As many times as Aziraphale may have heard the Best of Queen over the last couple of decades, Crowley thought that it was a poor excuse to take the train. The two of them had headed up to Lancashire for the weekend to drop in on Anathema and her new girlfriend, Letitia (1). For whatever reason, Aziraphale seemed to regard it as a responsibility to check up on all the odd kids who’d ended up at the airfield on the day of the Apoca-not. Although he wouldn’t say it out loud, Crowley didn’t mind so much, especially since he admired Anathema’s practical head and wry sense of humour. Plus, it was always entertaining to watch Aziraphale interacting with others, if only to interrupt his stories and needle him into a huff. Regardless, Crowley was brooding, since the train up to Lancashire and the train back, that they were currently in, seemed to be moving slower than a snail superglued to Velcro. And all because Aziraphale didn’t want to listen to one more ‘Galileo’.
(1: Aziraphale was sure he had heard of Letitia somewhere before, but for the ‘life of him, he couldn’t recall’. Crowley was unsure exactly what had happened to that boy Anathema had been with when it all went down in Tadfield, but seeing the amount of demon-smiting objects she seemed to hoard in her cottage, he’d decided not to ask. Speaking of, he was thankful she agreed to relegate them to a cupboard for his stay, but the hook over the door which had held her shiny horseshoe still sent an uncomfortable shiver down his spine. He felt like a bloody vampire.)
“Crowley,” Aziraphale’d said, in the tone of voice that suggested Crowley should shut up unless he wanted to be left behind, “it doesn’t cheer me up to watch you jump in fright every time Beelzebub’s name blares through the speakers-“
“It’s not fright, Aziraphale!” Crowley had protested, one foot inside the car and his arms resting on the hood at he peered over the top, “it’s called being aware, not to mention it’s – it’s respect, they are the Prince of Hell after all-“
“We’re not taking the Bentley, Crowley.”
And that was how Crowley ended up slouched in the aisle seat of a cramped train, carelessly disregarding public etiquette (not to mention transport rules) by propping his foot up on the seat opposite. Thankfully they had a four seat section with a table, and the carriage was fairly empty, even for a Sunday night. His other leg (closest to Aziraphale) was splayed out in that customary lazy way he had of sitting, and so was pressed against Aziraphale’s thigh. Crowley had happily let him have the window seat on the way to Lancashire too, as he preferred the leg room afforded by the aisle, and knew the angel enjoyed the sight of the lush countryside rolling past while he read pastoral Romantic novels. However, Aziraphale had barely read ten pages this time before putting his book down, and he’d spent the last twenty minutes staring thoughtfully out of the window.
“Penny for your thoughts, angel?”
“Come on. You’re distracted. What’s going on?”
“Oh, well, nothing really.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow and shifted in his seat so he was turned a little more towards Aziraphale.
Aziraphale smiled sweetly at him, and Crowley couldn’t help but smile back, amused, his eyes shining behind his glasses.
“Book boring you?”
“Of course not,” Aziraphale huffed.
There was loud laughter from the other end of the carriage and Aziraphale grimaced.
“A hen party, I think,” Crowley said. They’d been pretty drunk when they’d boarded, and he assumed they’d had a full weekend of getting thoroughly smashed. “If you like I can get them to shut up? Bit of peace and quiet?”
Aziraphale smiled again and flicked his eyes over to Crowley. Crowley wondered if Aziraphale knew how he looked like that, with an almost tangible look of devotion in his eyes, and joy written into his cheeks and lips.
“Oh. There’s no need, I don’t quite feel like reading, right now.” He shifted in his seat, and his leg pressed more firmly against Crowley’s.
Crowley reached out and brushed back a lock of Aziraphale’s hair that had curled up at his temple.
It was still novel, this ability, this permission to touch Aziraphale whenever he liked, just finally acting on the little gestures he’d held back over the years as he kept a carefully measured distance between them.
Aziraphale turned his head where it rested against the tall train seat, trapping Crowley’s fingers against his ear. He pressed a soft kiss to the heel of Crowley’s hand, and then wrapped his hand around the back of Crowley’s and began to trace the pad of his thumb over the sensitive skin of Crowley’s inner wrist.
The gesture was so tender that Crowley had to swallow the lump in his throat.
Over the years it had never seemed so overwhelming to love Aziraphale. It was simply one of the constants of life, like his human form or the ability to transform into a snake if he ever wished. Something in the background, always on his mind, always important, but content to simmer away until the time was right.
But then Armageddon had nearly happened, and he’d lost Aziraphale. He did lose him, even though he’d found him again soon enough, but for those few hours Aziraphale was dead and then discorporated and that loss was one Crowley couldn’t ever recover from. Since then every time Aziraphale smiled at him or touched him, or pleasured him, his heart would thump faster than the beat to Stone Cold Crazy, which is incidentally exactly how he felt at those moments.
He could feel the pulse in his wrist jump at the press of Aziraphale’s thumb, and knew the angel could feel it too.
Aziraphale softened his voice so it wouldn’t carry beyond their intimate corner. “I confess, I have been lost in my thoughts.”
“Care to share?” Crowley teased.
He felt a palm creep over his thigh, and he looked down at it in surprise.
“Well,” Aziraphale began, “I was thinking about last night, and that lovely gin Anathema shared with us.”
“What, and that gin’s got you all worked up, has it?” Crowley raised his eyebrows over the tops of his sunglasses, and quickly covered Aziraphale’s hand with his own, stroking the angel’s fingers.
Aziraphale ignored the snide remark.
“I was rather taken with the way the light fell across your face, you know,” he said, and removed his hand from Crowley’s thigh. He raised it to his face and ran his thumb across Crowley’s cheekbone, nudging his glasses up to do so. His voice was butter rich and smooth like fine whisky. “You remember. Just before Anathema and Letitia said their good nights, Anathema drew the curtains, and there was a strip of golden light that fell right here.” He traced his hand down the side of Crowley’s face, running his thumb in a straight line down, brushing his nose and teasing the corner of his mouth. Crowley’s fingers twitched where they were trapped against Aziraphale’s face, but neither of them made any move to release him. “Of course, perhaps it was the gin, we did drink rather a lot of it after all, but I wanted nothing more in that moment than to kiss you, my dear. To taste the juniper berries on your tongue.”
“Kiss me now,” Crowley said, and he could hear the rasp in his voice.
Aziraphale’s mouth twitched in amusement. “I don’t think so. We’re in public.”
“Mm. Why didn’t you kiss me last night, then?” Crowley asked. All of his senses were focussed on the warm flesh against his face with viper-like precision. He turned his chin into Aziraphale’s palm, brushing it with his lips to show Aziraphale what he’d missed.
“You know it wouldn’t have stopped at a kiss, and there are certain things you just don’t do as a guest in someone’s house.”
Crowley grinned. “I’m that irresistible then? You’d have had me right there in the armchair?”
There was a pause. A weighted pause, where Aziraphale’s eyes seemed to spear Crowley, and he found himself imagining a decorative butterfly mounted on a wall, pinned under the gaze of a keen aesthete.
Aziraphale slowly retrieved his hand and with only the slightest hesitancy, the slightest flicker of his eyes downwards, he fit it around Crowley’s neck.
Crowley inhaled in shock.
Aziraphale didn’t squeeze or threaten, didn’t push him back or pull him closer by the throat. He just let his palm rest there, wrapped around his throat snug as a cravat…or a collar.
Crowley felt his Adam’s apple bob against Aziraphale’s palm.
“You looked delectable in the setting sun, darling.”
Aziraphale pressed down with a two of his fingers.
“It highlighted your neck right here, and I could have feasted on you.”
Crowley panted. He felt suspended, with Aziraphale holding him firm at the neck and his hand still trapped in a caress against the angel’s face. Heat began to pool low in his belly. He clutched Aziraphale’s arm with his free hand, and could feel his owns muscles stretch and freeze with tension, corded against his pumping veins and taut ligaments. He’d never been so still in his life.
“Aziraphale,” he breathed. They could so easily draw attention to themselves in the insular carriage.
Aziraphale increased the pressure and Crowley was forced to tilt his head back at the onslaught. Aziraphale’s thumb dug in at the soft skin at the corner of his jaw, and a wave of vulnerability crashed over him. His hand clenched convulsively around Aziraphale’s forearm.
“You know, Crowley,” Aziraphale continued in a low voice, “when you drink, you get lax with your clothes.” He released his grip and Crowley panted, eyes half closed behind his glasses.
A thrill went through him then as Aziraphale slipped the top three buttons of his V-neck loose, baring skin to cool air and revealing the smattering of hair on his chest. The press of Aziraphale’s fingers was firm as they spread out over his skin, slipping beneath his collar so sensuously. Crowley was sure Aziraphale didn’t know how erotic that was. He probably just wanted to touch him, to feel the texture of the skin and bone and hair against his sensitive fingers, but to Crowley it was like a possession, a claiming, and he let his head drop in submission.
Suddenly white hot pain seared through him and he hissed through his teeth. Aziraphale had scratched him. No, he’d deliberately dragged his nails down Crowley’s chest, leaving four stark red abrasions there. It didn’t occur to him to wish them away.
“Aziraphale-!” he hissed. He shook his head in disbelief at Aziraphale, at the casual dominance he was showing.
It hadn’t been long since Aziraphale had somehow twigged that Crowley craved a more…hands on approach. When Aziraphale had first told Crowley he was ‘so good’ after long and drawn out foreplay, Crowley was unable to stop his knees buckling and hitting the floor hard. He’d moaned against Aziraphale’s thigh desperately, clutching at his hips and mouthing at his cock, and it had possibly given the angel a hint about certain…desires of his. Pulling Aziraphale’s hands into his hair and encouraging him to control Crowley’s movements, to use him as he liked…that probably didn’t help his efforts of silence. And, well, Crowley supposed that coming in his jeans when Aziraphale had finally tilted his head and thrust deep, when Aziraphale had pressed his thumb into Crowley’s cheek to feel himself, well, perhaps that might have clued Aziraphale in about his raging submissive streak. Since then Aziraphale had indulged him with all the sweetness and reverence he was capable of, but this kind of public display was so far-fetched as to be unthinkable.
Crowley shuddered at the memory. He felt his trapped hand sweating against Aziraphale’s face, and wondered if it was bothering him.
Aziraphale tapped his chest.
“This is how you looked last night, lounging in the chair with your shirt practically dripping off you. It was indecent.”
Crowley’s lips parted in a moan which he only just managed to stifle. He could hear the group at the other end of the carriage giggling and gossiping, and a muted conversation a few rows away. An electric thrill shot down his spine and he was almost tempted to attract the attention, to give them all a shock and spread a bit of mayhem. But Aziraphale would probably find it embarrassing.
He met Aziraphale’s considering gaze. The angel seemed deep in thought and hyper-focussed on Crowley’s chest, and heat simmered under Crowley’s skin at the attention.
“You were trying to tempt me,” Aziraphale decided. “Using your seductive wiles to seduce me in another person’s home.”
Crowley shook his head, and Aziraphale dragged his nails down Crowley’s chest again. This time he clapped his hand over Crowley’s mouth whip-fast to stifle his moan.
“Quiet!” Aziraphale reminded, and Crowley’s eyes widened behind his sunglasses at the edge of command gracing the word. He could feel his pupils dilating, spreading from slits to round discs. His cock twitched in his jeans. He loved it when Aziraphale got riled up, but this, this was new territory.
Aziraphale’s eyes flicked around them briefly before landing on Crowley’s face.
Crowley’s hand twitched again, and he stroked Aziraphale’s eyebrow where his thumb was still pressed against it. Aziraphale’s face softened then, and Crowley decided he could get away with something cheeky, so he flicked his tongue over Aziraphale’s obstinate palm.
“Oh you filthy creature,” Aziraphale said, but his tone was reverent and his eyes soft, and Crowley felt himself melt under that adoring gaze, felt his lips part with a sigh when Aziraphale twisted and pressed two fingers into his mouth. Crowley’s eyes fluttered closed and he wrapped his tongue around Aziraphale’s fingers and scraped them teasingly with sharp teeth. He sucked and tilted his neck to invite Aziraphale to slide them in further, as far as they would go, but it wasn’t enough.
He was properly hard in his jeans now and he spread his legs wider, one of them still propped on the opposing chair. He supposed, distantly, that it afforded them some level of privacy. At the least it hid his arousal from any wandering eyes.
He felt Aziraphale’s fingers tighten around his trapped wrist then, thumb pressing firm against the vein and fragile bone.
“Do you know what I wanted to do with you, Crowley?”
“Nnng,” Crowley mumbled around his fingers.
“Oh, my dear boy. You looked lovely, and all I could think about was those lovely handcuffs you showed me on Thursday. Do you remember?”
Crowley sucked Aziraphale’s fingers hard in enthusiastic affirmation. He’d shown the handcuffs to Aziraphale jokingly, fully prepared to laugh it off if Aziraphale was uninterested. Aziraphale had only responded with a non-committal ‘we’ll see,’ at the time, and Crowley had resolved to tempt him again the following week.
“Perhaps it was something about being in the country, the freedom from the city, that sort of thing. Or maybe it was the delightful picture you made in the setting sun, but I wanted nothing more than to snap them around your wrists and push you to the floor.” He squeezed harder around Crowley’s wrist, and suddenly Crowley could feel cold metal chafing around the sensitive skin. He shook.
He imagined himself as he was yesterday, on that floating plane of inebriation where everything felt easy and surreal. He imagined Aziraphale forcing him to his knees with uncompromising but gentle hands, imagined the bite of cold metal against his wrists. Aziraphale would stand before him, and being Aziraphale, he would cup Crowley’s face and tell him how good he was, how gorgeous, and then he’d thread his hands through Crowley’s hair and guide his cock into his mouth and it would be perfect, to be filled by his angel, to worship him and be hard and desperate in his jeans-
“You like that thought. Unable to touch yourself, and all the more aroused for it.”
Crowley whimpered around Aziraphale’s fingers. He didn’t think he could speak even if Aziraphale allowed it.
“I’ve considered it,” Aziraphale began, and Crowley stifled his moan at the thought of Aziraphale imagining him like that all week, “and I like the idea. But metal chafes your skin awfully, and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
Crowley parted his lips to protest, to say that he wasn’t delicate and he wanted the discomfort, the reminder that Aziraphale had put him there, it was part of the fun, part of the euphoria, but Aziraphale promptly shoved his fingers harder against Crowley’s clever tongue, pressing his thumb firmly against his jaw to silence him.
“I rather thought we could invest in satin rope,” he said, and Crowley stilled, tongue yielding to the press of Aziraphale’s fingertips. He felt pinned in every way. “Kinbaku is a beautiful practice, and I saw it performed in Osaka, oh, maybe early last century? Nothing untoward came of it, of course, but I like the thought of binding you in satin. There would be a lot to learn, so it’s a thought for the future.”
He paused, then said, “I’d like you to think about it.”
His throat bobbed and his lips parted as he traced Crowley’s lips with his fingertips, massaged Crowley’s wrist with his thumb. When he spoke his voice was achingly reverent, and his gaze was open, earnest, and blazing. “Red suits you so. I could wrap your wrists in red satin, loop it up your arms, and bind your chest with it. All of that fire and passion and love, cradled in satin and burning at my feet. You know how I like you on your knees looking up at me,” Aziraphale said, and thrust his fingers in and out of Crowley’s mouth, chafing them against his tongue. “It’s where you belong, Crowley. And you love it too, don’t you?”
There was a quaver in Aziraphale’s voice then, and when Crowley opened his eyes he could see uncertainty in the lines of Aziraphale’s face. Crowley parted his lips further and this time Aziraphale let his fingers slide out. They left a wet trail down his chin.
He hated to say it. He had to force the words out, but he needed Aziraphale to know, needed it with a desperation he couldn’t fathom.
“Yesss, angel,” he whispered, “Yesss. I want to worship you.” Aziraphale smiled, and Crowley pressed on. “I want you to touch me, tie me, put me in my place, make me beg for it, I want-“
Aziraphale pressed a wet finger to his lips, but Crowley continued, heedless of the warning. “I want to make you come over and over, to see your face screwed up in pleasure, Aziraphale, I need-“
“You’re insatiable. Lewd. A depraved demon in need of discipline.”
“Yesssssss,” Crowley hissed, eyes flashing behind his glasses.
“I’d be inclined to bend you over my knee right now if we were somewhere more private,” Aziraphale said carefully, judging Crowley’s reaction.
Crowley choked on air.
“Would you like that?”
Crowley felt himself flush, and he licked his lips nervously.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale urged.
“Oh, Crowley. You’d bend right over for me wouldn’t you? Offer yourself up and take whatever I can give. But I don’t think I could be so cruel.” Aziraphale’s eyes dropped then, and the uncertainty was back.
Crowley almost said ‘I want your cruelty,’ but thought better of it.
“Think about it,” he said instead, “the bruises mottling my arse. My thighs. Do you know how sensitive the backs of thighs are, angel? You could ruin me. And I’d be so good for you, angel. Take whatever you can give me. And then you can use me for your own pleasure. Fuck me, ride me, smack me until I come on your sheets.” His voice trembled at the thought, but Aziraphale’s enraptured expression was worth it. “Hnn. Angel, I could kneel for you, my arse red and aching, and I would suck you, or eat you out, I know you love that, and I would be so good, Aziraphale, I would-“
“You’re always good for me Crowley, but this weekend you’ve been teasing.”
“I haven’t –“
“Hush,” Aziraphale chided. “There’s nothing to say I can’t have it all, I suppose. And you’d do that for me, wouldn’t you Crowley?”
“Yes!” Crowley repeated in frustration.
Aziraphale smiled in satisfaction, and Crowley got the distinct feeling Aziraphale had led him on a dance. Wind him up and watch him go.
“Assziraphale. Don’t play games with me!”
“Don’t give me that, Crowley. You’re enjoying yourself.”
Crowley couldn’t reply. Aziraphale’s face settled into something akin to smug, but his eyes were shining with delight, and something inside Crowley melted at the sight. He sank back into the seat in defeat.
Aziraphale dropped his hand back down to Crowley’s chest to slip the fourth button free. He playfully flicked the fifth.
“Look at the state of you,” he said, pasting a frown on his face, “you’re desperate after only a bit of teasing. Heaven forbid anyone looks over and sees you like this, my dear.”
Crowley had to bite back a groan as his cock twitched in his jeans. It was embarrassing how much he loved Aziraphale’s patronising tone.
Aziraphale still looked so put together, clothes pristine and proper, only the flush in his cheeks to expose him.
“I don’t think we’d even be able to use the handcuffs, dear,” he said thoughtfully. “You’d likely finish before I’d even locked them.”
Crowley bristled at that. “You know that’s not true, angel,” he said warningly. It was an empty threat though. He held none of the power here. He might as well be handcuffed here in the middle of the bloody train for all the power he had.
“Hmm,” Aziraphale said, pointedly ignoring Crowley’s rebuke and following his own train of thought. “I’d keep you on your knees for a while, I think. I could look at you for hours, dear. You’re so good for me, and the thought of you kneeling there, waiting for me, well…” Aziraphale licked his lips and Crowley could tell he was losing himself to the fantasy, “I would read a book, stroke your hair, you have lovely hair, dear, have I told you? I would bury my hands in it and read poetry to you.”
“Poetry, angel? Riveting.”
Aziraphale snapped back to reality at Crowley’s tone. He smiled, a little shyly now, and when he next spoke his voice wasn’t preachy, in the way he often had when he recited literature, but low and melodic, and his eyes met Crowley’s effortlessly, seeming unhindered by the glasses.
“’Nothing, sweet boy; but yet like prayers divine
I must each day say o’er the very same,
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name.’”
The poem saturated the air between them like honey melting in hot tea.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, and his voice was embarrassingly high and tight, “if you don’t kiss me I-“
And then Aziraphale’s lips were on his. It was unbearably chaste, a simple concession to Crowley’s desperation, the tender ache in his heart that he couldn’t seem to stamp out whenever Aziraphale said things like that; quoting bloody sonnets at him in the middle of dirty talk on a public train, as if that was something normal people do-
And he was panting again as Aziraphale broke away. Crowley’s glasses had been knocked askew, but fell back into place with the absence of Aziraphale’s nose pressed against his cheek. Crowley felt that absence keenly.
Aziraphale’s bottom lip was wet.
“Riveting,” Aziraphale echoed smugly.
Crowley swallowed. He sensed that he was so far from having the Upper Hand now that he’d gone and invented the Lower Hand.
“108, though? There’s better,” he said, putting on a brave face.
“Oh?” Aziraphale asked. His eyebrows quirked up in that self-righteous ‘go on then, if you’re so clever’ look he donned whenever he thought Crowley was being particularly ignorant. Ultracrepidarian, he’d probably say.
“’Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.’”
Aziraphale sniffed. Crowley could tell he was moved, and if he was being honest with himself he had delivered the lines a lot more earnestly than he’d intended. He deliberately tried not to think about the endless hours and weeks they’d spent loving each other, but it was impossible when Aziraphale was so clearly doing just that himself.
“Too obvious,” Aziraphale decided, “and I’m quite finished with doom, thank you.”
“Me too,” said Crowley, “so why don’t you get back to fucking me?”
Aziraphale blushed, and Crowley couldn’t help his answering smirk.
“Oh,” Aziraphale said, face twisting in consternation, “I rather ruined the mood, didn’t I? I-“
This time it was Crowley who cut him off, caressing his cheek with his thumb long gone numb from lack of circulation. He grasped Aziraphale’s hand where his fingertips still rested against his chest, and brought it down to his crotch. He was hard, and his cock twitched with a little thrill when Aziraphale’s lips parted in a silent ‘oh’ of delight.
Crowley cleared his throat dramatically.
“Try to keep them, poet,
those erotic visions of yours,
however few of them there are that can be stilled.”
Aziraphale’s parted lips stretched into a wide smile at Crowley’s encouragement, and Crowley’s own self-satisfied smirk quickly broke into a stifled groan when Aziraphale squeezed his cock firmly through his jeans.
“Yes, I think you’d enjoy me reading poetry to you, wouldn’t you?” Aziraphale asked, settling back into his rhythm. “I’d recite all the classics of course, Shakespeare, naturally, and then perhaps I’d let you rest your head on my knee while I move on to the Romantics, or the Realists.”
He moved his hand away from Crowley’s crotch and shaped it to the curve of his thigh, thumb just grazing the sensitive skin infuriatingly encased by his jeans. Crowley shuddered, and bit his cheek in frustration.
“Have you read any Dickinson, my dear? She was a truly exquisite poet, and rather apt here, I think.
‘Come slowly – Eden!
Lips unused to Thee –
Bashful – sip thy Jessamines –
As the fainting Bee –
Reaching late his flower,
Round her chamber hums –
Counts his nectars –
Enters – and is lost in Balms.’”
Crowley shuddered. His hand twitched at Aziraphale’s face, and the angel freed it, caressing his palm with reverent fingers as the nerves came alight with blood.
“Would you like that, dear? You know I do prefer that arrangement when I choose to make an effort. And you’re so good at bringing me pleasure, Crowley. It could be a bit awkward, with your hands cuffed behind your back-“ he paused briefly as Crowley whimpered, “but you do wonderful things with your tongue. I would be content to keep you there for hours, you know.”
And Crowley did know. He could see it with perfect clarity; his knees digging sharply into the floor in front of Aziraphale’s chair, shoulders strained and hands pinned, Aziraphale’s thighs warm around him and his hand buried in his hair, scratching, tugging, pulling, directing Crowley where he wanted him. And then, oh and then the taste of Aziraphale on his tongue, the sharp scent of his arousal, his clit jumping between Crowley’s lips as he sucked, oh, and the whole time Aziraphale would be reading to him, voice steady, quoting bloody Dickinson or Wilde or whoever, and Crowley would be so hard, so willing to do whatever Aziraphale wanted, bringing him to a sighing orgasm again and again to urge him to take him already-
“You’re imagining it, aren’t you?” Aziraphale said, wonderingly, cutting through Crowley’s visual torment. “You would be lost in me, on your knees like that, bringing me pleasure and receiving none for yourself for hours…perhaps days.”
Crowley groaned. He leaned further towards Aziraphale, his head threatening to droop onto the angel’s shoulder. Aziraphale’s hand was still tracing maddening circles on his thigh, and Crowley’s leg was trembling where it was propped up on the opposite chair. Aziraphale brought Crowley’s other hand to his mouth, tenderly kissing his fingertips.
“Nng, I could- I could ssslip out of the handcuffss,” Crowley countered, voice thick with arousal.
Aziraphale tilted his chin back up and locked eyes with him. “You wouldn’t.”
“How are you sso sure?”
Aziraphale’s thumb stilled. “Because it would disappoint me,” he said.
Crowley tensed. He couldn’t speak.
“You would do anything I asked of you, wouldn’t you?”
He would. He would do anything, and Aziraphale didn’t know the half of it.
“I would,” he gasped.
Aziraphale just looked at him with searching eyes. Crowley felt flayed to the bone.
“Angel, I would do anything. I’d sstay on my kneess for weekss if that’ss what you wanted.”
“Oh, Crowley. My dear, you really are wonderful.”
Aziraphale leaned in and Crowley met his lips for a second time. He didn’t care about the other commuters now, didn’t care about the hen party at the back of the carriage. He pressed insistently at Aziraphale’s mouth, begging for Aziraphale to deepen the kiss with a tongue along his bottom lip, a nip of teeth, a gasp against his mouth, but Aziraphale refused.
He tried shifting his hips then, in an attempt to get Aziraphale’s hand closer to his straining cock, but Aziraphale was having none of it, and slid his hand far back to Crowley’s knee.
Crowley broke the kiss.
“Touch me, angel,” he begged.
Aziraphale shook his head, smiling indulgently, and placed a kiss so gently and swiftly to Crowley’s lips that it couldn’t even be called a peck. Crowley shifted in his seat, overheated and helpless. He reached down but as soon as he got his hand on his cock Aziraphale slapped him hard on the thigh. His hips jerked and he gasped in surprise as the pain shot through him, setting his nerves alight and fuelling the fire in his belly. The slap sounded so loud in the carriage, cutting through the lull in conversation at the back and leaving silence in its wake. A few seconds later the conversation started back up, and Crowley shook.
“The truth is,” Aziraphale began, as if the last ten seconds hadn’t occurred, “well, to be terribly honest with you, I want to do so many things to you, all of them more wicked than the last. And, of course, I know you want me to try everything, but I fear you might tire of it.”
Crowley shook his head. There wasn’t a thing in the world he imagined Aziraphale could suggest that he wouldn’t try. “How wicked?” he asked.
“Oh, well, it goes far beyond poetry. Far beyond ropes, or kneeling, or…well, spanking.” Aziraphale blushed deeply at the word. “But mostly I want- it’s - well when I imagined you kneeling in front of me last night, I wanted to use your mouth. I wanted to see you moan around my- my cock – and to watch it in your throat as the sunlight shined in your beautiful eyes. And I wanted, well I wanted to ask you to grow your hair long again. Your current style suits you, but I do miss your curls.” Aziraphale swallowed awkwardly after his confession, but soldiered on. “I wanted to wrap them in my hands. To make fists of them. And to pull you down, to make you take me deeper. To watch your eyelids flutter and your lovely mouth stretch, and know that your hands would be gripping your thighs to the point of pain to stop you from touching yourself. You’d be leaking in your jeans, like you are now, aren’t you?
Crowley was staring at Aziraphale’s expectant gaze wide-eyed and panting. He felt the phantom touch of Aziraphale’s wide palm wrapped around his neck, not to hurt him, but to hold him.
“I-“ he tried. “I…I can grow my hair.”
Aziraphale stared at him for a moment, and then giggled.
Crowley swallowed, too far gone to join in with the humour.
“Touch me, angel,” Crowley breathed, barely audible.
Aziraphale shook his head fondly.
“When we get to the shop I will fuck you so exquisitely that you’ll forget your own name. You’ll be speaking in tongues by the time I’m finished with you. Oh, you’ll look wonderful, desperate for me, face wet with my come, won’t you? And you’re already so worked up. But I really don’t think you could keep your voice down here, and you do so like to scream. I don’t want you to restrain yourself, my dear boy.”
Aziraphale patted his thigh and Crowley couldn’t tell if it was reassurance or reprimand. He sagged back, frustrated out of his mind. “I can’t last that long, angel. There’s no time. Throw up a shield or something if you don’t want them to hear, just touch me.”
“You can, and you will,” Aziraphale said.
Crowley shook his head, suppressing the shiver of desire at the angel’s commanding tone once again. Aziraphale simply patted his thigh once more, and then extricated himself from the tangle of limbs they’d woven themselves into, leaning back against his seat with all the poise of a distinguished gentleman.
“We have all the time in the world, my dear.”