Category: Fluff, SO MUCH FLUFF!, non-human sex, wingfic, wing kink, humor, post-apocalypse
Summary: Everyone, including Aziraphale, has noticed the way Crowley always circles him. It's not so much bothering Aziraphale as he's curious to know why.
He just gets a bit more than he'd bargained for when he gets a small confession out of Crowley in the middle of St. James Park. Which is neither the place, nor the time!
Notes: I... well, this took a turn on its own. A conversation turned to a talk about wings and kinks and before you know it, there's a fic. I've never attempted to write non-human sex in this way but it was sure fun and challenging. So there are no warning, just... it's a demon and an angel and there's non-human sex involved - and fluff, oh my, so much fluff I nearly broke myself.
So, this is for Meinposhbastard for even suggesting anything wing related in the first place and with a great big thank you for the beta of it XD
Word count: 4,419
Aziraphale is beginning to see a pattern. Well, it's a pattern that's been going on for a few millennia, if he is to be true to himself. And if he isn't true to himself, then who? It's not like he has the trust of the other angels anymore.
If he ever truly did.
Right, back to the pattern. If he goes back in time and looks at the signs, he feels a little stupid. Because in all truth, the first time it had happened had been on the wall, hadn't it? Right after the whole sword debacle - and hadn't that come back to bite him in the arse?
The thing he keeps shying away from, is the admission that whenever he's been in Crowley's company, he's been the sole focus of his attention. It had made Aziraphale a little uneasy in the beginning, but it had soon been overshadowed by this demon, who seemed too nice to be truly demonic.
What had really driven it home had been watching his own body do the exact same thing when he and Crowley had been in the park, waiting for whatever heaven and hell was going to throw at them. It had been almost surreal to watch Crowley in his own familiar body circle his temporary Crowley shaped vessel.
Aziraphale takes a deep breath as he can hear the engine of the Bentley rumble to a halt outside. Before the apocalypse, or at least before Crowley and he had taken it upon themselves to play godfathers to Warlock, the wrong antichrist, they had barely seen each other once or twice a century. Oh, they kept on top of what the other was doing, through their respective grapevines, but being in each other's company so often, not really.
And it has been somewhat of a surprise to Aziraphale to realize he quite likes the time spent with Crowley. Be it as the nanny or as the demon. It hadn't mattered, it was, after all, Crowley.
The (locked) door opens and he can hear the bell over the door jingling. Locked doors and closed signs never seem to work on Crowley and why should they? The signs and locks are merely there to deter the humans.
Crowley is and, Aziraphale realizes, always has been welcomed in his 'home'.
It does something odd, but quite wonderful, to his insides, but this is hardly the time to sit and chew on that.
"In the back," he calls out, though he knows that Crowley can find him anywhere, blindfolded, ears and nose covered, in a crowd of thousands. How? Aziraphale doesn't know - but he knows it the same way he knows he can do the very same if he was looking for Crowley.
"Morning, angel," Crowley greets, much as he always does, nonchalantly holding out a paper bag that lets off the most divine scent.
"You do know you don't have to bring…" Aziraphale trails off. "Are those croissants from that little bakery in…"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" Crowley says, the hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He hands over the bag and saunters over to the couch to throw himself bonelessly on it. It both manages to look absolutely uncomfortable as well as utterly decadent and comfortable.
Aziraphale clears his throat and opens the bag, feeling his body's olfactory sense go into overdrive, relaying the scent to his taste buds, onwards to the pleasure center of his brain as well as his stomach.
He is so soft - and he's not thinking about his physicality - but he's always had a soft spot for this kind of food and Crowley knows this. There were times when Aziraphale would have put it down to the demon being the original tempter of mankind, but by now he knows it's something Crowley does almost without thinking about it.
Because it makes Aziraphale happy.
How the heavens could he have been so blind?
"You alright?" Crowley asks, his sunglasses pushed down to allow him to focus unhindered on Aziraphale.
He's also always been unearthly good at seeing through Aziraphale's bumbling attempts at guarding himself. Perhaps this is why Crowley has never truly given up on him. Oh, there have been enough threats and angry words over the millennia, but deep down, he's never let Aziraphale's insecurities get in the way. It's always been Aziraphale putting down stumbling blocks (mostly to himself) and Crowley vaulting over them like a pro athlete, barely breaking a sweat.
It's like those yellow, slitted eyes can see through any and all of Azirphale's paperthin excuses.
They are rather lovely, aren't they? The eyes, the one thing that shines through of the snake - or at least the most obvious. Aziraphale is still unsure if Crowley moves the way he does because he's still remembering the snake's body or if it's simply a habit and how Crowley has decided it's cool to move.
It doesn't really matter, does it? It's so inherently Crowley, along with the occasional lapse into a hiss. And that is very occasional - Aziraphale is rather sure he can count the times he's noticed on one hand. Crowley really has far better self-control than most of the other demons that Aziraphale has come across. And most angels as well.
He realizes that he's let his thoughts drift for a little too long and he still has to answer Crowley's question. "Ah, yes, I'm... " he trails off. He wants to say 'I'm okay, old boy, don't worry about me'. Instead he says: "It would be an honour if you would take your glasses off when it's just the two of us." And he realizes with little surprise that it's nothing but the truth.
Crowley looks less surprised than Aziraphale would have expected. Normally he only takes them off when they're both well beyond the point of being drunk.
There was a time, before Rome, when Crowley never covered up his eyes. Aziraphale has always wanted to ask, but even now, he knows he won't. If Crowley ever shares his reasons with him, it has to be his choice and not because Aziraphale is inherently nosy.
"You're being extra weird today, angel," Crowley says, but he reaches for his sunglasses, barely a hesitation as he pulls them off, folds them and puts them in the chest pocket of his jacket.
"I, yes, I guess I feel a little less put together than normally," Aziraphale finds himself sharing, while he picks the croissants out of the bag and lazily waves a hand to make a cup of tea to go with it.
He's not lying. He's always thought about Crowley, even when he's not been around. Wondered what he's been doing, not always simply to consider what wicked things the demon might have been working on. Sometimes he just wonders if Crowley has hobbies or if he simply sleeps his spare time away. And admitting this to himself is making Aziraphale feel a little... off.
"Did something happen?" It's amazing that with Crowley's face normally expressive enough to tell Aziraphale a lot, adding clear sight of the eyes gives him so much more. It's like wearing eyeglasses and wondering why it's all a bit hazy, taking them off and cleaning them. And when you put them back on, you realize you've been looking through dirty lenses for… quite some time.
And if the eyes don't convey worry, then the sudden guardedness to Crowley's voice does.
"Oh, no," Aziraphale hurriedly assures him. He doesn't want Crowley to worry about this. These are his feelings and he might need some time to think about them before he's ready to share them with him.
Although he'd still like to know why Crowley always circles him when there's room for it. Perhaps he'll remind himself to ask the next time he catches him doing so. For now he'll enjoy the croissants that Crowley has so thoughtfully brought him.
He gets a chance to ask a couple of hours later, after they've spent a lovely lunch at the small restaurant hidden away on a sidestreet not too far from St. James' Park. They don't have to have their clandestine meetings here anymore, but Aziraphale quite likes the park and the familiarity of it, and he wonders if Crowley does as well. It's all been marred a little, of course, by the fact that they were both taken away by force from this very place.
The thought does sour the experience for Aziraphale for a moment. And apparently Crowley is very much in tune with him on this. "Not sure I can go through here ever again without watching over my shoulder," the demon admits. He's once again covered his expressive eyes, but there is no mistaking the wariness in his voice.
Aziraphale nods. "Do you want to go somewhere else? Perhaps we are asking for trouble by being so predictable?"
Crowley makes a face of disgust. "No, we've been coming here for centuries now, it's part of our Earth, not theirs."
Aziraphale wants to… he doesn't know what he wants. He wants to reach out and hold onto Crowley's hand as they walk. He wants to stop him and… For a moment, he's so lost in thought that his body chooses to stop in its tracks.
It takes Crowley a moment to realize he's lost his friend before he turns and comes back. And this is when Azirphale notices it again and that is what jolts him back to the here and now, in St. James' Park on a Wednesday afternoon, just after two o'clock.
There's room enough for Crowley to circle him and he does. Twice. But every time he slows down when he's behind him.
"Crowley, my dear friend, could I ask you a, perhaps rather personal, question?" It's out like that, more steadily than he was expecting it to.
Crowley stops his circling and comes to a halt, at Aziraphale's side, rather than in front of him. But there is no mistaking that all of Crowley's rather impressive focus is solely aimed at him.
"Sure, shoot," Crowley says, but his defences are coming back up. Like he's afraid of what Aziraphale might ask.
Aziraphale doesn't want to do this halfway, half baked, whatever the young ones say these days. He turns to face Crowley to, in turn, give him his full attention. He reaches out and puts his hand on Crowley's arm.
And Crowley stills. As in freezes in place completely.
And Aziraphale realizes he's actually never quite witnessed this before. Even drunk Crowley never stays still. It's most unsettling. But he is the one who opened this can of worms, and he feels he needs to carry on to see it to the end.
"You've always given me your full focus," he tries, looking for the right words. "That is to say, whenever we speak or spend time together, you… " he huffs. "Oh, sod it," he blurts out.
Crowley's sunglasses slide down his nose and there's a look of utter delight and surprise on his face. Aziraphale takes a blessed moment to wonder what Crowley might have made of him being so very profane when he'd entered the circle of light by mistake. He'd probably have been all for it. He'd have been at the sidelines waving pom poms or something. Well, metaphorical pom poms. As amusing as Crowley with pom poms might be, Aziraphale can't quite imagine that.
So Aziraphale plows on: "You always circle me like you just did. Like you're… like you're looking for something specific."
"Yes?" Crowley asks and there's a carefulness under his acknowledgement of Aziraphale's bumbling way of asking a question.
"Might I ask what are you searching for?" And whatever it is, has he found it? Probably not, because then he wouldn't still be doing it, now would he?
Crowley is uncharacteristically quiet for a moment.
Aziraphale realizes that he's still holding on to his arm, but rather than removing his hand like he'd normally do to avoid anyone noticing and using it against them, he holds on, squeezes the thin, wiry arm underneath the jacket.
"There is nothing you can say that will make me turn from you, my dear - we've faced heaven and hell up until this point." Aziraphale takes a deep breath and he can feel the truth in the words that he speaks, like a divine light. "Trust me."
For a moment, Crowley looks absolutely broken apart. His eyes are wide and his pupils contract and expand within one breath and the next. He opens his mouth then closes it again.
Aziraphale feels like he's broken Crowley and he wants desperately to do as he always does when something becomes too intense - he wants to backtrack and divert attention. Swallowing hard, he holds Crowley's gaze. He owes it to the both of them to see this through to the end.
"Hit me with a bat next time, angel," Crowley manages to get out. "It would make less of an impact."
Aziraphale lets out a small sigh of relief. Crowley is back to joking, which means, perhaps, he's not completely broken.
"Crowley." It's all Aziraphale is getting out before Crowley lifts his free hand and covers his mouth with the tips of his fingers.
"No," Crowley says. "Don't take it back. You're right." He pauses for a moment and there's a barely perceptible softening to his thin mouth. "From very specific angles, I can see your wings - almost but not quite there, where I can almost touch them."
Aziraphale feels like he's been thrust into the roaring fire of a smithy's furnace.
Crowley chuckles and removes his hand.
Aziraphale most certainly isn't feeling the lack of touch skin to skin like a punch to the gut.
"I don't think this is a conversation we're having in the middle of St. James' Park," Crowley says, faux nonchalance audible in his voice. He puts his hand on top of Aziraphale's.
Aziraphale wants to yell at him. No, it bloody isn't! And it's nothing like what he was expecting. Not that he knows what he was expecting. There are few things more intimate than what Crowley is suggesting. It's bad enough that he's been trying to peek at them, but wanting to…
Crowley seems to be back on his game. "Did I just break you?" he asks. There's the usual smirk there, but underneath it, there's a sincerity and perhaps a little wariness.
"I believe you are quite right about this not being a conversation for the park," Aziraphale manages to get out. He's feeling out of sorts now. He's not going to blame Crowley for this. He's the one who started this conversation in public.
Crowley shrugs and Aziraphale knows they can derail this conversation and return to their semi-normal behaviour, but he finds that he doesn't want to. They can go back to his bookshop and drink wine until they're stupidly drunk and just ignore this conversation ever happened, but it's not what he wants.
"Hold that thought," Aziraphale says, because he's about to do the stupidest thing he can think of. Well, he's going to do two things, of which only the second is stupid, because it might attract the wrong kind of attention, with them being out in public and all.
The first thing he does, is lean forward and press his mouth to Crowley's. It's not perfect in every way, but it's a light press of lips, a reassurance and a promise, before Aziraphale closes his eyes and between one moment and the next, they're back at the bookshop.
The late afternoon sun is shining through the windows, highlighting the dustmotes.
"That was stupid," Crowley manages to say. His voice breaks on the last word.
Aziraphale knows. Only, the fact is, this is a conversation they'll have to have and it is far too intimate to have in public and Aziraphale doesn't want them to lose momentum or heart. They are both far too good at deflecting when left time to think about things. In his book, it has to be worth the risk of attracting attention from above or below for moving himself and Crowley to the familiar privacy of his bookshop within the space between two heartbeats.
"You implied touching my wings," Aziraphale says. It shouldn't be as enticing a thought as it is, should it? Because it's not something Aziraphale has ever thought about, someone else running their strong, thin fingers through his feathers. Never before, but he is now.
"No," Crowley stops him. He's still covering Aziraphale's hand on his arm, squeezing it like he's afraid Aziraphale is going to remove it. "No, I wouldn't touch without asking."
Aziraphale manages to translate it right in his mind. "You never did - you never would?" he says - half question, half statement. Because now that the thought has been put in his mind…
Crowley hems and haws for a moment. "Well," he eventually says, "maybe at some point?"
Aziraphale feels reckless. He has since Crowley admitted to thinking about touching his wings. He has since he leaned forward and kissed him.
And there is nothing to keep him from doing it again, is there? He reaches up with his free hand and cups Crowley's cheek. This time Crowley meets him halfway, a soft exhalation against Aziraphale's lips and they're kissing again.
In private, Aziraphale loses control of the recklessness and without conscious thought he's down to his shirt and breeches, his wings unfurling behind him on the physical plane. It's not something he does very often but it's freeing in ways he can't put into words.
The wings are not normally constricted as such, but it feels almost decadent to let go like this.
It also makes Crowley lose it. He finally breaks Aziraphale's hold on his arm, grabs at his hips and pulls. If Azriaphale had felt like being in the heart of a furnace earlier, it's nothing short of incinerating now.
Now, human sexual pleasure is mostly centered around their genitalia, but being sexless, angels, and demons being of the same original stock, work a little differently. That isn't to say that they don't feel pleasure, it merely means that they feel things a little differently.
The kissing, of course, is entirely a human thing, but one that Aziraphale is quickly realizing he likes. Crowley doesn't seem to be against it either, especially not once Aziraphale experimentally parts his lips and sucks on his tongue. The noise this elicits from Crowley does strange things to Aziraphale. It's like his chest both expands and contracts at the same time.
Crowley, once past his surprise, tries to deepen the kiss and makes another noise, this time annoyed before letting go of Aziraphale only long enough with one hand to whip his sunglasses off. Then he leans in again, greedily covering Aziraphale's mouth with his own. And there's a distinct feel of a forked tongue as he teases it along Aziraphale's who can do nothing but open up to him with abandon.
He doesn't know what he was expecting from a kiss, from how Crowley would taste. He's never allowed himself to imagine it. But he knows he couldn't have guessed it right anyway. There's a strangely alluring taste to him, like burnt or caramelised sugar. And Aziraphale has half a thought of, at some later point, wanting to run his tongue over other parts of Crowley to see if they taste differently.
When they finally break apart, not for the breath either of them need, Aziraphale manages to say what he's been meaning to since Crowley admitted to his little secret.
"You can touch them, if you want." He speaks so quietly, yet his words sound obscenely loud. Like thunder on a cloudless day.
Aziraphale wisely brings them both down on the floor, kneeling in front of each other. He knows that when Crowley touches his wings, he won’t be able to stay standing. And Crowley follows him more than willingly. It's like his legs nearly collapse under him.
"Aziraphale, you can't just say something like that," he mutters against Aziraphale's cheek.
Aziraphale finds himself laughing breathlessly. "You're the one who put the thought in my head," he argues. This is them, nothing really changes, does it? It just shifts slightly sideways, but it's so inherently them that he shouldn't be surprised.
"Yes, I know," Crowley agrees softly. "But have mercy on me, angel, I've been wanting this for a long time."
Aziraphale isn't going to ask for how long, it will only make him ache. Because Crowley's always known, it seems, and Aziraphale has, as always, taken the long way around. He's not going to apologize for it. He needed the time, he needed the distance from heaven and he needed his loyalty to said heaven to be tarnished.
A wakeup call, is what Crowley would probably call it.
But he knows where his loyalties lie now.
Crowley slowly pushes his hands up under the back of Aziraphale's shirt. It does not actually leave a trail of fire, Aziraphale knows, but it feels like his touch is scorching a trail from his hips and up to just under his scapula anyway.
"Is this okay?" Crowley asks, sounding every bit as breathless as Aziraphale feels. And it shouldn't be necessary, to breathe, for either of them. Yet here they are, their bodies so adjusted to human life that they refuse to not react short of breath in the face of this situation.
Aziraphale can feel the tips of Crowley's fingers caressing the skin of his back just where the humerus meets flesh. He knew this would be intimate, but he hadn't really known, had he? Understood just how it would feel? Just how undressed he'd feel without being physically naked?
And he realizes it's not enough.
He's holding on to Crowley's hips, not entirely sure what to do with his own hands. But he can touch now as well, can't he? His thoughts are derailed for a moment as Crowley scratches a nail down along his scapula. He swears he can see sparks on the inside of his eyelids as he closes them, because he cannot force them to stay open.
A barely there thought and his own shirt is gone, eliciting a gasp from Crowley, who finds his reach no longer hindered by clothes. It apparently also makes Crowley realize that he's terribly overdressed. And between one breath and the next, Crowley's jacket and shirt are gone, allowing Aziraphale to feel his naked chest against his own.
He may not survive this, Aziraphale thinks to himself. This is surely too much to endure. So much pleasure it's bordering on painful.
Aziraphale wants to ask Crowley to do what he's doing, to allow his wings to unfold where he can touch them as well, show them as much love and adoration as Crowley is currently showing his. But he can't. His tongue is tied by the very pleasure that the touch elicits in him.
So instead he tries to convey it all through touch. It helps him to focus through the absolutely divine feeling of Crowley's strong, dexterous finger re-aligning slightly ruffled feathers, straightening primaries and secondaries.
It is all he can do to not cry out with each touch. Instead he digs his fingers into Crowley's bony hips just above the low slung too tight black jeans. The skin in warm and almost silky smooth, like Aziraphale has imagined Crowley's scales must be.
Crowley has buried his face where Aziraphale's neck and shoulder meet. His breath comes in tiny hot bursts against Aziraphale's already overheated skin. With each exhale there is a small sound, a muttered word, a whispered prayer or promise.
Inside him, the fire that Crowley's admission lit in the first place roars to a towering inferno. There is no describing it anymore. It is beyond what Aziraphale can control, it's beyond what he wants to control.
He wants that fire to burn down everything, he wants it to scorch hell and incinerate heaven, he wants it to cleanse him until all that is left is Crowley and his touch, the knowledge of his own feelings for his friend, the acknowledgement that those feelings are returned.
Heaven would call this a sin, perhaps hell would as well, but Aziraphale can not see any way that this could be conceived as wrong. The fire burns in his chest, under his wings, to the tips of the feathers, under Crowley's mindful, but greedy hands.
And it's a greed that Aziraphale understands. Because he wants more of it, he desperately needs Crowley to never stop touching him, holding him and loving him. How could he not have seen, how could he not have felt it?
It all coalesces in a cacophony of emotions, colours, noise inside his mind and a cry escaping his lips that he is sure must have been heard by the better part of London.
He's brought back slowly, to the feel of Crowley lovingly stroking his hand down his secondaries. It's almost too much, but it also allows Aziraphale to gently return to the here and now as it gives him something to focus on in the abrupt quiet and calming of the fire within.
It's like the air after a storm. It has all been washed clean of what was before.
He realizes, when he opens his eyes, that he's cradled in a pair of black wings as well as Crowley's arms. Before he can stop himself, he reaches out and almost touches his fingers to a primary. The wing shakes like a leaf in anticipation and Crowley gasps lightly against his temple.
At some point between Aziraphale losing touch with reality and returning, Crowley has joined him in bringing his wings into the same plane of existence. And he's curved them protectively around Aziraphale. Who can't help but marvel at the contrast between them where they overlap.
"May I?" Aziraphale asks, though he feels spent and a little sleepy. But he wants more, he wants to run his hands along the dark feathers, he wants to measure their wingspans by pressing them together, feathers to feathers, wingtips to wingtips.
"There is nothing in the world I'd love more," Crowley says, whisper-quiet against his ear, forked tongue touching the outer shell of Aziraphale's ear, making him shiver most magnificently. "You needen't my permission to take what I freely give. All I ask, is be gentle with me, angel; I only have one heart to give."