, starting to pant again.
"Good, good. It's f*cking fantastic for me as is, so just—! Whatever you need. For you. You want me to have a go at finding the spot again? I'll be gentle, promise."
"Yes, please!" Aziraphale groans, once again balancing his forehead against Crawly's.
Crawly worms his hand between them, cupping his fingers over where he thinks they're meant to go. The middle sinks down between the lips of Aziraphale's vulva right where they start to splay open, and he feels around delicately. There's a nub of something right at the apex of what feels like a second set of much thinner, silkier lips that makes Aziraphale's breath catch when Crawly's fingertips skim over it
He recalls with a little bit of hysterical fatalism the diagrams he'd seen in Hell, and how there'd been all sorts of lines with helpful labels about what this or the other part was and how they related to inciting lust. Too bad he hadn't really paid attention, thinking it wasn't really his business, what humans had between their legs and what they did with the parts. Especially when what Adam and Eve had gotten up to together hadn't seemed particularly sinful. A pretty useless line of temptation to be pursuing, he'd thought. But now, in the heat of things, with the way Aziraphale's face is twisting up into a pleading, anxious grimace as they fumble to try and figure out how to make things good for him again, with this apparently more complicated style of Effort, Crawly can appreciate where the sin is probably meant to come in. Because he'd gladly do all sorts of heinous acts if it meant he could have the knowledge of exactly what he needs to do dropped into his head, so he can rearrange those stress wrinkles into a sweeter and more satisfying configuration.
"f*ck this, I can't see what I'm doing," he growls and grabs Aziraphale tight and tries to heave them both over onto their sides. "Get on your back, Angel—let me get a look at what we're working with."
"Yes, fine," Aziraphale agrees, pitchy and irritated, and does something complicated with his thighs and forearms that means when he rolls onto his back, Crawly comes right along with him, a little dizzy both with the unexpected spin and arousal at how easily he's dragged about.
"Ngk," he says, blinking down into Aziraphale's face in surprise. Somehow, he's still buried deep in Aziraphale's c*nt, which seems a bit improbable, but he's not arguing with the results.
Aziraphale stares back up at him, a puzzled divot between his brows. They've both automatically started rocking together again, pistoning their efforts together, and Crawly is pretty sure he's not alone in being not quite sure how that's working, either.
It's a little easier for Crawly to really f*ck into him, now that he's on top, and he shifts to find the best angle for making Aziraphale's cheeks flush and eyelashes flutter. Aziraphale helps, with a lot of kneading grips of his hands and thighs along Crawly's flanks and back, and they collectively keep at it for a few panting minutes. But, it's clear from the frustration that's slowly darkening Aziraphale's expression again that things still aren't getting anywhere fast on his end, and Crawly groans.
"OK, I said I'd get down there and look, but it's kind of difficult to—"
"I know, I know," Aziraphale moans, cutting him off, and then arches up into the next thrust with a pout. "I don't want you to pull out either. Not now that you're so close. Goodness!"
"How much of it do you think is the flower fever or just sex in general?" Crawly posits, a little desperate. He's thinking, very hard, about leaning back, moving down, but it feels like trying to fight the pull of a very strong magnet. Maybe he's become a moon in orbit, stuck fast by the gravitational weight of Aziraphale's heated body. He'd blame it on the flower spit in a heartbeat if he hadn't already been feeling a much-less-fraught version of this, whenever he'd spotted the angel of late: drawn in inexorably, despite better sense.
"You are asking the entirely wrong person," Aziraphale reminds him bitchily, but he gets a handful of Crawly's falling hair and uses it to gently tug him down within kissing range, so Crawly doesn't think he's too upset with him.
Adding the kissing—however sloppy when he's still trying to work his hips—to all the prolonged friction is too much for Crawly, and within another minute or so he's coming again, moaning hard against Aziraphale's mouth. The waves of pleasure leave him feeling a lot more wrung out this time, but the exhaustion comes with a dram of clarity.
"It's dying down, a bit," he offers, winded and lightheaded as his hips continue to work without much input. He's actually going fractionally soft, though, which is such a profound relief that he laughs as his limbs go noodly and he has to collapse just a bit onto Aziraphale's chest.
"Jolly good," Aziraphale says, high-pitched and strained. He's petting fretfully at Crawly's hips and still grinding his own up in spastic, frustrated twitches.
Hearing what sounds like the edge of tears in his tone clears a bit of the fog from Crawly's brain.
"Yeah, think I can get down there, now. If you can stand it," he says, already forcing his weak limbs to rearrange and brace so he can slither southward.
"At this point, yes, anything," Aziraphale says tightly, though he still makes a mournful sound and clutches reflexively at Crawly's shoulders when Crawly pulls out and heaves himself lower down the angel's corporation.
Crawly murmurs something distracted but hopefully reassuring as he gets arranged on his elbows between the angel's legs. He uses a hand to part the absolutely sodden mess of curly hair to get a good look at what lies between the puffy outer folds of his vulva.
"Oh, yeah, that does look a bit like a flower," Crawly says thoughtfully as he runs his fingers along the crinkled inner lips and prods at where things dip inward the most deeply. "f*ck, you're a mess down here," he breathes, arousal spiking again when he sees the slickness of their combined efforts leaking out like milky nectar. He has the sudden, overwhelming urge to push it back inside. And, since he can see what he's doing, it's ridiculously easy to swipe up a bit of slick with the tip of a finger and press it in deep on the first try.
Inside, Aziraphale's burning up, and Crawly feels about curiously as the angel squirms and whinges with every slippery prod.
"Oh, that's neat!" Crawly exclaims as he finds a particularly interesting bit. "Mostly it's all slick and soft, but there's this sort of spongy bit just here," he explains and crooks his fingertip to rub at it in demonstration.
Aziraphale's thighs slam together around his shoulders so fast and hard, Crawly grunts.
"Do that again!" Aziraphale demands, frantic and really compellingly low in his register.
"Yeah?" Crawly replies, a little squeaky with how tightly he's being compressed, but obligingly starts rubbing.
"Yes," Aziraphale declares vehemently and paws down to get a hold of Crawly's hair again. "Need you to—!" he gasps and draws Crawly in closer to his c*nt.
Crawly lets himself be led, poleaxed by the abrupt change. When he looks back down, he realizes his finger is curled up just behind where the little nub he'd felt earlier sits at the apex of where Aziraphale's inner lips join. The whole area is flushed and swollen, especially where Crawly can now visually confirm there's a little nub of shiny flesh half hidden under an overhang of flesh, just above where the lips join in a little peak. Crawly hums to himself speculatively as Aziraphale's hands guide his mouth pretty unerringly to that spot.
He nuzzles his lips against the little hooded nub and grins when Aziraphale nearly sobs and strains up against him. "Think we've found the moneymaker," he observes wryly, enjoying perhaps a little too much the way the brush of his mouth as he speaks has Aziraphale tightening his fingers in Crawly's hair.
"Crawly, please," he begs.
"All right, all right, I've got it. Let's just see what works here…"
He trails off and tries a little lick. The aborted buck of Aziraphale's hips is an encouraging sign. He licks again, trying out different pressure and angle and speed for what the angel seems to like best. Aziraphale helpfully gasps directives, when he can manage words; when he can't, he simply smashes Crawly's mouth against him more urgently with the handhold he has on his hair. It's a good thing Crawly doesn't really need to breathe.
The thing that seems to drive Aziraphale the most wild is when Crawly fits the pointed tips of his forked tongue just up under the edges of the little hood the nub is hiding under and flutters them soft and fast. Between that and a flirty little curl of his finger along the underside, he soon has Aziraphale moaning near continuously and surging his hips to meet the rhythm Crawly's working. The bucking grows hard enough Crawly has to press down on the top of his thigh to hold him still, lest he dislodge the carefully precise stimulation.
"Crawly, can you—?" Aziraphale gasps between moans. "It's g-good, but—! I need—! It's aching inside."
He sounds legitimately upset, so Crawly grunts in acknowledgement and adds another finger. Then another. And another. Still, Aziraphale is begging for more, which is kind of a trip since Crawly's pretty certain the way he has almost his whole hand shoved in now is a lot more girth than what his co*ck was delivering earlier. But, he supposes the body wants what the body wants.
Luckily, he doesn't have to figure out how he's meant to add his thumb—whether to try and dislocate something in his hand or count on the angel's corporation stretching to accommodate—before things reach a critical point. All of the sudden, Aziraphale's cries increase in pitch and intensity, and he shudders hard at the same time his c*nt clenches down hard around Crawly's fingers.
The org*sm rocks through Azirapahle in much the same way as when they were both wearing a co*ck, except the pulsing rhythm doesn't feel like it's meant to shoot something out; it feels like his body is drawing Crawly's fingers inward. And that sort of makes sense, Crawly thinks, if the intention is to get the seed a co*ck's spilled planted deep in whatever lies at the end of the hot, clutching grasp that stretches beyond where he's already got his fingers buried pretty deep. Presumably, there's a womb back there somewhere.
However, unlike their org*sms up to now, this one stretches out a lot longer. Long enough that Crawly starts to get concerned; the seconds just keep ticking up. His tongue is starting to go a little numb from keeping up the fluttery friction, and he's getting worried whether he'll be able to keep going, when Aziraphale abruptly pulls him back by the hair and gasps a reedy, "Oh, that's enough—that's all fine! Quite good. Yes, just spiffing. Tip top." But when Crawly starts to move his arm, Aziraphale squeezes him round the shoulders even tighter and warns, "Don't you dare pull your hand out."
Crawly freezes, his mostly forgotten co*ck twitching against the moss at the low rumble the angel's voice had dropped into. Under Aziraphale's tearful, panting glare, Crawly slowly eases his fingers back in as far in as he can manage.
Aziraphale sighs in what sounds like profound relief and lets his head drop back onto the ground. He loosens his legs by a fraction, letting Crawly draw in a full breath again, and untangles his fingers from Crawly's hair just enough to start gently petting instead of grabbing tight.
"Well… that was a thing," Crawly observes and levers himself up on his elbows enough that he can rest his chin in the nifty little crease where one plump thigh meets equally plush tum.
"That was… certainly something," Aziraphale agrees threadily. His legs, where they're still pinching Crawly's torso pretty firmly, twitch. "Um… I can't seem to, er…" He warbles a slightly hysterical laugh and runs his fingers through Crawly's hair more urgently.
"Trouble letting go?" Crawly guesses, because overall he's finding the possessive-flavored manhandling alarmingly reassuring. When Aziraphale squeaks an affirmative, Crawly sighs and curls the hand not currently acting as a c*nt warmer up around the thigh he's steadily slumping more and more of his weight against. "Sounds about right. But, how's the urgency? Better? Mine's dropped off a lot, but I think I pulled ahead of you on number of Os somewhere in there, so that might account for it."
"Only just enough that I once again have the capacity to worry about what's going to happen next," Aziraphale says, voice tight.
Crawly frowns. "How d'you mean?"
"Well, we've copulated now. And are likely going to be compelled to copulate again, before the effects completely run their course."
"... Yeah?" Crawly agrees, knowing he's missing something obvious, but the fog of the fever is starting to creep back in along the edges of his focus. "Starting to be all I can think about again, so if you've got a point, best make it quick and, uh, maybe use small words." He flexes his fingers, needing to feel how ready Aziraphale's body is for him to sink back in with his co*ck. He just knows the hot clench will be able to ease the increasingly uncomfortable throb.
"Copulation, Crawly," Aziraphale says pointedly and then huffs an irritated breath. "Sex makes babies!"
"Babies are nice," Crawly says distractedly as he navigates the precarious process of slithering back up Aziraphale's torso without either dislodging his hand or separating the sticky press of their bodies more than absolutely necessary.
"What about a demon's baby growing in an angel's corporation?" Aziraphale snaps just as Crawly comes level with his face.
"A what's in a whose, now?" Crawly asks, far too freshly horny to follow the logic, not when the larger portion of his focus is now working on the logistics of swapping his hand for his co*ck as quickly as possible, so Aziraphale won't be left empty for too long. He was pretty upset, earlier, about being left empty, and Crawly doesn't like it when he gets upset.
"Crawly! Please!" he cries now, absolutely upset, and Crawly's attention crystalizes sharp enough to sting.
"Sorry—what?" he asks, darting his gaze over Aziraphale's impatient expression to see if he can divine some sense out of the jumble of words via context clues. "Copulation, babies, demon's baby, growing in—oh, f*ck," he yelps and looks down between them at Aziraphale's very nice belly. He doesn't think it looks any bigger than it did before all this started. "No, but—no. That couldn't happen, could it?" he shrills. "We're not actually human. And even if we were: demon, angel—got to be incompatible, right?"
"Compatible enough that the flower spit has worked on the both of us the same," Aziraphale frets.
"There's no way," Crawly insists, but he's recalling, now, warnings about not going over max allowances for "hybrid issue"—a phrase so baffling it had stuck out of sheer incredulity. "No—it's fine. I've got it. There's a—a thing. A—protocol! That's the word. There's a protocol, for ensuring you don't 'leave issue'—bloody metaphors! Just have to—!" He wracks his brain, appreciating in a newly visceral way how terror does indeed push back the effects of the fever just a little bit. "Ah, f*ck, I told them they needed more diagrams in the pamphlets, if they wanted anyone to actually read them!" He shakes his head sharply, just to see if it'll shake anything else loose, and growls in frustration.
"You're saying there's a way to prevent copulation from resulting in pregnancy?" Aziraphale asks eagerly.
"If I can bloody remember it," Crawly agrees. "Didn't realize what they were talking about. Didn't have any plans to do literally any of this! Lust is not in my sin wheelhouse."
Aziraphale hums skeptically, eyes raking up and down Crawly's form in a way that, in the moment, Crawly absolutely understands.
"Oi!" he snaps, and Aziraphale does something with his eyebrows that looks like a bitchy shrug. "If you've been feeling lusty about me outside of being spit on by Heavenly crafted f*ck flowers, that's on you. But—argh! There's a pamphlet. Got it—here!" he exclaims with a smart snap and flourishes the mass of paper in Aziraphale's face with a triumphant "ha!"
"Good lord," the angel mutters and snatches it from him to start poring over the contents.
Crawly uses the excuse of giving the angel a little bit of space to read to finally lever himself back up onto his knees. Aziraphale doesn't look up from scanning through the papers—brow furiously furrowed—but he does helpfully lift his hips and legs when Crawly adjusts them both so he can swap out his hand for his co*ck—finally.
He groans the moment he's buried back inside Aziraphale's corporation, the relief so horrifically acute that he ends up slumping almost all the way back down again, planting his face in Aziraphale's shoulder. He feels Aziraphale press some part of his face against his head at the same time the angel hooks his legs tight around Crawly's lower back and holds him firmly in place.
"What'sit say?" he moans, wanting badly to start thrusting, but prevented by the strength of Aziraphale's hold around him. He has to settle for running his hands up and down the angel's sides and rubbing his face against his chest and shoulder.
"Hold on just a moment," Aziraphale says testily, punctuated by the rustle of paper turning. "I take back every uncharitable thought I had about you not properly reviewing the manual when you had the chance. This is nearly unreadable. Has no one in Hell heard of spellcheck? And, my word, what is this catastrophe of a font?"
"Sans Seraphim," Crawly mutters and then squirms with the need to move. He plasters himself more fully against the angel and worms up to mouth at his neck in turnabout harassment from earlier.
"Oh, I know exactly who's in charge of your documentation management system, now," Aziraphale says darkly.
"Stop being menacing," Crawly gripes. "It's hot, and I can't f*ck you yet."
"Quit distracting me!"
"Nnngh!" Crawly whinges and nips at his neck with his too-sharp teeth.
"I said, quit distracting me!" Aziraphale says, a lot more high-pitched and breathless. His crossed heels dig into Crawly's lower back, grinding them that much closer together.
And, oh, there's an idea. Crawly adds a few more vertebrae to his spine so he can tip and tilt his hips more easily without being able to pull out at all. The additional expression of his snake form brings his attention to a certain… potential between his legs. He's losing ground again against the tide of need the fever inspires, but his brain quickly offers up exactly the bit of information he needs with a promptness he'll be embarrassed about later, because it finally twigs that he's capable of supernatural feats of focus when it comes to things that might make the angel happy.
"Hey, Aziraphale," he says blurrily between sucking nips to his neck—the angel absolutely had the right idea earlier; this is a delicious spot to kiss.
"Crawly…" Aziraphale says warningly, still wrestling with papers even though he's started to roll his hips to meet Crawly's grinding squirm and is tipping his chin up to give Crawly's mouth a broader canvas to work on.
"Think I can give myself two co*cks," he drawls.
The rustling ceases altogether.
"Can you?" Aziraphale asks, sounding strangled. His c*nt clenches hard around the one, lonely co*ck he already has inside.
Crawly snickers. "Snake thing. Earlier, seemed like you might need more to feel properly full. Would two at once be enough, do you reckon?"
"f*ck," Aziraphale breathes emphatically and then says, more stern and definitely harassed, "Just—! Wait a moment! Please! I think I've found the right section. Give me two seconds, and then you can stuff all the—all the co*cks you want in me! With no later complications to worry about!"
Since there's no possible world in which Aziraphale wouldn't be in massive amounts of trouble if he got knocked up by a demon—never mind the existential nightmare that would be trying to figure out how to co-parent with someone who's supposed to be his hereditary enemy—Crawly finds the wherewithal to hold mostly still.
This is going to be inconvenient, he thinks: being so emotionally tuned to keeping an angel happy. At least it's this angel, though. Who's a little ridiculous but undeniably kind, and surprisingly brave, and just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.
f*ck.
"Here we are!" Aziraphale says, shrill with manic excitement. "Simply render the issue or the eggs inert, as best pertains to one's individual corporeal configuration."
"... What the f*ck does that mean?" Crawly mumbles.
"I think, one simply… miracle's oneself… infertile?" Aziraphale says. "There are a lot of technical words here, but I doubt you're of a mind to comprehend them, just at the moment."
"Nope."
"Imagine your ejacul*te—er, your come—as having no viability. Dud seeds, if you like. I shall do the same for my, er…" There's a long but decidedly unpregnant pause. "Do you know, now that I'm feeling about, I'm not sure I even properly set up all the internal parts required for that sort of thing?"
"It did feel pretty fathomless in there," Crawly agrees.
"Whoopsie!" Aziraphale giggles nervously.
"Thank G—ngk, thank someone," Crawly says fervently. "No offense."
"No, no, none taken," Aziraphale agrees. "That would have been—! Well, it doesn't bear thinking about."
"No, not at all. Borrowing trouble, that is. When we already have enough as is. So, now can I…?"
He feels Aziraphale's arm jerk about a second before he hears the sound of paper thwacking against the ground some ways off.
"Please," Aziraphale says with an amount of relish unbecoming of a properly un-lustful angel.
But just the perfect amount of relish to inspire Crawly into letting loose the reins holding back his corporation from going that little bit more snakelike. He doesn't think about the repercussions of it all until about halfway through, when the one already lodged inside is already starting to change. Aziraphale makes a noise like he's dying as the second manifests with a slippery swell right up along the cleft of his vulva, bumping rudely against his sensitive nub before poking free.
"Whoopsie," Crawly echoes, far more strangled, because it turns out twice the co*ck means twice the nerve endings, and the contrasting sensations of one being buried deep and the other deliciously squashed is doing his head in.
"Crawly, I need you to f*ck me, right now," Aziraphale demands.
"Like this, or…?"
"Just f*ck me!" he wails, unhooking his ankles from around Crawly's back so he can plant his feet and shove himself bodily upward in an awkward thrust.
Crawly yelps and fumbles to get his knees back under him, so he can deliver.
And it turns out f*cking with two co*cks, one sheathed and one not, is pretty fantastic, not just because of the doubled nerve endings, but because the extra stimulation along Aziraphale's front means the angel is right there with him during the rush to reach their peak. They pant and clutch at each other messily, trading sloppy kisses and who takes over the bulk of the hip work to keep up a good rhythm.
Aziraphale actually laughs when he comes this time, obviously giddy with relief at how much more quickly and easily he's able to reach org*sm with the new configuration. The sound is a little too joyful and affirming for Crawly's exhausted, horny heart, and it trips him right up to the edge, faster than anticipated, and within a few more thrusts he's coming too, hissing through his teeth to keep from saying something a little too dangerously sappy.
When he collapses back down, Aziraphale wraps him up tight and gives him an effusive squeeze and smacking kiss to the side of his face—right against his demon mark.
"Oh, that was marvelous!" he enthuses. "And you're right! I feel a lot more clear-headed now. It must be on its way toward wearing off."
"Mmph," Crawly agrees and nuzzles down into Aziraphale's neck for a breather. He's feeling even more normal now than after the last org*sm, but in lieu of horniness is an increasingly intense wave of exhaustion. "Dunno how much longer I can keep doing this. Could nap for a year."
Aziraphale tuts and sifts his fingers through Crawly's hair, taking back up the work of detangling what he'd mussed earlier with all the tugging.
"Shall we swap again? I think I'll need to get at least one or two more in, but I'm not feeling nearly so done in as you seem to be. If I take over the thrusting, you can just relax and enjoy."
"You wanted two co*cks stuffed in you at'twonce," Crawly protests blearily.
"That does sound scrumptious," Aziraphale admits.
"Might be easier now, anyway, when I'm not so hard," Crawly wheedles, even though he's not entirely sure why he's trying to talk Aziraphale into this, when he's already so tired.
"Let's roll back over, at least."
Aziraphale does most of the work again, and Crawly only feels a little bad about it, because his entire corporation feels rubbery and fuzzy around the edges. But once he's lying back on the cool moss and sees Aziraphale hovering over him, brow a little furrowed with worry and face blotchy and damp with arousal and exertion both, he summons the ghost of a second wind.
"Have a seat, Angel," he invites, rubbing along Aziraphale's thighs encouragingly. He's growing hard again, but it lacks the urgency of the times before, and he thinks that if the fever hasn't already worked itself out completely, this has to be the final gasp.
Aziraphale is looking down at Crawly's co*cks with open fascination. The heads are slightly slimmer and asymmetrical at the tips now, and the skin is strangely textured all over in a way that's almost spongy when Crawly reaches down to gather them together, and along the base there are—
"Are these spines?" he asks, appalled, until he hesitantly brushes his fingers down and realizes they're not at all sharp.
"Yes," Aziraphale says, husky and covetous. "They're quite stimulating."
"Gosh," is all Crawly can think to say, especially since Aziraphale is reaching down too, to spread his vulva wide and help line up.
Together, they work to carefully feed the heads of both co*cks into Aziraphale's opening. It's a tight squeeze just getting the tips worked in, which has Crawly preemptively sweating in anticipation of how gloriously tight the pressure will be as Aziraphale sinks down.
"Oh, f*ck," Aziraphale breathes as he starts up a tentative, rocking roll of his hips and begins to work himself onto them more fully.
"Not tired anymore," Crawly says tightly, staring at where he's slowly being swallowed up into Aziraphale's body. The sight is almost as electrifying as the feel, and he wishes he'd been paying closer attention earlier, to have that many more burning-hot memories to store away for later.
Aziraphale starts to moan with every new fraction of fullness, moving tortuously slow to give his corporation time to relax and stretch the way it needs to, in order to take what looks to Crawly like an inadvisable amount of thickness, especially at the base.
"Don't hurt yourself," he warns, a pang of alarm spiking through him that the fever might still be in enough control to push Aziraphale into doing something foolish.
"No, it's wonderful," Aziraphale promises from deep in his chest. "But could you touch me, as well? I think I'd quite like that."
"Yeah, of course," Crawly says.
He needs to move his hand anyway, if Aziraphale is going to be able to keep going. So he feels for the nub again and feathers over it gently with his fingertips, tries to slip up under the little hood, if he can. Aziraphale keens and pants at the additional stimulation and sinks down sharply another few centimeters, fast enough that they both gasp.
"Careful!" Crawly whinges, co*cks starting to throb again with slowly stoked arousal.
"Sorry, sorry," Aziraphale gasps and leans forward to brace his hands on either side of Crawly's face, head hanging down between his locked arms. "Ooooh, it's so lovely, though! Even the lightest touch feels more intense like this. I can't wait to see how it will compare when I'm fully seated."
"Just—don't go too fast," Crawly begs. "Don't want to hurt you."
Aziraphale meets his gaze and smiles softly. "You are such a sweet thing, Crawly," he murmurs and then smiles wider when Crawly tries to snarl at him but only manages a panting sort of snort.
By the time Aziraphale is rocking atop the widest part of the stretch, the soft spines catching at the edges of his opening, Crawly is once again barely hanging on and despairing over it. There's something deeply disgruntling about realizing he's apparently so much more sensitive than the angel, even outside of the heat of the flower fever. It just doesn't fit with the image he's decided he wants to cultivate as a demon: cool and collected and maybe a little fashionably jaded. Trembling like a leaf and leaking tears just from what amounts to one thrust, however torturously long and viciously tight, does not gel with any of that.
"How's it?" he manages after a few stuttering attempts. He's still slowly petting Aziraphale's nub in time with the rocking. With the way his vulva is stretched to its limits, the little thing has actually managed to peek out from under its hood just a bit. But it's so exquisitely tender that Crawly's had to gentle his touch even further to keep Aziraphale from flinching.
"Oh, Crawly, it's perfect," he groans, a little slurring. He's having trouble keeping his eyes open.
"Good," Crawly gets out and then almost shouts as suddenly Aziraphale's body gives way and he sinks down the last couple of centimeters and lands heavily on Crawly's hips, pinning him flat and gorgeously crushing him all at once. "f*ck me, that's tight," he whimpers.
"Too tight?" Aziraphale asks, sounding a little afraid of what the answer might be.
Crawly shakes his head and feels how uncoordinated the movement is. "Nnnnno, ssssssss'OK. Jussssssst not gonna lasst."
"That's all right," Aziraphale confides. "I'm not going to either. It's too good. Oh, my dear, just this is wonderful. Keep right where you are, doing exactly that. It's all I'm going to need, believe it or not. It's—ah, ah, ah—f*ck, Crawly!" he cries, voice tripping up until it fizzes out into some really quite ecstatic-sounding moans.
And the pulsing clench of his org*sm, when he's already so tight around Crawly's co*cks, is simply too much. Crawly gasps and then forgets to breathe as it really does feel like, with his co*cks spurting in concert with the drag of Aziraphale's c*nt, he's being milked dry, his entire essence being given up and over to slake a need bigger and maybe more important than his own. Or at least one hungrier than his, and which he's all too eager to feed, given how enthusiastically he's giving it all up and Aziraphale's taking it in.
It seems to last forever—long enough that his vision starts blurring at the edges—before there's nothing left to feel and he goes blessedly limp absolutely everywhere in a way that's incredibly final and peaceful.
"Tha'ssit, m'done," he croaks and paws at Aziraphale's arms until the angel takes the hint and eases down onto his elbows and then, at Crawly's continued tugging, completely flat atop him. It's incredible: every overworked and exhausted bit of himself mercifully smoothed out and tucked safe.
Aziraphale snuggles in with a contented hum. They lie together just breathing and generally—at least on Crawly's end—remembering how to exist for several long minutes. Eventually, Crawly's co*cks finally give up the limp ghost and slither out of Aziraphale's c*nt, which is too weird-feeling to properly express in words. Crawly tiredly snaps himself back to his typical featureless state in self-defense.
"Oh, did you just…?" Aziraphale mumbles into the side of his face, sounding distinctly put out.
Crawly kind of wants to cry. "You still not out of it?" he guesses.
"No," Aziraphale grumbles and then sighs. "How do you feel about putting on a vulva, now? I can take care of everything, my dear boy. You could even have a nice kip, if you like."
"Just… nothing too vigorous," Crawly says, because he is a bit morbidly curious, even if he's so tired he's going cross-eyed. But, being so tired, he can't pretend he has any hesitation about giving over whatever Aziraphale might want that he can provide, not when he knows in a scarily bone-deep sort of way that Aziraphale will be as gentle with him as he knows how.
Another snap produces what feels like the right configuration, and he flops his arm back across Aziraphale's back limply. Because he's a perfect being, Aziraphale doesn't go exploring right away. Instead, he levers up onto an elbow and cups Crawly's face so he can kiss him. And, f*ck, Crawly can feel so much in it, a throbbing knot of emotions too tightly tangled and fiercely vibrating to pick apart the individual notes, but he's pretty sure all the major virtues are in there somewhere—he can remember those faintly, even if they sting now. It makes tears leak out his eyes, which Aziraphale brushes away with patently adoring brushes of his fingertips over Crawly's temple and into the fringes of his hair. Crawly would tell him to knock it the f*ck off if he wasn't afraid that the moment he pulled away he might start sobbing in earnest—or if he wasn't enjoying it so damn much.
Eventually, Aziraphale's overflow of loving-kindness tapers from a swamping flood into a more manageable trickle, and Crawly's able to do more than just vaguely move his own mouth in response, can actually participate in a meaningful way. It stays embarrassingly sweet for a while, but eventually the dregs of the fever must goose Aziraphale enough that he huffs and deepens things into a much filthier, more carnally urgent tempo. Crawly hangs on gamely and obligingly spreads his legs when Aziraphale shifts on top of him.
But, just as he thinks the angel is getting himself lined up to push in, the contrary bastard pulls away from the kiss and shimmies his way down to peer with avid curiosity at Crawly's newly fashioned bits.
"Ooh, quite slinky! An excellently fashioned vulva, Crawly. Very well done."
"It's literally the only one you've ever seen, unless you whipped out a mirror earlier that I didn't see."
Aziraphale flicks a glare up at him and then goes back to his inspection, delicately parting Crawly's lips with his fingers in—if Crawly's not mistaken—the exact same way Crawly had done to him earlier.
"Aziraphale…" he warns, thinking he knows what's likely to come next and fatalistically accepting that his treacherous corporation is growing warm in anticipation. It's a much subtler warmth, now, but just as affecting.
"Hmm?" he asks, not looking up from where he's eyeing Crawly's business like a ripe, juicy fruit and he's dying of thirst.
"Aren't you needing to get yourself off right now?" Crawly tries.
"In good time. I don't like that the reset means you're not very wet anymore. I can't imagine it would be comfortable, if I were to try and thrust in just now. Far too much friction, I'd wager. We'll need to get you slippery again first."
"I'm beginning to think you have a certifiable thing about putting stuff in your mouth."
Aziraphale pouts up at him. "I am a little disappointed I didn't get to try tasting your co*cks earlier. Another time, perhaps."
"Oh, yeah, another time," Crawly agrees faintly.
He's so flummoxed at the almost offhand way Aziraphale makes clear he expects they'll keep doing this sort of thing in the future, even outside of the pressing need to assuage a florally induced fever, that he's not quite prepared for the first enthusiastic lick up between his folds.
"sh*t!" he whines, arousal spiking hard.
"Yes? No?" Aziraphale asks politely, and Crawly takes a turn at grabbing onto a head of curls to do some pointed steering.
Aziraphale happily laps and suckles and rubs all over everything, even getting low enough to try out spearing the tip of his tongue into Crawly's increasingly wet and aching entrance.
"f*ck, that's good," Crawly tells him and then devolves into gasping moans as he gets treated to an enthusiastic tongue f*cking. It's blisteringly good in part because it's not nearly enough. After a good minute, Crawly frees a hand from Aziraphale's hair to frantically feel out for his own little nub, to give it some much needed attention. "What the f*ck?" he pants when he encounters a bulge a lot more prominent than expected.
Aziraphale makes an enquiring sound, still closed-eyed and lazily thrusting his tongue in and out like he couldn't imagine doing anything else in the moment.
"My, er, thingy. The nubby thing. It's bigger than yours was. Did I f*ck up the swap?"
Aziraphale slits his eyes open and then lifts his mouth away with visible reluctance so he can say, "It doesn't look all that big to me. Not even so big as the tip of your smallest finger. Quite temptingly shiny, though," he says thoughtfully, a dangerous gleam in his eye.
"Yeah, absolutely you should do whatever it is you're thinking about doing right now, but hold on a second," Crawly says testily and grunts his way up to sitting so he can curl over, snakelike, and get a good look. "Huh. It's out of the little hood thingy. Yours didn't do that. Not until there was literally no room left to stay in there."
"Do you suppose it's another snake thing?" Aziraphale asks, and the look he gives Crawly is so openly, innocently curious that it hits him square between the eyes that Aziraphale really doesn't care about the whole snake thing—the whole demon thing—in more than a superficial way—perhaps only when he remembers he's probably supposed to, as an angel. But distracted from the looming pressure of Heaven, when he's happy and mostly relaxed, he's nothing but accepting and even, in certain regards, excited about the parts of Crawly that even Crawly still finds difficult to reckon with, because of how raw they still sometimes feel.
"Doesn't feel like it," Crawly says, a beat too late and a shade too hoarse in tone. "Might just be a human thing, like how our co*cks weren't exactly the same, or our noses or hands or all the rest of it. Variations on a theme or something. Bit annoying for you, though, for this. That yours doesn't look like a big, fat 'touch here' button."
"That's all right. You figured it out," Aziraphale says, entirely too blasé in Crawly's opinion. "And now I'll figure yours out!" he promises and presses a bossy palm to Crawly's belly to get him to lie back again.
"Why does that sound like a threat?" Crawly grumbles and then groans and thrashes as Aziraphale gets back to torturing him.
At least the exhaustion and lack of fever means he doesn't go off like a rocket this time. Aziraphale keeps at it with beneficent patience, taking his turn at feeling out Crawly's tender insides with indulgently slow thrusts of his fingers, until Crawly shakes apart. The bastard doesn't even give him time to recuperate before returning to his position hovering over Crawly's limp form, gathering him up by the hips, and sinking in deep. At least he seems to realize Crawly's going to be fully useless for at least the next several minutes, because he keeps hold of Crawly's hips to ensure the right angle and resistance for each slow slide of his co*ck in and out. It's unfairly good, especially when Crawly's so freshly wrung out.
But between the adjusted angle and how long they've been going at it, the sun's creeping right in Crawly's eye. He hisses and flops an arm over his face.
"Oh, is it too bright?" Aziraphale pants, and when Crawly glowers at him from under the shade of his arm, the angel looks positively beatific f*cking into Crawly's noodly body. "Here, let me help," he says.
And then the bastard manifests his f*cking wings and mantles them over them both, giving himself a layered, teardrop halo of wild, feathery curls and bright blue sky.
"Better?" he asks, absolutely meaning it, the f*cker, and Crawly nods helplessly. "All right?" he asks, tone coming over a shade more worried, and shifts to get one arm banded behind Crawly's back so he can brace his elbow down by Crawly's upflung arms and tap their foreheads together in reassurance. "Is it too much? Break?" he pants, clearly getting close but willing to pause if Crawly needs.
And there's just something about it all that really is too much. Maybe it's how properly, actually f*cking angelic Aziraphale looks, expression balanced between concern and ecstasy. Or the way Crawly is overly aware how vulnerable he is at the moment, too tired to move much and with someone obviously much stronger than him shoving something in and out of one of the most tender places in his corporation. That he has the clarity of mind back to think on how badly this whole incident could have gone, between an angel and a demon, when neither of them was in their right minds for the most of it. And yet here they both are, safely through and no worse for wear than a little bit of exhaustion and sore muscles. Even quite a lot wiser about themselves and each other and humanity, because they work really f*cking well together.
"Think I love you," Crawly blurts out, frustrated tears leaking as he finds the strength to get a leg slung over Aziraphale's lower back and a hand up into his rumpled hair, so he can press their foreheads together more tightly.
"Oh!" Aziraphale says, obviously gobsmacked, and then slams his eyes shut tight as his org*sm hits him.
When it finally peters out, Crawly winds around him tiredly as Aziraphale slowly slumps down and then huddles close. Aziraphale curls his face into Crawly's neck and keeps his wings protectively mantled, seemingly wanting to hide them both simultaneously, which is a feeling Crawly can get behind.
While he waits for the fallout of his rather insane confession, Crawly runs a knuckle down the length of a covert feather. When Aziraphale doesn't protest, he figures in for a penny as a pound and starts tentatively running his fingers through what he can get to easily, smoothing out rumples and tugging free loose down feathers.
"It's rather sudden, isn't it?" Aziraphale finally says, sounding a little terrified but also hopeful.
Crawly shrugs as best he can without clipping Aziraphale in the throat and keeps preening with single-minded determination.
Aziraphale fidgets his hands to get them just barely wedged between Crawly's back and the ground. "You don't think it's just because of… getting caught up in the moment, maybe?" he asks, still tentative but a lot less scared.
"Think it just gave certain things, ngk, focus," Crawly mutters.
"Oh, yes! Just so," Aziraphale says with a relieved-sounding laugh and then kisses Crawly's neck soundly. "I have no idea what we're going to do!" he exclaims, a little wild.
"Yeah," Crawly laments and preens harder.
"I can do yours later," Aziraphale offers, somewhere between shy and adorably greedy.
"Mine don't need it," Crawly drawls as he loosens a clump of stuck down powder and then wipes his fingers pointedly on Aziraphale's side. And f*ck, he's in so much trouble, because all he needs is to feel the shape of Aziraphale's pout against his neck before he's relenting on an aggrieved sigh, "But you can do it anyway, if you like."
"Thank you," Aziraphale says with stroppy dignity and then shifts his head back and nuzzles at Crawly's face until he gets the hint and turns to look at him. Aziraphale presses a soft kiss to his mouth and murmurs, hushed, "I think… me too."
"Yeah," Crawly agrees, because he's pretty sure he felt it, before, in the tangle of it all. Can feel it now, when he concentrates, in the staticky tingle where their lips brush. "We're really f*cked."
"Quite. Do you suppose we're married, now, too?" Aziraphale asks, so seriously that it takes opening his eyes back up to see the bastard gleam in the angel's gaze to confirm he's f*cking with him. "Since those flowers were intended for wedded couples," he continues gravely.
"Pretty sure it doesn't work like that," Crawly says, deadpan, but his mouth is twitching into a grin.
"Oh, and what do you know about marriage? You barely knew about sex," Aziraphale teases.
"More than you!"
"Hmm, debatable."
Crawly kisses him to keep from laughing.
God help him, he likes this ridiculous angel so much. Loves him, even. Which is kind of a nightmare, but probably they'll figure it out. Because with the taste of Aziraphale bright on his tongue, the sweat and mess of their joint effort to take care of one another clinging to his skin and scales, Crawly's starting to recall that he's always been an optimist.
