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Pale Tendrils

Chapter Text

Had Crowley been paying attention, he would have noticed the distinct firmness with which the bookshop's sign had been turned to "CLOSED" or that the curtains were shut tighter than a camel's arse in a sandstorm. It wouldn't have stopped him, or even particularly slowed him down, of course, but it might have given some modicum of warning about what he was about to discover within.

"Morning, angel," he said as he went in, even though it was getting on towards two. Then, even though he had been in the habit of drinking at any hour of the day he felt like, more or less since the beginning of alcohol, he said, "I thought I'd give day-drinking a try. Would you care to join me?"

He didn't see Aziraphale at first glance and headed towards the back room.

"I'm in the back, dear," Aziraphale called. "Before you open the door, though..."

Crowley paused, his hand on the doorknob.

"I'd like you to promise me you won't laugh at me."

Crowley winced.

"Angel, has that line ever worked? For anyone?" he said. "In any case, I refuse to make promises I know I can't keep."

Aziraphale didn't say anything for several seconds. "Well," he huffed at last, "I suppose honesty is at least a good start. Might as well open it and get it over with."

Some subconscious part of Crowley's mind must have realized that Aziraphale's voice was coming from a point several feet below where it usually did. Either that or his peripheral vision worked the usual way after all and had detected the flicker of movement on the floor without having to think about it. Either way, he spotted Aziraphale immediately upon opening the door, and then found himself quite unable to look at anything else.

"Er," Crowley said intelligently. "Yeh—ih—wuh—'ey?"

Though it was shaped like a jellyfish stranded on a beach, the being on the floor was somehow unquestionably Aziraphale, and Crowley knew he would have been able to identify it even if it hadn't spoken to him in Aziraphale's voice. It seemed to have the same mass, for one thing, albeit redistributed. Its skin—his skin—was now an opaque powder blue and dusted with dapples and splotches of very bright white (slightly glowy, even) in a rough radial symmetry. In response to Crowley's collection of syllables, it—he—wrung himself up off the floor by clenching his tentacles into a solid vertical mass. Unlike a jellyfish's tendrils, Aziraphale's appendages appeared to be quite substantial, even strong; yet he couldn't quite make it to waist height. It seemed like the tips of the tentacles could not support his bulk, and so they coiled on the floor in loops for stability.

"Do go ahead and make fun," Aziraphale said sourly. "I probably deserve it this time."

Crowley put his chin in his hands. His sunglasses had slid down his nose, and his amber eyes were still fixated on Aziraphale. "Where do I even start?" he murmured. "All right, first of all, I find it curious that the reaction you were most concerned about receiving was being laughed at."

Aziraphale drew back, several of his outermost tentacles flailing slightly in the air. "Oh, dear. You're not afraid of me like this, are you? I couldn't bear it if you were."

Crowley took his glasses off before they had the chance to fall off. "Angel, you look like a squat upright land jellyfish. No, I'm not afraid of you."

"—squat!—" Aziraphale sputtered.

"You know what, I'm far too sober to be coping with this at the moment," Crowley said. He raised the bottle he had brought and waggled it hopefully.

"Oh yes," Aziraphale said, relieved. "You did say something about day-drinking, didn't you? This form seems to require rather a lot of hydration. I'm ferociously thirsty, you've no idea."

Promisingly, Crowley didn't flinch as Aziraphale coiled an appendage around the bottle and took it. He headed for his usual spot on the sofa and looked back at Aziraphale just in time to see the angel, as if he did this all the time, squirt out a bony spiral from the end of one tentacle, crank it down into the cork, and yank it out with a pop.

"Ngk," Crowley said, but if Aziraphale heard him he didn't comment. Then Crowley congratulated himself heartily for not slamming the glass of wine as soon as Aziraphale passed it to him, although he did take a generous quaff of it.

"So," he said.

"So," Aziraphale echoed. He heaved himself onto his usual armchair, clumsily. It was hard to tell—either way, he took on the appearance of an overturned bowl of blue spaghetti, spilling off the seat in all directions. "You recall our conversation last week? We'd got on the topic of esoteric erotica, somehow?"

"You may have been talking about ‘erotica,' sure," Crowley said, doing the air-quotes because why not. "I was talking about porn, myself." He only dimly remembered the conversation, but it wasn't at all implausible that he'd mentioned something along these lines.

"Yes, well." Aziraphale dipped the end of a tentacle into his glass and the level of wine in it went down by about an inch. And then, sheepishly, another inch. "I got to thinking about something you'd mentioned, then. Couldn't get it out of my head, actually."

"And then you got to experimenting, did you?" Crowley drank. "Couldn't you have just, I dunno, given yourself a tentacle dick? Would have been a lot simpler."

Aziraphale's carapace sagged flat. "I did, at first! But it looked so inadequate and underwhelming, especially after I looked up what you were talking about on the google"—Crowley winced again—"and it didn't seem to matter how many I added, or where, or how thick they were. It all just seemed kind of pathetic and peculiar. And then I—I—I got carried away!"

"Yes, you did," Crowley murmured. "Didn't think you had something like this in you, really."

Aziraphale finished his glass and poured them both more.

Crowley had a lot of questions, but they had scrambled into his mind all at once and he was struggling to sort them out and queue them up before they got away from him again.

"Didn't you have an appointment this morning? A massage or something? One of those things you never miss?" he asked finally.

Aziraphale mumbled something.

"Had to cancel it, did you?" Crowley prodded. "Missed it... because you're stuck like that."

Aziraphale mumbled again, sinking deeper into his noodly tangle.

Crowley sighed melodramatically. "It's not as if I haven't told you dozens of times just why it is that I don't spend any time as a snake anymore, nooo," he said, gesticulating randomly. "How long, then?"

"About a day and a half," Aziraphale admitted. The level of wine in his glass dipped considerably. "There's something about the hour of three a.m. that makes these kinds of decisions all too easy to make, even when one is as sober as a judge."

Crowley heroically refrained from commenting on the sobriety of judges. "One of the many appeals of sleep is that it keeps you out of precisely that kind of trouble."

"So you've said, dear."

Crowley leaned forward to get a better view of his erstwhile angel. He said, "I don't suppose you've got a face somewhere in all that," waggling all of his fingers.

Several tentacles rose up from the tangle and assembled themselves into a loose bundle, and at the end of each appeared one of Aziraphale's normal facial features in approximately the correct arrangement: his nose, mouth, and two blue-grey eyes. The eyes blinked, but not quite at the same time.

Crowley emitted noises.

"No, I didn't think that was what you meant," Aziraphale's mouth said dryly. He let the facial features disappear and the tentacles flop back onto his chair.

Crowley found that the bottle was empty and got up to hunt for another.

"Well, I've got good news for you and bad news," he said as he returned and refilled Aziraphale's glass. "The good news is, you're not permanently trapped like that. The bad news is, it's probably going to take a while to turn back, and the less self-control you have, the longer it will take. Which certainly doesn't bode well for you, if I'm honest."

"Oh really?" Aziraphale said, perking up considerably and ignoring the jab. "That's such a relief, dear. I'd got myself into a bit of a tizzy thinking about it last night. One of the other drawbacks of being alone and sober in the wee hours."

Crowley snorted.

"So, er, what's the procedure, then?" Aziraphale said.

"The problem is that you've performed a very large, specific kind of miracle all at once," Crowley said. "And it depletes you, although of course you can't really tell. It's not as if there's a battery gauge or anything, although Someone only knows how many proposals I submitted over the centuries. So you've just got to wait until you've replenished yourself naturally."

"I suppose that means no miracles for the duration?"

Crowley shook his head. "Simple stuff won't hurt. Warming up your cocoa, for example. Just a bit of Messing Thermodynamics About 101. But anything complex, any serious fiddling with reality will reset the clock. Especially trying to turn back too soon."

"And how long will I need to hold off?"

Crowley had learnt this from hard experience, long ago. Transforming his corporation back from its serpentine option had once been easy, but it had become more and more difficult until one day he found he couldn't do it at all. He had panicked and spent week after week trying intermittently, until finally resigning himself to his fate. That was what had saved him: after not bothering for long enough, he'd finally been able to accomplish it. Still, he mentally revised his estimate upwards in consideration of Aziraphale's temperament.

"A month. A month and a half, to be safe."

Aziraphale made a delighted noise. "Well, that's not so bad then! Why, that's the blink of an eyestalk, in the grander scheme of things! Gosh, and in the meantime—"

Eyestalks aside, that sounded encouraging. Crowley grinned into his glass. "In the meantime...?"

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you. The whole point of this silly exercise was—"

"To have an esoteric shag or three."

"Not that our activities aren't already somewhat esoteric, but yes, quite."

Crowley got up and went over to Aziraphale.

"May I?"

"Darling, we are well past the point where you have to ask to touch me," Aziraphale said wryly.

Crowley ran a fingertip over the top of Aziraphale's domed carapace, cautiously at first in case Aziraphale had accidentally made himself toxic like a frog or something. The blue-and-white skin was warm, pebbled, and papery, but Crowley could tell it was thick—more of a hide than skin, and definitely nothing so fragile as a membrane. Once he was confident that he wouldn't seize, foam at the mouth, and discorporate, Crowley set down both hands and pressed slightly, causing Aziraphale's new body to squash a bit, like a gel stress ball covered in neoprene.

"Might get my massage after all," Aziraphale murmured, sounding pleased.

"So this is your back, then?" Crowley's hands moved outwards, toward the double ruffle that encircled Aziraphale's carapace. This had the feel of a large dog's ear, firm but not rigid, and with a suede-like surface. Aziraphale twitched, and the ruffle rippled in Crowley's hands.

"Ticklish?"

"A little."

Crowley sat down on the ottoman and addressed the tentacles. There were too many to count. A hundred? Again, he ran a fingertip down one, smiling when it wriggled happily, lifted up, and looped around his wrist. It felt dry, but moved somewhat like an earthworm, bulging up and squeezing forth to slide through his loosely curled fingers. Crowley reached out with his other hand and picked up another.

"Oh, oh, do be careful there!" Aziraphale said, pulling the second appendage away. "Unless you're absolutely ready for this evening to be heading in a certain direction!"

It wasn't four o'clock yet. More to the point, Crowley wanted to know exactly what they were getting themselves into before going further. "Sorry, angel. All of these look the same, though. I can't tell which ones are limbs and which ones are—er—genitals?"

"Ah, I see," Aziraphale said. "Well, I can fix that."

Crowley felt the tiniest of miracles bloom gently in front of him. The tentacle around his wrist, along with most of the rest, remained pale blue. The one he had inadvertently groped turned the orangey-pink of a prosperous flamingo, along with some percentage of the others distributed evenly throughout. Eight or ten of the thickest ones became a minty shade of green and coiled up into loose spirals.

"Ah yes," Crowley said. "Because nothing says 'I'm an eldritch abomination about to rape and impregnate all your slutty holes' quite like a delicate pastel colour scheme."

"I would never!" Aziraphale said, scandalised.

Crowley put on a comically crestfallen expression. "Not even if I say 'pretty please'?"

"Crowley! Are you batting your eyelashes at me?" Aziraphale demanded. "You're incorrigible!"

Crowley left off batting his eyelashes like a lunatic and resumed his exploration of Aziraphale's new form.

"So, blue are limbs; pink are genitalia. What are the green ones, then?"

"Sensory appendages. So do please watch your fingernails."

"So if I wanted to blindfold you, I'd have to... bag them up, or something?"

"I imagine that would work."

"And if I were to lick one—"

"It would be like licking my eyeball. Except without the risk of conjunctivitis, I dare say."

"I think that was a hoax, actually, but at any rate do you want me to lick your eyeballs or would you rather not?"

"Let me think about it, dear," Aziraphale deadpanned.

"For future reference, I have no objection if you'd like to try licking my eyeballs sometime, in this form or any other," Crowley said, maintaining an earnest tone and straight face only through a miracle that made his cheeks and tongue hurt. He was not at all surprised when Aziraphale drank instead of responding, even though it was a thin subterfuge: it was obvious that Aziraphale could drink and talk at the same time in this shape.

Crowley retreated to his sofa and put his feet up on the arm. There was probably still loads more to learn about what Aziraphale hath wrought, but there was also plenty of time in which to do it.

They drank in companionable silence for a while. Crowley pulled out the rude cross stitch project he kept in a shoebox under the sofa and worked on it. Eventually, Aziraphale got up and went to the kitchenette, and the sway that the wine had put into his movements cemented the impression he gave of a giant jellyfish. Crowley heard the water run for a while, and when Aziraphale returned, he had another bottle and also a battered, ancient steel mixing bowl which he placed on the floor in front of his armchair.

The bottle he gave to Crowley, repeating his earlier trick with the bone corkscrew up close for Crowley's edification. Then he sat himself back down, appearing considerably more combobulated than he had earlier, and stuck ten or so of his "toes" into the bowl of water with an audible sigh.

"Thirsty?" Crowley said.

"Parched," Aziraphale said. "I'm not even sure where the water goes."

"Evaporates, most likely," Crowley said. "You've got a lot more surface area now."

"True."

Crowley divided his attention between his cross stitch and the level of water in the bowl as it went down inch by inch, and when it was just about empty, he put away his needle and hoop.

"Are we ready, then?" Aziraphale said, sliding the bowl under his chair.

"Ooh, Mr. Fell, ooh! Let's do it!" Crowley crooned. He slung an arm over the back of the sofa, tipped his head back, and parted his knees. "Here on the sofa?"

Aziraphale scrupulously ignored the ridiculous pose. "I'd like to have you on the wall, if you're amenable," he said

"Wall sex is a capital idea," said Crowley, moving sinuously to his feet. "Absolutely tip-top. And 'amenable' is my middle name. S'what the 'J' stands for, innit?"

Aziraphale was upon him in a moment, his blue limbs a-flutter and his pink ones flushing a darker shade of rosy. He herded Crowley towards the one wall in the place that didn't have any furniture or stacks of books shoved up against it, the wall that he refused to let Crowley refer to as "our sex wall" even though it unquestionably was.

Aziraphale latched on tentacles to Crowley's ankles and wrists before he made it to the definitely-not-their-sex-wall. He spun Crowley about neatly, seized Crowley's shoulders and knees for good measure, and backed him up the rest of the way. Crowley's back hit the wall with a solid thump. Then, Aziraphale hoisted him a half-foot up the wall with a grunt.

"Oh, fuck, this is going to be incredible," Crowley wheezed. Appendages were already squidging their way up the legs of his jeans, tips daubing delicately at his skin as they went. Crowley decided to abolish his leg hair for the moment, for both their sakes.

"Undo your fly for me, would you kindly?" Aziraphale said, releasing Crowley's right wrist. "Don't think I can get it myself."

Crowley scrambled to comply, not least because having an erection in jeans this tight could get painful fast, especially if said erection had to share its home with monster appendages. Aziraphale returned Crowley's arm to its position and then, ruthless tease that he was, proceeded to ignore his rapidly swelling prick entirely.

Crowley huffed in frustration, but then Aziraphale's tentacles arrived at his arse cheeks and began to knead them, gently at first but more and more insistently and then working in counterpoint from left to right. This mollified him, as did Aziraphale quite thoroughly immobilizing his head a minute later. It restricted his line of sight in such a way that put Aziraphale himself out of view.

Crowley had been pinned down by Aziraphale, and indeed pinned up by Aziraphale, more times than he could count. But this was an altogether novel experience. Aziraphale showed him one appendage after another before pressing them against every part of him in spirals, curlicues, and knots. In time, there were dozens of points of contact holding Crowley's torso, limbs, and head to the wall, both under and over his clothing.

Aziraphale held up another blue one. He thinned it out, whipped it back and forth lazily, and then carefully looped it up and threaded the tip back and forth through the loops. Aziraphale displayed the resulting shape, turning it this way and that: an elaborate decorative knot. Aziraphale then let the knot drop out of Crowley's sight, and Crowley groaned as he found a home for it on the inside of Crowley's left thigh. Then, with a thoughtful hum, Aziraphale screwed it down against the wiry flesh to nudge Crowley's legs further apart.

"It's not that I don't—appreciate the arts-and-crafts show—but I believe I may have mentioned—my slutty holes," Crowley panted.

"Mentioned them, did you?" Aziraphale said. His voice had a breathy quality to it that sent a pulse of heat straight to Crowley's (still) untouched prick. "But I think this time I'm just going to take the one hole. Unless you've something more complicated going on in front, of course."

"Oh?" Crowley tried not to sound disappointed, because he wasn't, really. Aziraphale had said "this time" with a certain emphasis, after all.

"Still getting used to myself," Aziraphale explained. "I want you to be able to talk. Just to be on the safe side."

"You're doing macramé with your own body parts, angel," Crowley said tartly. "I have enormous, even infinite, confidence in your dexterity."

Aziraphale shifted closer in a way that would have crowded Crowley to the wall if he weren't already flush with it. "There's also the fact," he said lowly, "that I do so love to hear your voice, you wicked, mouthy creature."

"Oh," Crowley said. "Well, in that case."

A ruddy pink tentacle hove into Crowley's view, as plain and rounded at the end as all of the blue ones but with a bead of fluid at its tip.

"Yisss," Crowley hissed as it dipped back out of sight as soon as it had appeared. No more anatomical macramé, as entertaining as that had been.

It curved around his bony hip, dragging a wet trail just above the waistband of Crowley's jeans, then plunged down the back. Aziraphale groaned at the pressure and chafe of the denim, but it wasn't enough to slow him down: the tentacle dove down Crowley's crack, skipping straight past his arsehole to nudge at his scrotum from behind. Crowley gasped, then let out a moan as the tip of the tentacle retraced its path more firmly, pulling a line of liquid heat behind it.

"There we go," he panted. "Like that—yeah—just dive—right in."

The tip of the tentacle waggled at his puckered entrance, pressing and pushing but not quite entering. He wanted to grind down on it but couldn't—he couldn't move at all. It was exquisite and infuriating at the same time.

"Come on, angel," Crowley moaned. "Fuck me open, split me apart."

"Patience is a virtue," Aziraphale sing-songed, but Crowley a) would not have appreciated the reference had he caught it, and b) could tell his heart was no longer in it, because the appendage on his arsehole began moving more frantically.

Finally, his hole gave way to the rounded end—and it stopped, just inside of him, slotting into place like one of those contraptions dentists used to keep your lips and cheeks out of the way while they worked. Aziraphale felt Crowley flinch and chuckled to himself.

Crowley snarled. "Angel, you swine! What have I ever done to deserve this kind of cruelty?"

Aziraphale took this in stride, although at this point he was not at all above tweaking Crowley's nipples to emphasize his point. "Crowley, don't be a ninny," he said. "I usually manage to reward your patience, don't I? Or complete lack of patience, for that matter."

Another pink tentacle flicked into Crowley's view, lashing back and forth with much more urgency than before. It was flushed and swollen at the end, fat and dripping with arousal, and Crowley realized that Aziraphale was still—somehow—managing to play the game to the hilt. He was going to have to watch before he got to feel. The bulging bulb of the tentacle pulsated hypnotically. Then the pinprick hole on the end eased open, and dozens of small, gooey white sub-tendrils bloomed from within it, like the tiny fingers of a sea anemone.

"Oh, fuck," Crowley said. "Fuck fuckity fuck, that's inside—"

"Exactly," Aziraphale rasped.

Aziraphale gave Crowley a moment, although Crowley couldn't tell whether his intent was to let the tension build or to give Crowley the chance to say no. Either way, in the next moment Crowley was whimpering and babbling as an anemone spurted up into his arse. He expected it to be hot like the main tentacle, but the slippery little tendrils were cool against his insides, not enough to be uncomfortable but certainly ramming home (so to speak) the alienness of the experience.

Crowley almost didn't notice when the demonstration tentacle dipped out of his view. Almost. It shoved aside his boxer-briefs and suctioned onto the tip of his prick, and he let out an incoherent yelp. And, he noticed abstractedly, so did Aziraphale.

"You feel incredible like this," Aziraphale groaned. "I didn't expect—oh—didn't expect it to be—so overwhelming."

His appendage swallowed Crowley's dick down to the root in one slurp. The anemone tendrils insinuated their way into the thatch of hair at the base, and the densely ciliated lining of the tentacle squeezed rhythmically up his length over and over again. If Crowley had been free to move, he would have been thrashing by now, thrusting helplessly between Aziraphale's thick, gooey embrace in front and the chaotic weirdness happening in the back.

Crowley shuddered and twitched through his orgasm. Then Aziraphale's intricate tentacle-doodles slackened enough that his feet hit the floor, and he was able to rock his hips down onto the tendril in his arse, fucking himself on it through the aftershocks of his climax. Aziraphale let out a guttural sound and his anemone pulsed, releasing a gush of fluid both hot and cool into Crowley's body.

Aziraphale's tendrils quivered with the effort as they lowered Crowley to the floor, first to his knees and then, unwinding from under his clothes, allowing him to topple slowly forward onto a cushion that he summoned over just before cheek hit wood. Then, Aziraphale dumped himself in a literal heap next to Crowley.

"I may have called you an idiot, earlier," Crowley said. "If I did, I take it back. You're a genius."

Chapter Text

The next day, Crowley arrived early—for him—bearing his hilariously overpowered, blade-thin laptop and brunch. Brunch consisted of a Mont Blanc tartlet and a pumpkin spice latte for Aziraphale (who liked them unironically) and an everything bagel with Neufchâtel and a pumpkin spice latte for Crowley (who liked them ironically). He was a demon on a mission. He intended to park Aziraphale in front of the antique he called a computer and himself on his laptop, and together they were going to do some research.

Having badgered, cajoled, and pestered the ex-man-shaped being to where he wanted him, Crowley summoned his own most recent favorite chair from his flat and put it next to Aziraphale's computer desk so that they'd face each other diagonally. The chair was a bowl-shaped geometric frame with black and grey cushions in irregular crystal shapes slotted into it, and Crowley could tell that Aziraphale was eyeing it sceptically even though Aziraphale did not then have eyes.

"Aziraphale, your keyboard is disgusting," Crowley said mildly as he sat, pulling out his laptop out of its designer wool felt sleeve.

Aziraphale harrumphed and miracled the thing clean, or possibly replaced it with a new keyboard entirely for how different it looked. Then he put his tentacle-tips on the clean-or-new keyboard—one on every key—and three on the mouse for good measure.

"Nobody likes a showoff," Crowley muttered. "Your mouse is also filthy, by the way. Who the Heaven uses a wired mouse these days? Does that thing have an actual trackball? It would belong in a museum, except that I bet it's full of crud and your own down."

Aziraphale ignored him. "So, why is it you're making me look at internet erotica at midday on a Wednesday?" he asked.

"Porn, not erotica, for Someone's sake," Crowley said. "For one thing, what's the point of being retired if you can't look at dirty pictures while all the functioning members of society, the poor bastards, are off functioning away?"

Aziraphale shrugged his double ruffle and said, "Fair enough," which surprised Crowley for a moment. Then again, he thought, Aziraphale had always taken a dim view of the rat race.

"Right. So. Research," Crowley said.

"Research," echoed Aziraphale faintly.

Despite their age, they slipped readily into that 21st century social activity favored by uni students the world over of being on the internet in physical proximity without actually interacting with one another.

After a while, Crowley glared at Aziraphale. "If you get distracted by that primitive technology guy or chicken hypnotism videos or whatever, I will walk out of this shop right now, so help me, and never bring you brunch again."

He heard the tik-tak of a furtive alt-tab and concealed a smirk behind his latte cup. Then he glanced behind him to make sure there wasn't a mirror or anything that might reflect his own screen.

Some time later, Aziraphale grumbled, "All of these summoning circles are complete rubbish."

Crowley leaned up to see what he was looking at. Not for the first time, Crowley was both impressed and very irritated at how quickly Aziraphale could get up to speed on new things when suitably motivated, for Aziraphale had used the search term "consentacles" to find what he had found. "Bicycle" was a bridge too modern for him, yet he could manage to identify and use the word "consentacles" in a matter of hours? Crowley restrained a sigh.

"Are there working summoning circles for, er, this kind of thing?" Aziraphale said.

"Yeah, sure," Crowley said. "You wouldn't exactly get anything fun out of it, though."

"So the creature would immediately attack the summoner?"

"No, that's not it. The problem is—like, the average octopus is only about a foot across, right? Same with the kinds of critters you can summon. Wee little buggers, mostly. Your odds of getting one of a usable size aren't good enough to bother."

"Oh," Aziraphale said.

"Or weren't, at least. Last I heard, they'd deprecated almost all of that. It was a security risk—lots of backdoor issues. And the documentation was a disaster, even by Hell's standards."

"Right."

They resumed clicking around. After the previous night, Aziraphale had taken to arranging himself so that his pink tentacles were well-concealed among the others, but Crowley could see glimpses of them when Aziraphale shifted. Now, they briefly flickered a darker shade at irregular intervals, presumably when Aziraphale clicked on something that appealed to him.

"Have you given any more thought to that blindfolding thing you mentioned?" Aziraphale asked.

"You mean—"

Aziraphale waggled two of his green tentacles. "Putting bags on these. I thought about it. I can't imagine where you might get the right kind of bags, though."

"Oh, I'll think of something," Crowley said. In fact, he already knew exactly how he was going to come up with the bags. Drawstring bags were easy. He just wasn't feeling quite equal to the task of explaining to Aziraphale what a makerspace was, nor, for that matter, was he prepared to admit that he knew how to use a sewing machine. "I'll need to measure you."

"Whenever you want, dear," Aziraphale said abstractedly.

Crowley leaned up to look at his screen again.

"Eugh," he said, grimacing. "Don't think sphincters work like that."

"I don't think anything works like that," Aziraphale said.

"Here," Crowley said, turning his laptop around. "To cleanse your palate."

Aziraphale looked at the screen and tittered. He said, "Send me that, will you? It's cute."

Crowley looked scandalised. "Angel, you're not working on your spank bank, are you? In polite company?"

"Wha—! Crowley, what are you on about?" Aziraphale exclaimed. "You told me—you showed me—that's not even—aren't I supposed to be finding things I want to try?"

Crowley ducked the wadded-up biscuit packet Aziraphale threw at him. He dragged his absurd chair several feet away, out of Aziraphale's accurate firing range, which was no better in this shape than in any other. For good measure, he stuck his tongue out at Aziraphale as he settled back down. Dutifully, however, he forwarded the link to the comic he had shown the angel.

"'Polite company,' really," Aziraphale groused. Then he perked up. "Oh, now this is more my line. Stories!"

"Not well-punctuated ones, I imagine," Crowley muttered.

Midday turned to afternoon turned to evening, and by the time the alcohol made its appearance and Crowley ducked out to lay in a supply of Thai food to fuel their investigation, they had long since moved on from looking at erotica ("P-O-R-N!") to nosing around Google maps in search of a forest or wood that wasn't too inconvenient to get to but still remote enough that a miraculous privacy shield wouldn't take too much effort.


They scheduled their excursion for the following Monday, and Crowley took the intervening days as an opportunity to do his shopping and catch up on errands. These days, his errands included such tasks as subtly wrangling couples taking engagement photos in parks and aiming them at aggressive swans or blocking up office corridors with a bit of plasterboard, matching paint, and a painfully bland sconce to confuse the suits. Crowley didn't perceive himself as doing Hell's work for free so much as a hobbyist who admittedly took it a bit too seriously. Especially the swan thing. That was just a good afternoon to be had in the park, and sometimes even the victims got a good laugh and a funny photo out of it.

For the purposes of their scenario, Crowley acquired a few items of clothing that were well outside of his usual aesthetic, as well as a knee-length black peacoat with a red satin lining and red ribbons in the seams to keep his kit under wraps until just the right moment. He rather liked the coat, actually, and once he got it home to model the whole ensemble, along with some new anatomical features, he made a mental note to remind Aziraphale not to permanently damage it when he tore it off him. Just the coat, though: the rest of it, anatomy included, was doomed.

The weather over the weekend was gorgeous and, in keeping with tradition, turned dreary again over the course of Sunday evening. Undeterred, Crowley arrived at a little past four a.m. to smuggle his jellyfish-angel and a heap of equipment and supplies out of the shop and into the Bentley under cover of darkness. They'd had a row over this, of course. Crowley, not being a morning demon, had objected strenuously to departing before dawn. In fact, he said, there was no such thing as a morning demon, at all, and that if he had any authority over the matter, he'd abolish the hours between five and eight a.m. altogether. He repeated this statement several times at various points during the argument, each time giving different starting and ending times. Finally, they had agreed to exactly the same time that Aziraphale had proposed in the first place, except that they now called it "in the dead of night."

They spent the first couple hours of the trip, as London haltingly melted away into suburbs and then the open motorway, not talking. Despite what Crowley said, Aziraphale did respect his night-owlish nature and was content to let him cling wretchedly to his treble-shotted red eye for as long as he needed. Aziraphale read his book by the light of glowing tentacle-tips and then, when the sky began to lighten, he put it aside and admired the scenery for a while.

Finally, judging his demon to be sufficiently caffeinated, he asked, "Why is your sat nav speaking Japanese?" Knowing London like the back of his hand and rarely leaving it, Crowley almost never used his sat nav, and so this was the first time Aziraphale had heard it.

"That," Crowley said, "is the voice of Norio Wakamoto."

"It sounds very, erm, grandiose? For a sat nav? I didn't think you knew Japanese."

"Oh, I don't."

"I see," said Aziraphale, who clearly didn't.

Crowley did not choose to enlighten him.

They managed to skate past the morning rush by the skin of their teeth. Still, it was more or less light out by the time they arrived, having bumped and jounced their way up a narrow, anonymous lane that made Crowley reflexively pet the Bentley's steering wheel in sympathy.

"Nice," he said as he climbed out of the car and looked around. "Foggy as anything—couldn't have miracled up a better mood myself. It's positively menacing."

Aziraphale emerged and said, "Are you sure you won't be cold, dearest? I will be having you out of that coat sooner or later, you know."

Crowley leered. "I'll have the fires of my unspeakable lussst to keep me warm. What about you? You're not wearing clothes to begin with."

"Oh, well," Aziraphale fluttered, abashed. "I suppose the same goes for me."

Crowley helped Aziraphale unload the car. Then, Aziraphale arranged himself in an elegant swirl on top of the heap of stuff and listened to the Bentley tick itself cool while Crowley thumbed his mobile for quite a while, trying to get orientated.

"Look, it's the country, for Someone's sake," he said defensively. "It's all one undifferentiated smear of green to me."

"I didn't say a word, dear," Aziraphale said.

They stumped off into the woods, Aziraphale with his hamper of towels and other supplies for afterwards and Crowley carrying the camera bag. Having recorded themselves before, they had found that it really had to be Crowley to set the camera gear up. If Aziraphale did it, the picture was always in a dreadfully soppy soft focus, even for sessions where they brought out the good shackles; but, more to the point, half the time the tripod collapsed. When Crowley set it up, on the other hand, he inevitably had to go back in and spend an afternoon dubbing out the 70s porno soundtrack that imposed itself over the proceedings. But that was a small price to pay for the miraculously-timed scene cuts and literally impossible camera angles that he also got, without the camera ever moving. And sometimes Crowley was willing, though he would never admit it, to watch with the bow-chicka-bow-wow intact.

They scoped out a clearing, set everything up, and headed back to the car.

"Now you can go spend half an hour schlepping about the woods putting down your pheromone trail," Crowley said. "Better lay it on thick; it's awfully damp out here." In fact, Aziraphale had not been able to suss out the biochemistry of producing pheromones, per se, and they had settled on a strong scent instead.

"And what are you going to do in the meantime?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley waggled his eyebrows and pulled from the backseat of the Bentley a hamper that Aziraphale was certain hadn't been there before.

"I'm," Crowley said smugly, "gonna go enjoy myself a little picnic."

"You didn't! You wouldn't!" Aziraphale said. "Oh, you odious wench!"

"Did and will," Crowley said. "Now, you go ahead and clear off, there's a fellow."

Crowley could still hear Aziraphale crabbing about it for several minutes after he vanished into the fog. He waited ten minutes, followed until he identified the start of Aziraphale's trail, and sat down to a collection of American snacks that the angel wouldn't have liked anyway, and certainly not in this drizzle.

It went without saying that Crowley was not a patient being, but he was well pleased with himself for only looking at his watch unnecessarily twice before the allotted time had gone by. He stood up, brushed the orange crumbs from his coat, and tucked the handle of his picnic hamper into the crook of his elbow. The allusion to Little Red Riding Hood was not lost on him, and, whimsically, some part of him wondered if he shouldn't start skipping like a little kid. Fortunately or unfortunately, his sense of dignity as a demon quashed the impulse firmly. In fairness, he didn't actually know how to skip to begin with.

He set off along the fruity-floral trail of scent Aziraphale had laid down. The situation clearly called for things like all-over gooseflesh and hard nipples, so Crowley popped open most of the buttons on his peacoat to let in the chill air. He dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out a yellow foam ball that they used for these kinds of games. They'd had a rubber duck, once, but following an incident in which Aziraphale had suffered a muscle spasm and the rubber duck had stuck absurdly to his sweaty hand instead of dropping, they'd retired the duck. When he remembered to, Crowley now relocated it to a new perch each time he visited the bookshop. The foam ball didn't stick nearly as much, although it did now have fingernail gouges in it.

Crowley had a problem. Ordinarily, it would have been even odds as to which of them would interrupt something by laughing inappropriately or otherwise breaking character. But this year, he was on a losing streak that got more and more embarrassing as time went on. Today, he was determined to play his part to the hilt, with all the caterwauling and blubbering it entailed, and to not injure himself or Aziraphale in any way that would necessitate a momentum-killing pause for healing.

It was this thought that distracted Crowley long enough for Aziraphale to sneak up on him silently and fling him face down into the leaf litter. He just barely managed to keep his grip on the ball, but the picnic hamper went sailing away into the mist, and Crowley didn't hear it land. There were tentacles around his ankles and bare knees, yanking hard and dragging him bodily into what he now recognized as the clearing they had scouted out earlier.

Crowley clawed at the ground with his free hand, but the muddy earth was soft and useless as a handhold and, in any case, the tentacles hauled him upright before he could grab what looked like a likely tree root. He wound up on his shins, knees apart. Aziraphale was behind him and was doing an excellent job of making it seem like his tentacles were coming out of nowhere, moving as fast as the crack of a whip as they secured Crowley's legs, wrists, and neck, and then began creeping up the sleeves of his coat. Aziraphale was also being unnaturally quiet, and Crowley had the brief, irrational thought that maybe it wasn't his usually very vocal angel after all and he had somehow blundered into the clutches of a real tentacle monster.

Irrational as it was, the idea very much worked to heighten the sense of what Crowley liked to call terrorousal. The term had yet to go mainstream, despite his best efforts.

A thick, springy green tentacle appeared in front of him, coming from between his thighs and rearing up like a provoked cobra. It was mottled with darker green blotches, and its tip came to a halt at the height of Crowley's neck, about three feet away. Crowley felt distinctly stared at and shivered. Then, a blue tendril undid the last buttons of Crowley's coat and two others gripped at the lapels, uncanny in their seeming gentleness.

"No!" Crowley groaned, wriggling futilely. He twisted the hand with the yellow ball so that it was in clear view of the green tentacle and pointedly adjusted his grip. "Let go of me!"

Happily, Aziraphale had long since learned not to respond reflexively to a no when the ball was in play, so to speak. The tentacles on Crowley's neck merely firmed their grip, and the ones holding his coat, slowly and almost lovingly, began to spread it open.

Crowley thrashed about, arching his back and heaving air into his chest to put on display and set into motion the two tasteful and shapely handfuls of flesh he had crafted. He didn't usually go in for breasts or other such curves, but he was nevertheless proud of these—just big enough for Aziraphale to coil his appendages around and no bigger. The cold autumn air made Crowley's nipples stand out prominently under another of the things he had prepared for the occasion: a clingy white dress that was barely opaque and barely long enough to be decent.

Aziraphale's green tentacle darkened and swelled in blatant appreciation of Crowley's finely-crafted, artfully heaving bosom; the wrapping it was presented in; his pale, bare, goosebumpy thighs; and also—a blue tentacle reached up, wound around a bit of the hem of the dress, and lifted it up—the lacy white knickers.

"No, not there!" Crowley yelped. Because he wanted desperately to stay in character, he didn't say, You're skipping ahead, you silly tit!, even though he was well within his right to. Instead, he dragged in a breath and began to shout for help at the top of his voice.

As he'd hoped, all of the tentacles he could see went stock-still in surprise and alarm at the volume of his cries, and one of the blue ones around his neck unwound itself hastily and zipped around to cover his mouth and muffle the screaming. Crowley nipped it, hard enough to hurt but not to harm, and it slapped him sharply across the face, startling him into silence long enough for it to secure his jaw shut. It couldn't silence him this way, but it certainly lowered the decibel level. In any case, Crowley had succeeded at distracting Aziraphale back on track, so he left off making noise for the moment.

A swollen, luridly pink tentacle rose up beside the green one. Unlike the others, it was oozing at the tip; and unlike before in the bookshop, when the ooze had looked more or less like normal come in a normal quantity, it was now copious, clear, and thick—gelatinous, even—and Crowley stifled a moan at the sight of it.

The blue tentacle keeping Crowley's jaw shut shifted and loosened. Then, it began to press his jaw open with a firm and inexorable pressure.

At the same time, the other tentacles were easing Crowley's coat off of his shoulders and down his arms. This process was somewhat more logistically complicated than it needed to be thanks to the appendages that now laced their way both up and down the sleeves. One brushed Crowley's nipple, provoking a whole-body twitch and no small amount of sheepishness. He had dialed up the sensitivity there during his anatomical make-over, but perhaps it was a bit much. As he was adjusting it, a tentacle relieved him of his sunglasses.

With the coat gone, Aziraphale snaked several thin tendrils up Crowley's now-bare shoulders, neck, and chin, like ivy up the side of a building. They joined the two trying to jam Crowley's jaw open, dabbing at his lips briefly before hooking themselves in and opening him wide. Crowley tried to turn his head away or bite down, to absolutely no effect. He inhaled to yell again, only to have a finger-thin tentacle zip down the back of his tongue and force him to gag as a warning to shut up. He spluttered and coughed, his eyes watered and spilled over, and his body jerked spasmodically in its bonds. As a precaution, he miracled away the snacks he had eaten earlier. It was already going to be a messy enough day.

The bulging pink tentacle loomed close enough that Crowley could see the tiny orifice fluttering rhythmically at its tip. A great gobbet of clear ooze dribbled off of it and landed with an audible splat on Crowley's naked thigh. Where it slid down the inside of his leg, it left a slime trail that was hot at first, began to tingle, and then cooled to a prickly chill. The pink tentacle didn't go straight for Crowley's held-open mouth; instead, it smeared its goo down the right side of his face, mingling the stuff with the tears already streaking down his cheeks, and over his jawline. Crowley could feel that side of his face going slack, although not at all numb. In fact, anywhere the goo touched that Aziraphale had applied any force to, including where he had slapped Crowley, now throbbed deliciously.

The pink tentacle pulled back and hovered, front and center. Another glob of ooze slid down from its tip and detached itself, dripping with perfect accuracy down the front of Crowley's dress. Crowley gasped and groaned as it slimed down his breastbone, and he made a mental note to put cleavage on the menu for next time. The tingle of the goo was spreading from his face, his leg, and now his chest, leeching away the strength from his muscles and replacing it with vivid sensation.

A thin tentacle reached into Crowley's mouth again, pinched the tip of his tongue, and dragged it out. The big pink one dipped forward, but then stopped and pulled back. Crowley saw the green tentacle, watching over the pink one's shoulder, dip to one side. Ah, that. Crowley adjusted his grip on the yellow ball. It worked: the oozing tentacle returned, now slathering its goo down the middle of Crowley's forehead, between his eyes, and down the side of his nose. Finally, it dragged itself very deliberately over Crowley's outstretched tongue, catching on the spit-slick corner of his mouth and pulling off in a way that splattered ooze on his clavicle.

It didn't taste like anything. It did take effect quite quickly, however.

Crowley's eyes rolled back, his head sagged to one side, and his tongue lolled out of its own accord. As the tentacles holding his mouth open slipped away, he closed it only by focusing very hard on the task. The gelatinous ooze refused to dissolve on his tongue and slopped down his throat in one gooey mass, making him gag again. He never did like Jello much. Even as the substance blunted Crowley's ability to move, it sharpened his senses to a degree that danced beautifully along the line between enough and too much.

Crowley breathed in and out slowly, thoroughly overcome by the almost frightening clarity of the sensations the action now entailed. The air rushed in and out of his chest like a tide; the dress slid against his body—his breasts, his belly, his hipbones—like a caress; and on every limb there were hot stripes of pressure and constant movement. Well done, Aziraphale, he thought blurrily. Some part of his mind—probably the bit that had evacuated his brain and was now camped out in the hand with the yellow ball, a trick for which he had cribbed a bit of octopus neurology—contemplated the billions of quid they could make marketing the formula for the slime.

The tentacles began to rearrange his body, lifting his knees off the ground and tilting him back. They cradled his head so that he had a very good view of his own lap, where the hem of his dress hung damp between his thighs. With the drizzle having grown somewhat heavier, Crowley became aware of cold drops of water pattering on his sensitized skin and trickling down his body. Still, the appendages propping him up were also radiating heat against his flesh, and there were quite a lot of them now, winding around his waist, hips, and thighs. It was enough to make him sweat despite the autumn chill.

Two pink tendrils appeared, just visible in the gap between Crowley's knees. As they bent closer, the blue ones binding Crowley's legs spread him open. Crowley's breath hitched as a green one hove into view, staring directly up Crowley's dress and at his crotch, protected only by a few pathetic square inches of white lace.

One of the pink ones dipped out of view under the hem. A second later, Crowley felt its stout tip smear a sumptuous amount of goo all the way down from the top of his mons to his perineum. The ooze drenched through the fabric of his knickers instantly, setting his labia alight with sensation, and started to seep inwards.

Crowley moaned, twitching helplessly. Even if the tentacles hadn't been holding his head in place, he wouldn't have been able to look away from where the tentacle vanished up his skirt. All weekend long he had spent anticipating this, and now it was happening.

The second pink appendage followed the first under the dress and repeated what it had done. After a few moments, a bunch of blue ones, thinner than fingers, joined the pink ones. Crowley felt them touching the edges of his knickers and then, at last, they pulled the crotch of the underpants to one side, baring Crowley's pussy at last.

"Yes, yes, no, no!" Crowley babbled in drugged confusion. He settled on, "Please! Oh fuck, please!"

Usually, this was Aziraphale's cue to ask, infuriatingly, "'Please' what, my darling?"

He didn't ask this time.

Crowley felt his labia being spread apart by dozens of tiny fingertip touches and whimpered. He was already so close, and when a sloppy-wet, bulging appendage lodged itself in his entrance and began to press inside, it was all he could do not to clench down on it. Other than the tip, it wasn't that thick; but then the other one drove in just behind the head of the first, and together they stretched and filled Crowley's cunt magnificently. The wave of his orgasm crested and crashed down on him, lasting the entire time it took for Aziraphale's tentacles to very slowly bottom out inside of him.

The tentacles didn't pause to let Crowley catch his breath before they began to fuck him in earnest. They remained together at first, thrusting in and out simultaneously, but separated to work in counterpoint, the one sliding in while the other pulled out. So far, Aziraphale—the pastel bastard, who could be so fabulously beastly when he put his mind to it—had been coy, letting Crowley's dress hide the specifics of his violation from view. Now, though, the tendrils coiling against Crowley's hips tugged the dress upwards to his waist so he could be made to look at where the undulating appendages worked into him, glistening with slime and Crowley's own slick and framed by the stretched white knickers. The thinnest tentacles were managing to stroke Crowley's clit by the simple expedient of stroking his everywhere.

Crowley was helpless to stop the little desperate noises and gasps that spilled from his lips.

Just as Crowley's second orgasm began to build heavy and fizzing in his core, the two tentacles slowed, stuttered to a stop, and slurped out of him. He could have screamed in frustration but for the thin blue ones, which slipped in to hold him open. The two that had been in Crowley's pussy ducked downwards, one disappearing only to smear goo up Crowley's crack, and then both began to take turns spearing open his arse with vigour. Meanwhile, a third pink tentacle that had been lurking diffidently by Crowley's knee swooped forward, sliding into his ready cunt in one whip-crack movement—sharp enough to punch a half-shriek, half-moan out of Crowley when it collided with the bit inside of him that passed for a cervix, but not to anyone actually knowledgeable of human anatomy.

His orgasm crashed through him like a freight train through a lorry stranded on a level crossing, blindsiding him with ringing in his ears and static at the edges of his vision. The tentacles fucked him through it, and as Crowley's senses cleared again, he could hear the filthy squelching sounds made possible by all that ooze. They slowed to a stop, lodged deep within and pulsating insistently. Crowley realized that his living bonds were moving around again, but before he could really make sense of what was going on, a muscular blue tentacle seized the neckline of Crowley's dress and ripped it open to the waist.

"What—" Crowley choked, looking down in reeling shock at his suddenly exposed chest. Aziraphale had finally got round to unwrapping his present.

Crowley managed to get his hand free, but all he could think to do was grab one half of the dress and try to pull it back over himself. A tentacle leisurely recaptured his hand and reëxposed his quivering breast.

If Crowley had felt stared at before, the realization that there were now three—scratch that, four—green tentacles hovering over his bared torso made him feel pinned down like a specimen for his angel's perusal, especially as the bonds around his arms pinned them behind and under him, forcing his back to arch upwards.

Tendrils slithered up his sides, right where Aziraphale knew Crowley would never admit to being ticklish even though he absolutely was; they dug into his armpits and lodged against his shoulder blades; and they coiled around his breasts, digging into his ribs and framing the soft mounds of flesh. Crowley caught a glimpse just before more tentacles hooked around his neck and tilted his head back, and he saw that the blue ones had flushed darker, the better to stand out garishly against Crowley's skin. This wasn't for Crowley's enjoyment, however; a moment later, his upside-down view contained nothing but misty forest and fallen leaves. Crowley prayed to Someone that the camera was getting all this, because he sure as shit wasn't.

Then, a great big dribbling tentacle, as garishly bright pink as the kind of sex toy that made no pretense of being anything but what it was, rose slowly into view.

"Oh, fuck," Crowley whimpered. Two orgasms in and drugged to the gills, it was all he could do not to open wide and beg for it to dive right in, but, well, being forced was rather the point here, and he strongly suspected Aziraphale had some delightfully horrifying ideas to that end.

So he dutifully clenched his mouth shut, adjusted his grip on the yellow ball, and watched in not-entirely-feigned wide-eyed anxiety as it loomed in with an almost curious air. It slopped goo lavishly over his thinned, bloodless lips, probing for a weakness with no sense of hurry. The tentacles at Crowley's other end, which had been quiescent within him, began to move again almost as an afterthought—in fact, it probably was an afterthought, given how tricky it likely was to keep all those limbs coördinated. Crowley almost fell for it but choked the moan down before it could give the tendril the opportunity it was looking for.

The tentacle stilled, hovering so close to his nose that his eyes crossed looking at it.

Then it shot out a pair of white sub-tendrils, thickly coated with ooze, and forced them up into Crowley's nose so far that he gagged again. For a minute, the entire inside of his face stung like a thousand imminent sneezes all overlaid atop a single blinding moment. Then the effects of the ooze kicked in and the burn turned to something that verged tantalizingly on pleasure.

The sub-tendrils withdrew, smearing snot down Crowley's upper lip, and the main tentacle now pushed into his slack mouth unresisted.

Time seemed to go a bit fuzzy as the tentacle rutted first against the inside of one cheek and then the other. It nudged at Crowley's soft palate and slurped on his tongue. It brought out the sub-tendrils again and ran them over his teeth, stretching his lips grotesquely. Some of the blue appendages appeared and caressed his face, wriggling their tips around in the mess of tears, ooze, and other fluids. All the while, the tentacles wrapped around Crowley's body and stuffing his arse and cunt kept up a constant, ever-changing motion.

Had Crowley any brain cells available, he would have been impressed; for it had to have been like rubbing one's belly and patting one's head simultaneously, times fifty, and Aziraphale was not a particularly athletic being.

The rhythm changed again. The tentacles at each end of Crowley began to thrust in and pull out at the same time, and Crowley clenched his eyes shut, breathed in as much air as he could, and steeled himself. The one in his mouth began to reach deeper with each movement, wringing wet choking noises from him that he couldn't suppress.

As the tentacle slotted home in the back of Crowley's throat, he came so hard his toes curled.

After that, the tentacle's movements became more frantic, and three thrusts later it was coming too, spilling gouts of fluid directly down Crowley's gullet and filling his guts with its hot spend.

Crowley felt his body hit the ground. Then he didn't feel anything comprehensible for quite a while.

Aziraphale took, and took, and took, and took. The part of Crowley's mind that had parked up in his left hand approved heartily; for while the angel was certainly a hedonist and was unquestionably gluttonous, he could be dismayingly tentative about pursuing his own pleasure if it involved giving Crowley pain or discomfort past a certain level, even when Crowley begged. Of course, Crowley begging did turn him on, so that may have been a confounding variable...

Aziraphale also gave, and gave, and gave, and gave. It was like he was running through a laundry list of Crowley's all-time favourite positions to be fucked stupid in, or at least the ones that didn't require furniture.

Eventually, Crowley found himself on his knees and face down on a towel, his skinny arse hoisted high in the air and his wrists somewhere around his shins. (Also a perennial favourite, for either of them.) There were fat, sloppy tentacles in his arse and pussy, shoving his body forward and rocking it back at a lazy pace. The real action was happening in his mouth: a dense, tangled mass of tendrils as thin as spaghetti, stuffed in there and stretching his jaw open, spewing copiously out of his ravaged lips, and bitter-sour on his slack tongue with all manner of indescribable fluids. There were a few strays dangling down his ruined throat, and every few minutes or so they twitched, plucking mercilessly at his gag reflex.

This was the unspeakable erotic horror that he had hoped for, the memory of which would be waking him to sticky sheets on a regular basis for the next nine centuries—longer, if he backed up the video properly. He'd lost track of how many times he'd climaxed and of how many times Aziraphale's appendages had spilled inside of him or on his poor body. It felt like it would take at least half a dozen showers before he would be truly clean and unsticky again, and that felt fantastic.

Blearily, Crowley realized that it had to end sooner rather than later. The only question was whether either of them had enough energy left for any kind of grand finale.

To answer it, a tentacle coiled around Crowley's left wrist and flopped up next to him in his line of sight. When he adjusted his grip on the ball, the tentacle spurted out a sub-tendril, which then exuded a bit of fluid. With effort, Crowley remembered what this was intended to mean and, impossibly, his mind and body seized upon their third (fourth?) wind, and he turned the ball over one last time.

The tentacle in Crowley's arse withdrew, petting his hole tenderly before it retreated. Other tentacles repositioned his body on the towel to something less stressful on his neck. The mess in his mouth disappeared post-haste. He breathed in and out.

As the tentacle in his cunt began to swell and move again, he imagined. He imagined that tentacle with great big bulges moving down its length, hard-shelled eggs the size of his fist. They would spread open his slick cunt, slide up his passage, and be shoved deeper into him, lodging in his belly one after another until it bulged outwards as blatant public evidence of his grotesque defilement in the woods. He imagined a different kind of eggs—masses and masses of tiny, gooey ones like fish roe. They would overflow from his womb, a few squirting out each time he took a step too heavily, dribbling down his cunt and into his trousers until they were all gone. He imagined the tentacle itself cramming into his belly, coiling up like a rope until it stuffed him almost to bursting and then budding off to remain there. It would sit inside him while it gestated, partly emerging once or twice a day to fuck Crowley's pussy from the inside when he least expected it.

Crowley imagined the tentacle breeding him the traditional way, as though he had eggs of his own to be inseminated. He wouldn't realize it for weeks or even months—it wasn't like he had a period to miss, after all—and then the symptoms would be upon him.

The actual penetration, deep inside, was almost superfluous; yet he came and came on the tentacle's length as it pumped him full until the stuff overflowed, splattering down his thighs. The noises that came from his throat were almost unrecognizable, guttural and animalistic.




Of the next part, Crowley remembered only Aziraphale gently scolding him, "No, stop wriggling. I need to get you warm," even though he felt warm enough already, thank you.

When he woke again, he found himself cocooned from head to toe in at least two layers of fluffy, dry towels and lying on his side. There was a hot water bottle wedged against his chest, whiffy of natural rubber, and another one beneath his feet.

In his immediate line of sight were, neatly lined up on a tray, a flask of water, a thermos of builder's tea, an energy drink, and a stack of digestive biscuits.

He couldn't see Aziraphale around, but he could see that the cheap sun shelter he had packed had, to its palpable bewilderment, become a robust sailcloth-and-wood edifice that looked straight out of an early modern army's baggage train and like it ought to have required the efforts of an aide-de-camp or three to set it up. Raindrops pattered occasionally on it.

Crowley tried to reach for the energy drink. By the time he had liberated his arm from the towels, Aziraphale was back. He, too, was completely draped in towels.

"Oh good, you're awake," Aziraphale said warmly. "My apologies, I was just tidying up the site a bit. How are you feeling, my dear?"

Crowley tried to say something but it came out as a thin dinosaur screech. He spent a miracle to heal his throat faster, then managed, "Already on the mend. How about you? You must be knackered."

"I'm so glad," Aziraphale said. He reached out a tentacle to pet Crowley's hand. "As for me, why, I'm simply famished is all. And thirsty."

Crowley sat up gingerly, hugging the hot water bottle to his chest. Aziraphale had healed almost all of the bruising and chafing and whatnot, but Crowley's guts still sloshed audibly with liquid. "Mmm," he murmured, savouring the sensation. "I imagine your water jug must be empty. I could fill it back up if you like."

He patted his distended belly and belched theatrically.

"Oh, well," Aziraphale said, sounding slightly disturbed. "I don't think that will be necessary."

"No, with a miracle, you pillock," Crowley croaked. "What do you think I'm gonna do, be sick into your water bottle? And anyway, they're your body fluids to begin with."

Aziraphale snorted, indignant. "You'll forgive me for thinking that offensive belch implied something, you know, offensive!" But he turned over the huge bottle anyway, and pretended not to hear the unnecessary gurgling noises Crowley made as he miracled himself empty again and filled the jug with fresh water.

As Aziraphale bustled around, Crowley exchanged his swaddle of towels for a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt that had the tingle of a very fresh miracle about it and two birds printed across the chest. Wafting as he was on the heady come-down from Aziraphale's goo and the dopamine rush, it took Crowley a moment to get the joke. His coat he found neatly folded and perfectly intact in one of the hampers (of which there were now three) and put that on as well.

Crowley stood up and stretched luxuriantly. There was a wobble in his knee that refused to straighten up, and, try as he might, he couldn't hide it from Aziraphale, who shepherded him back to the car, hovering and fussing and holding an umbrella over his head for the entire ten-minute walk.

"You will sit, you will rest, and you will drink your horrid power drinks—"

"Energy drinks."

"—they're vile is what they are—and you will let me take care of the impedimenta!" Aziraphale said in a tone that brooked no dissent.

Bemused, Crowley found himself with an afghan on his lap, a packet of digestives in one hand and an energy drink in the other, and the Bentley's heater cranked up as high as it would go. He turned it down as soon as Aziraphale was out of sight, shaking his head.

It took Aziraphale three trips, which was his own blessed fault for somehow having caused the amount of stuff to double since they had packed it in the first place, but he finally deposited himself in his seat with a minimum of whinging.

"By the way, Crowley, I'm dying to know," he said, "what was it in your picnic hamper that you were eating with chopsticks?"

Crowley reached back, dug around in the hamper for a bit, and plucked out the empty Cheetos packet. He showed it to Aziraphale and said, "Keeps the orange crap off your fingers."

"I see," Aziraphale said, even though he clearly didn't.

Chapter Text

Crowley, predictably, slept the clock 'round for a few days afterwards. Less predictably, the next time he turned up at the bookshop, he found Aziraphale having a kip as well. Whether he had been sleeping since getting home or otherwise, Crowley couldn't tell. He was left in the unusual position of being the one who had to go find something with which to amuse himself while the other slept.

He parked his rolling suitcase full of goodies in a corner, put the takeaway bags on the table in the back room, set a miracle on those to keep the food fresh and hot, and headed out to scare up one of his contacts. Judging by Crowley's own habits, it was uncertain as to whether Aziraphale would be up by the time he got back. But no matter: the food would keep for days, if it knew what was best for it.

Aziraphale was awake by the time Crowley returned, but hadn't yet come downstairs: Crowley could hear him moving about in the flat over the shop as he put away the surprise he had acquired and checked Aziraphale's cupboards to see if there were snifters with which to drink it; for the angel had an aversion to drinking things straight from cans. There were, although they were well encrusted with dust, and Crowley was washing them in the sink in the kitchenette when Aziraphale finally came down the stairs.

"I've been experimenting," he said without prelude.

Crowley managed not to drop the snifter. "Angel, you can't just tell me these things before you've even said hello!"

"Ah," said Aziraphale archly, "but I have said hello."

Crowley looked at him properly.

Across the front of his domed blue carapace, Aziraphale had found a way to rearrange his glowy white freckles so that they spelled out "HELLO" in big, friendly block letters, complete with an exclamation point.

"Pfft," Crowley said. "That's—that's—Well done, angel. It's very nice."

"Ooh," Aziraphale said, miffed. "You think it's silly!"

Crowley tried, with little success, to restrain his expression. "Angel, I'm very, very, very sorry. But there is almost nothing about your form right now that isn't exceedingly silly."

"That's not what you said the other day," Aziraphale said.

Crowley admitted the point and, as a peace offering, pointed to the takeaway bags on the table. He was waiting for Aziraphale to notice that all of the food Crowley had been bringing him since his transformation had been noodles of one sort or another, or noodly in some way. Today he would wait in vain, however; for Aziraphale was too busy cooing over the meal of tonkotsu ramen, shiitake gyoza, and a bottle of Nikka whisky to cotton on.

In fairness to Aziraphale, tonkotsu ramen is delicious.

"So," Aziraphale said as he tucked in, "have you had a chance to look at the film yet?"

"Have I," Crowley said gleefully, putting down his chopsticks. He retrieved from his man-purse a packet of photo prints, opened it up, and pulled one out. It was a still frame from the video, perfectly composed at a Dutch angle, featuring Crowley impaled on some number of swollen tentacles and with more encircling his pert breasts. His face was a picture of glazed, addled lust: eyes rolling, jaw slack, and tongue poking out from around the glistening shaft of a tendril. There was even the shadow of a bulge in his throat. Crowley had managed to find a frame where, he thought at least, his hair looked good.

"Good lord," Aziraphale choked. "You vain creature."

Crowley shrugged expressively. "Is it really vanity when I look so objectively luscious, or am I simply being honest with myself?"

Aziraphale slurped noodles in lieu of responding. A few bites of gyoza later, however, he said slyly, "Would you have sex with yourself if given the opportunity?"

"Of course I would!" Crowley said. "What kind of stupid question is that? Don't tell me you wouldn't fuck your own clone into the nearest mattress first thing!"

It was Aziraphale's turn to shrug expressively.

"Anyway," Crowley said, "I've still got to fix the soundtrack—the usual problem, you know—but apart from that, I think it's one of our best efforts yet."

"That's good," Aziraphale said. "I started to feel rather ridiculous around the third time you put that dress back together for me to rip it off you again."

Crowley grinned. "Continuity isn't exactly the point."

"No, I dare say it isn't."

When Aziraphale finished his ramen, they retired to the sofa.

"I was thinking," Crowley said, "that there's something I haven't had a chance to do with you since you've been like this."

Aziraphale thought for a second. "Kissing?"

"Well," Crowley said, "I suppose that depends on whether you consider the concepts of 'kissing' and 'face-fucking' to have any overlap."

"No, Crowley."

"Think about it, though. My lips were on your body. And a part of you that probably counts as lips was on my face, up until it was in my throat. Surely, there's something in common—"

"No, Crowley!"

"All right, all right," Crowley conceded. He dabbed a couple of kisses on Aziraphale's carapace. "Is that better?"

"A little," Aziraphale said grudgingly.

"But actually what I was thinking of was this."

Crowley wrapped his long arms entirely around Aziraphale's dome, squeezed gently, and rested his head on top. As he had expected, Aziraphale melted completely into the hug, and it was all very warm and squashy. Soon enough, he had a lapful of tentacle-angel. More than a lapful, really; but then again, that was true even of Aziraphale's humanoid form.

Aziraphale sighed. "Just when I've given up all hope, you go ahead and do things like this."

Thus engulfed, Crowley began to sweat immediately, and, after an interval that he estimated to be the midpoint between his idea of reasonable and Aziraphale's, he wriggled out from under Aziraphale.

"Welp, that's my stock of sweetness and light depleted for the day," he said dryly. "Try again tomorrow."

"Barbarian," Aziraphale muttered, but Crowley could tell he was smiling even without a mouth with which to do so.

"Speaking of light," Crowley said, "I had a thought. Have you tried manifesting your wings in this shape yet?"

"No, I haven't, actually," said Aziraphale. "I should give it a shot. Hard to tell which direction they'll come out in."

Crowley had a suspicion, though, and as Aziraphale headed towards the one open space in the shop where there was less risk of knocking anything over, Crowley discreetly retrieved his mobile from his man-purse.

With a whoosh of displaced air, Aziraphale produced his wings. There was a brief pause, and then he said acerbically, "Oh, good lord," and shuffled towards the nearest mirror. "I've never seen anything more absurd in my life. I should have known. I wish I hadn't done this. I'll never be able to unsee it."

Crowley was speechless. Not the fake kind of speechless for which people often say, "I'm speechless," but the genuine sort involving at least some inane flapping of lips. It was one thing to imagine angel wings sprouting out of the top of a squat upright land jellyfish and quite another to actually see it.

At the sound of the camera shutter, Aziraphale whirled about in a flare of tendrils and a puff of loose down. He spluttered indignantly, "No, don't take a picture! Crowley!"

Aziraphale tackled Crowley and they wrestled for the mobile—a tussle that Crowley fully expected to lose forthwith—but to Crowley's own surprise, he was able to hold his own long enough to drop the mobile into a pocket dimension out of Aziraphale's reach.

"Come on, Aziraphale," Crowley said, brushing white fluff off of his shirt. "One of these days you'll look at that picture and laugh. Just like when we went to Mardi Gras, right?"

"I don't like those pictures either," Aziraphale huffed, snapping his wings away.

"Not yet, obviously. But you're immortal; you've got plenty of time to come around," Crowley said. "Anyway, enough of this nonsense, I have presents for you."

"Ooo!" Aziraphale said, scuffle forgotten instantly. "Presents!"

Crowley laid them out on the coffee table: ten long, narrow drawstring bags with green cords and black satin linings.

"Oh, I hoped you would find them!" Aziraphale said delightedly. He picked up one of the bags, slipped one of his springy green tentacles right into it, and cinched it shut. "It fits perfectly!"

"Any light getting in there?"

"Hard to tell with just the one, but I think not."

"You'll have to let me know if they get stuffy; that blackout fabric isn't what you would call breathable."

"I'm sure it will be just fine," Aziraphale said. He collected the rest of the bags and started for the staircase.

Crowley was surprised. "What, now?"

"Why not?" Aziraphale said. "If you've something else that you needed to do, I won't keep you, of course. Or if you're still recovering from the other day, Someone forbid. But with the shop closed for the duration and me between books at the moment, I'm hardly busy; and also rather eager to see what you've come up with."

"Well, all right then," Crowley said. He went to collect his suitcase from the corner and followed Aziraphale up the stairs. "Between books?"

Aziraphale sighed. "Oh, I finished rereading a favourite, and now nothing quite seems to compare. Frustrating, but I'm sure I'll land on something soon."

Aziraphale switched on the lamp and Crowley shut the bedroom door behind them. Together they moved the books off the bed and stood side by side, gazing down at it. It was a normal enough bed and had served them well so far, but it didn't seem quite up to the task at hand.

"I wonder," Aziraphale mused.

The bed, which had only been introduced to activities more lascivious than self-pleasure in the last several years, was alarmed and scandalised to suddenly find itself quite circular.

Crowley chuckled. "You know, I never understood the appeal of these to humans."

"Neither did I," Aziraphale said, perching himself on the edge of the bed. "They don't exactly have to cope with anything like this"—he gestured at himself—"very often, do they?"

"Not very often, no," Crowley said. "Not often enough to justify the expense in bespoke sheets, surely. I suppose it's just more conspicuous consumption after all."

He reached out casually, caught Aziraphale by his double ruffle, and tipped the tentacle-angel backwards onto the center of the round bed. Aziraphale went down with an "oof!" in a sprawl of limbs. But he remained upended, and Crowley could tell he was ready, for his pink tendrils, no longer hidden in this position, were beginning to go ruddy at the ends.

"Been thinking about this, have we?" Crowley purred. He reached for a drawstring bag and fitted it over the nearest green tentacle.

"My dear, I even had a dream about this," Aziraphale said breathlessly. "Not a very specific or comprehensible dream, granted, but—"

"You're getting better at that," Crowley said with wicked good cheer, picking up the next bag. "Well done you!"

Having bagged a third tentacle, Crowley removed his jacket. With the fourth, he stripped off his waistcoat; after the fifth, he rolled up his left sleeve, and the sixth saw him rolling up the right.

"Oh, you are a delight," Aziraphale breathed. "Such a marvelous tease."

"It's by way of revenge," Crowley said candidly. "You must know that by now."

"A never-ending cycle of revenge," Aziraphale agreed.

Crowley bagged another tentacle; for Aziraphale's reward, he undid several buttons of his shirt. Then he leered mercilessly, went to the other side of the bed, and bagged up the last few of the green ones, blinding Aziraphale entirely, without any recompense.

"You know, I've had a wicked thought," Crowley said. With a snap of his fingers, he brought the record player upstairs. "But not any more wicked than the thoughts you've had."

He snapped his fingers again and the opening measures of Maurice Ravel's Boléro began to play.

"Oh, no," Aziraphale groaned. "I knew I would come to regret that one."

Crowley stalked leisurely around the bed, making sure his footsteps sounded on the floorboards. The creaking of the floorboards was promising, and he decided to give that a bit of a demonic enhancement as well. He unzipped his suitcase slowly and let it thump open on the floor.

"You know how to stop this if you really want to," he said. "You can also loosen those bags whenever you like. It's all really up to you."

Aziraphale murmured his assent, and Crowley reset the record to the beginning with a flick of his wrist.

Crowley started with scraps of fabric: satin, gauze, velvet, and suede. He wandered around the circumference of the bed, dabbing and stroking at various tentacles with the fabrics as the whim took him.

He pulled out a feather—an old one from Aziraphale's last moult several years ago, but not too ragged. This he applied liberally, both directly by stroking it against tentacles and indirectly by wafting it in the air above them. Aziraphale knew this sensation, though—it made him relax into the bed, bit by bit. So Crowley brought out a fresher feather of his own—his last moult had been earlier this year—and the infernal crackle and fizzle of it made the angel's tentacles crinkle up and writhe on the mattress.

Crowley soothed him back down with the angel feather again—and reset the record.

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale sighed.

Crowley laid out his next set of tools on the bed stand. The hairbrush he tapped gently down a tentacle, bristles down; the large threaded bolt he applied like a rolling pin; and the deck of cards he fanned out and stroked at an angle so that the edges splayed out on Aziraphale's soft flesh.

He went on like this for a while—a leather tassel, the ragged edge of a pumice stone, a piece of corrugated cardboard with the outer layer peeled off—making sure the record didn't get too far along and periodically relieving Aziraphale's tension with satin and suede. Aziraphale had started out looking like a mound of oversized noodles, but his body became flatter and flatter each time Crowley stroked him down.

"You spoiled, insatiable beastie," Crowley said affectionately.

Aziraphale murmured, sounding half-asleep, "If a 'beastie' is spoiled, is it really his fault? Or the fault of the shameless, equally insatiable reprobate who did the spoiling?"

Crowley let the record play forward a bit while he selected the first couple of toys from his suitcase. He could see the ripple in Aziraphale's limbs as Aziraphale realized that the game was about to change. Now silencing his movements and stilling the air he displaced as he moved, Crowley circled around the bed and folded to his knees, addressing a pink tentacle at random.

The hole in its tip looked like little more than a pinprick, but Crowley well knew that it would stretch to accept penetration. How much penetration, he didn't know. But he could keep resetting the record as long as he needed to find out.

Without signaling his presence by touching the bed or breathing, Crowley ducked his head down and gave the tendril-tip a firm lick. It recoiled reflexively and Aziraphale let out a startled yelp. Crowley reached out, captured it, and licked it again. Then he worked the tip of his tongue into the orifice, swirling it about and stretching the hole gently open. It yielded easily under this treatment, and in short order he replaced his tongue with his thumb. The inside of the tentacle was already slippery. Crowley picked up a dildo and, elbows perched on the bed, he began to work it into the tentacle's hole.

"Mmm," Aziraphale moaned. Then, as Crowley experimentally tightened his grip on the outside of the tentacle around the toy, Aziraphale's voice pitched upwards abruptly. "Good lord, Crowley. That feels incredible," he panted.

"Glad to hear it," Crowley said. He gave the toy a few more thrusts and then set the tentacle down on the bed, dildo inserted to the base. Crowley admired his handiwork for a second: stretched around the intrusion, wet around its rim, and striated with dark splotches, the tentacle was a picture of lewdness against the white sheet.

Aziraphale made a frustrated noise, but Crowley was already circling to the other side of the bed, palming the next toy to warm it. This time, he took the tentacle deep into his mouth and slurped off of it, skipping tongue and thumb and spreading the tentacle's opening with the toy straight away. This one was a twisted shape in smooth stainless steel, and Crowley wasted no time screwing it in. Again, he squeezed the outside of the tentacle, rolling and kneading the soft flesh around the unyielding steel until Aziraphale began to emit a sustained whimper.

Crowley reset the record to somewhere around the middle of the piece to give himself time to work. Some of the toys were ordinary enough—or would be, until he powered them up later on—but most were unique. Crowley's personal favourite was one shaped like several spheres mashed together. Crowley selected an appendage that was already oozing with fluid and pop-pop-popped the toy into its hole with no warning, wringing a shriek from Aziraphale.

At some point, Aziraphale gasped, "C-Crowley, you didn't—buy these—just for this—did you?"

"No, no," Crowley said, thrusting two fingers in without pause. "However, I must admit that this does represent the lion's share of my collection. Surprised you don't recognize a few of these."

"You'll excuse me—anh!—for not memorizing—your dildo collection!"

Crowley had remained half-hard throughout. By now, Aziraphale was a shivering mess, and there was no hiding it. Crowley could see in his mind's eye the angel's normal face, florid with arousal and streaked with tears from beneath the blindfold, his plush lips a-quiver with pants and gasps and other delectable noises. There was a certain inverted arch his eyebrows took during these kinds of activities that mashed on all the buttons of Crowley's libido at once—and Crowley's libido had a lot of buttons to mash.

Crowley wondered how Aziraphale's mind, were it operating on the hardware of his human corporation's brain, would handle the sensory input from five or six times as many orifices as it was used to coping with. Probably not tidily, he thought.

Crowley slid a plug into one of the last available pink tentacles. He gave Aziraphale a moment to think that it was just an ordinary plug before he took the toy's bulb in hand and started to pump air into it, inflating it within the tentacle.

"Oh, Someone," Aziraphale groaned. "Oh, please. Crowley!"

Crowley kept pumping. The tentacle bulged outwards around the toy's ballooning girth, its tender skin paling at the pressure, and goo oozed out from the mouth of the hole.

"Crowley, s-stop! It hurts, Crowley, please!" Aziraphale pleaded. "I-I-I can't! It's too much!"

Crowley paused. He gave Aziraphale plenty of time to use the word. But Aziraphale only said "please" again, and the crack in his voice made Crowley's face flush hot and his scalp tingle furiously. So he squeezed the bulb again, waited, and squeezed it a second time. This provoked a truly preposterous wail from Aziraphale that spread the flush from Crowley's face down to his chest.

"You can't just make noises like that, angel," he hissed, palming his dick in his jeans for a bit of relief. "They give me ideas."

"O-oh? What kind of ideas?" Aziraphale whimpered.

"Like, 'is it finally time for me to stick my prick in you?'"

"Oh, well, if you can find a free hole, have at it" Aziraphale managed. It was rather impressive that he could crack jokes even now, although it wasn't like his voice was exactly steady.

Crowley took a moment to organise his thoughts. For one thing, he had completely forgotten to keep track of which toy had gone into which tentacle, which meant that the recondite way he had yoked together the toys' various remote control apps on his mobile was now mostly useless. For another, he wasn't entirely certain that Aziraphale was wrong about there no longer being any holes not filled with dildos, vibrators, or vibrating dildos.

Crowley covered for his confusion by stalking loudly around the bed. He prodded at a tentacle or two with his finger for good measure. Then, his millennia of experience in forestalling the attentions of superiors breathing down his neck coughed up a—well, it was an idea. He began to declaim:

"Should I fuck it with my tongue
or can I fuck it with my thumb
will I fuck it with my toe
or must I fuck it with—with—with—
shite, can't think of anything that rhymes."

For the first time, Aziraphale made a noise of distress that was identifiably genuine.

"Oh, come on," Crowley jeered. "That's definitely not the worst poem you've ever heard me compose."

"If it isn't," Aziraphale said, "then I've certainly repressed all memory of anything worse."

"'Elbow'!" Crowley exclaimed. "'Elbow' rhymes with 'toe'!"

"But then it doesn't scan," Aziraphale said desperately. "Just stop it, please. I'm begging you."

Crowley identified an available tentacle and, more importantly, he identified a specific toy that he had been looking forward to activating. He said, wickedly, "I love it when you beg. Which is why I have a surprise for you."

He brandished his mobile, thumbed through the baroque contraption of apps, and turned on the first of the toys. It looked like an ordinary enough vibrator with ridges, but instead of vibrating, it had a near-silent thrusting action. A quick miracle gave it the leverage it needed to fuck into the tentacle properly, and Aziraphale began to groan again.

"Ah, ah, ah!" he cried. "Oh, whatever that is I want one. F-fuck, Crowley!"

"You've a birthday coming up, haven't you?" Crowley said, maintaining a casual tone by the skin of his teeth. "Or maybe Father Christmas will bring you one if you're not too naughty. Erm. You know what I mean."

He turned on another vibrator; where this one was, he had no idea until a tentacle on the far side of the bed began to thrash about. The third one was a rotator, and the fourth had a pattern that made it sound like an old-fashioned windshield wiper servo. Shortly, Aziraphale was a writhing mass on the bed and babbling without pause for breath.

"Oh, please, please—Crowley, it's too much—I can't—I can't!" Aziraphale wailed.

"What, after I went to all this effort?" Crowley feigned a pout. "Took a lot of time, this did."

"Turn them down and I'll—I'll—and I'll—" Aziraphale spluttered.

"It doesn't seem like there's anything you can offer me now that I couldn't just take for myself."

"Please!"

Crowley relented, turning the toys down and then off.

"All right, all right," he soothed. "But I did think of something you can do for me in return."

"What's that?" Aziraphale half-whispered.

Crowley picked up the only available tentacle and petted it. "You know those toys that've got a nice soft shapely hole for the user to put their prick into?"

"You mean a f-f-f-fleshlight?"

"Ooh, angel," Crowley crooned. "That's a dirty word for you to know. But yes, that's exactly what I want you to be for me."

"I thought that was the plan to begin with?"

"Obviously. But you know that trick you showed me earlier? With your changing colours? I want you to give me some nice textures to fuck, and I want you to show me exactly what you've come up with."

"W-what kind of textures?"

"Nubbins, maybe. A nice spiral of ridges. Accordion folds. A few constrictions? Use your imagination, angel. I know you've got one."

"Vagina dentata?" Aziraphale suggested trenchantly.

Crowley snorted. "Not if you want your other present, angel," he said. "But hold onto that thought for another day."

It was Aziraphale's turn to snort. Still, he said, "All right, I'll give you your textures."

Crowley worked open the tentacle-tip with his tongue, unzipped his jeans, then slipped his aching prick into it in a few smooth thrusts. As he bottomed out, Aziraphale's markings flickered and shifted into a pattern of dense dots. Against Crowley's prick, the corresponding inner walls of the tentacle formed into hard, rounded knobs, slick with ooze.

"Oh, that's nice," Crowley groaned. He gripped the tentacle loosely and began to fuck it. "Exactly what I was looking for."

Aziraphale produced a sequence of sensations for him, all heralded by shifting patterns on the outer length of his tendril. After the nubbins came the spiral of firm ridges, and then an array of octopus suckers. Aziraphale then produced something very squelchy that he couldn't quite figure out how to indicate visually. He settled on wavy lines, just before he changed it to something else.

Crowley was already well worked up.

"I'm close, angel," he panted.

Aziraphale's tentacle pattern changed to a sequence of horizontal stripes around it. This meant tight, tight rings inside that gripped and dragged on Crowley's prick, and Crowley bucked into it, bracing himself on the side of the bed. The rhythm of his hips stuttered and he came hard, sagging down onto the edge of the mattress and onto his knees.

Aziraphale was panting too. The tendril that Crowley had fucked was dripping with their mingled spend onto the sheets. In fact, most of the tentacles that Crowley could see were dribbling a bit.

"Crowley," Aziraphale sighed, clearly sated. "That was lovely."

"Why, I thought so too," Crowley murmured, dragging himself upright. He realized belatedly that he had entirely forgotten about the music some time ago; but then, so had Aziraphale. "Now, let's get us tidied up."

Eventually, they made it back downstairs.

"Now," Aziraphale said as he installed himself in his customary seat, "I do believe you mentioned a second present."

Crowley rolled his eyes at Aziraphale's sheer predictability, but dutifully went to retrieve it and the snifters from the kitchen. He handed Aziraphale one of the cans to look at while he poured out the rich, almost black liquid.

"'Imperial stout inspired by Mexican hot chocolate, brewed with chocolate, coffee, pasilla peppers, vanilla, cinnamon, and nutmeg,'" Azirapahale read. "Goodness, that sounds astonishing."

They clinked glasses and drank.

Crowley realized something. "Angel," he said, "how the Heaven do you know about vagina dentata?"

Aziraphale shrugged. "It's folklore, Crowley, not some flash modern thing invented by the internet."

Chapter Text

"I know its a bit of a logistical faff, angel, but would you like to come over to my place for a bit?" Crowley asked a couple of days later.

Aziraphale hadn't said anything about it, but Crowley could tell his mood was sagging despite the porters and stouts and despite finally clearing up his book hangover with a headlong leap into a thousand-page tome about the modern history of Africa that practically had a gravitational field of its own. If Crowley were to guess, Aziraphale had to be feeling a bit cooped up. It was one thing to stay in for weeks on end because one couldn't come up with a compelling reason to go out; it was another thing entirely to be stuck there, forced to shut out what little sun there was this time of the year and obliged to eat every meal out of cardboard containers.

Crowley had guessed correctly. Aziraphale perked up immediately at the suggestion. "I'd like that very much," he said. "You won't mind the imposition?"

"Not at all," Crowley said.

Thus, again under cover of darkness and with a few rapid-fire miracles bookending the journey, they turned up in Crowley's once-austere flat. In the last several years, Crowley had taken to living properly in it and, as keen as he was to hop on trendy bandwagons, the whole "sparking joy" bit hadn't really appealed to him. So the place had gone slightly to seed, thanks in no small part to the clutter that Aziraphale managed to import with him each time he visited. Crowley claimed, not untruthfully, that he was leaning into the vice of sloth as this decade's theme. If cleanliness was next to Godliness, then by Someone, he'd be happy to step over heaps of dirty laundry to get to the loo.

"I'll go put the kettle on while you get settled in," Crowley said, heading for the kitchen.

"If you would be so kind, my dear," Aziraphale said. He hung up his shawl on the coat rack in the entrance. "Oh, I was wondering where that jumper had got to. Turns out it was here all along."

By the time Crowley emerged with the tea things, Aziraphale had installed himself in his usual indentation on the huge sectional sofa. The sofa was, as always, doing its best impression of a solid concrete block, but Aziraphale given up complaining about it long enough ago that his customary spot had developed a permanent impression of his ample rear.

Crowley set the tea tray down on the coffee table and, before Aziraphale could reach for it, Crowley stepped in front of him, picked him up by the edges of his round body, and leaned him at an angle against the armrest of the sofa. Apart from a mild "oof," Aziraphale did not protest this treatment; he only pointed a curious green tentacle at Crowley and waited expectantly for an explanation.

"There we go," Crowley said, adjusting Aziraphale's position slightly. "You make a wonderful throw pillow, if a bit big at first glance."

"I wonder if this represents a promotion or a demotion?" Aziraphale mused. "From Principality and Guardian of the Eastern Gate to Item of Interior Decor. I don't match at all, you realize."

Crowley sat down beside him and slung an arm over the back of the sofa. "Yeah, but I read an article a while back," he said. "Said you shouldn't be too matchy-matchy with your interiors or your outfits, otherwise it makes you look like you're trying to substitute money for actual taste or personality. Or that you've hired a lazy decorator who just ordered everything off of a catalog page and left it at that."

"I suppose even high-end consumers are expected to at least pretend to have souls these days," Aziraphale said. He pulled all of his tentacles under his body, thought about it for a second, and then shot out bundles of them in four directions. "There we go. Tassels."

Crowley snorted.

"Oh, what's this?" he cried satirically as Aziraphale got up to make his tea. "The pillow is leaving! My interior decor is sloping off to have a cuppa! That's dereliction of duties, that is. What shocking behaviour!"

"Have you met me?" Aziraphale asked. "If you expected anything other than skiving...!"

They channel-surfed for a while. Recently, Aziraphale had warmed to television: now that there were more and more shows that amounted to fully-serialized novels that happened to be in audio-visual format, he was far less disdainful of the medium than he had been when numbingly-repetitive episodic drivel larded with laugh tracks ruled the airwaves. Still, neither of them were really in the mood to get a good binge-watch on.

"Have you made much progress with our film?" Aziraphale asked.

"Just about done, actually," Crowley said. "All that's left is the less necessary stuff like title cards, French subtitles, and credits."

"Why don't you slip into something a little more comfortable, then?" Aziraphale said. If he'd had eyes at that point, Crowley thought, there would have likely been a salacious twinkle in them.

Crowley hesitated. "Do you mean more comfortable as in lingerie, or more comfortable as in actually comfortable?"

"I leave it to your discretion."

"Bold of you to assume I have any such thing!"

Crowley went to copy the file onto a fresh disk and, while that was running, he changed into a hooded jumper with a zip and a French terry-cloth skirt. It wasn't the sexiest ensemble in the universe, but it did offer easy access.

Aziraphale had turned down the lights by the time the video had finished copying, and Crowley was half-surprised to not find a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. As he wrangled with his blu-ray player, Crowley said, "So, shall I do the commentary, or—"

"Oh, do allow me this time."

"I did think you felt a little pent up not being able to talk during that," Crowley said with a knowing grin. "I'll leave it to you, then."

The video opened to several establishing shots of dense, drifting fog and sinister camera angles of the woods.

As Crowley appeared onscreen, Aziraphale began, as he often did, in a slightly portentous tone: "Behold the innocent waif as he walks through the woods on such a dreadful day. He carries with him a picnic hamper, but today is hardly a day for a picnic." As he spoke, one of his pink tentacles was sliding over the seat cushion towards Crowley's thigh.

"Forgot to look at the forecast, I suppose," Crowley said with a leer. He spread his legs and touched the hem of his skirt in anticipation.

"It looks like he's dressed for the weather at first glance, but, gosh, those long legs are quite bare," Aziraphale continued. He despatched more tendrils to worm their way towards Crowley at a leisurely pace along the backrest of the couch. "Go on for days, those legs do. That must be one short skirt under that coat. Completely unsuitable for the season."

"It could be a pair of neon green booty-shorts."

Aziraphale sighed. "I know you liked them, Crowley, but you've got to move on sooner or later."

"All right, it's a short skirt, probably white. I bet you ten quid it's white. You were saying?"

Aziraphale ignored the bet. "Oh, just that this darling innocent may actually on the prowl for something unsavoury. Hoping that his presence will lure an ungentlemanly someone—or something—out of the woods."

"For a bit of rough fun, you might say?" Crowley's voice hitched slightly as the lower tentacle found his knee, climbed over it, and began heading for his crotch.

"Only the roughest will do for him, I'm sure. Crowley, is this a remote-controlled helicopter shot?"

"They're drones, these days. A touch easier to fly. I'd thought about buying one, but seeing this really settled it. The parcel should arrive sometime tomorrow."

"Shh, it's starting! Looks like our innocent waif—"

"—our six-foot-two innocent waif—"

"—our six-foot-one innocent waif—has been captured by the most ungentlemanly of creatures! Look at him struggle in its clutches, the poor thing—he has bitten off far more than he can chew."

"Has no idea what he's gotten himself into." Crowley's voice squeaked briefly as he felt the feather-light touch of the tentacle in the gap between his labia.

"He's terrified, the darling, but his ravishment has yet to even begin."

"Let go of me!"

Aziraphale snickered. "Has that line ever worked?"

"Never. Especially not with such an unconvincing delivery," Crowley tutted.

"Now the foul creature takes his time unveiling the prize he has caught for himself, and ooh what a prize it is," Aziraphale said. "What a lovely little bosom; and that dress leaves just enough to the imagination. It's going to look so lewd once it's drenched in unspeakable slime and clinging transparently to the soft swell of those precious tits."

"No, not there!"

"I do apologize for mucking up the sequence," Aziraphale said ruefully. "I should have realized the script was a bit ambitious; my fault, really."

"Not at all," Crowley breathed as the tentacles over his shoulder came sliding around his neck all at once. One grasped the zipper pull of his hoodie and began to slide it down one tooth at a time. Crowley turned his head to the side and gave the nearest tentacle a solid lick.

Aziraphale made a pleased noise and continued. "He starts to cry for help, but none will come. And even if it did, would he want to be seen by strangers in this state, to have them watch uselessly as the monster forces him to come on its tentacles over and over again, moaning wantonly despite himself, until he is wholly corrupted by its essence?"

"Well, maybe."

"That's—anyway. The monster chokes him on its appendage, making him retch. Hot tears begin to spill down his pretty freckled cheeks. Now, the monster slathers his shivering body with its ooze, a substance that will make him want his violation, make him need it, make him beg for it, and addict him to the sensation of its eldritch members defiling all of his most private places."

The tip of Aziraphale's tentacle was now squirming at the entrance to Crowley's cunt, distributing its ooze and his slick over itself to ease its way inside. Some of the ones at his neck were not bothering to wait for the zipper to open and had plunged down the front of his jumper, slithering down his breastbone, taking a brief pitstop to tease at his navel, and wriggling under the waistband of his skirt.

"Watch the spark of willpower drain out of those amber eyes and be replaced by glazed docility. Part of him is surely still aware that this is rape, that he doesn't want this. Part of him is surely still petrified and resisting, but mostly he is gone, unraveled, his wits replaced by reckless desperation to be filled in every hole. He gags again, trying to reject the ooze; one last, futile effort to save himself from becoming the creature's depraved slut—you know, Crowley, the word 'slut' used to just mean a woman of untidy personal habits."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Yes, angel; you've only told me this about a thousand times. I was also there, mind you, back when 'slut' meant 'slovenly woman' and was—nn!—spelt with two t's and an e for reasons I can't recall."

Two thin tentacles spread his labia apart, and then the main one between his thighs began to press very, very slowly inside, bringing a warm glow to the banked embers of his lust. There was no urgency to the movement, and that was fine with Crowley. He could warm a cock—or a tentacle—all night long if he wanted to. And he very much wanted to. After all of these overwrought sexual adventures in the last couple of weeks, he thought it would be nice to take it slow again. It certainly made for an interesting counterpoint to the frenzied action on the screen.

"Right, of course," Airaphale said. "Anyway, where was I? Right. You're—he's—being turned into the creature's slut, or slutte if you prefer, an enthralled toy for it to fuck and fill with its foul fluids for the foreseeable future."

"Steady on."

"But alliteration is fun."

Crowley narrowed his eyes at Aziraphale. "How do you know I was objecting to that and not being called a toy?"

The tentacle undoing Crowley's zip then decided to leave the job half done and dove under one side of the jumper to lavish velvety-dry, appreciative touches on one breast and nipple.

"Because, as I recall," Aziraphale said placidly, "it was you who insisted you liked me to call you my fucktoy in dirty talk, my dear boy. I could feel you clench around me the moment I said the word. And just then, too."

Crowley shrugged. "I concede the point," he rasped.

Aziraphale paused the video on an extreme close-up of Crowley's knicker-clad crotch, complete with visible damp spot and coarse coppery curls peeking out from the edges of the lace. Crowley had done his best to keep the 70s from seeping into more than just the background music of the video, but there was only so much he could do. Aziraphale's interference with the playback annoyed Crowley, as there was a reason he had retained the remote control for his own use, but there was little he could do about that either besides get into a pointless back-and-forth of miracles that ran the risk of scrambling the wits of his obscenely spendy audio-visual equipment.

"What, are we just going to stare endlessly at me bits, then?" Crowley said tartly after what felt like several minutes of gazing at an eight-foot-tall, absurdly high-def projection of his pussy. "Feel like you could climb right inside at this size, honestly."

Aziraphale chuckled. "Now that's what I call a kink."

"Don't you go getting any daft ideas about what to transform yourself into next," Crowley warned. "There's a line, and officially it ought to be you drawing it, not me."

Aziraphale chortled again, a whole-body laugh that made his tentacle move in Crowley's cunt, which in turn obliged Crowley to stifle an embarrassing noise.

"I'm retired, Crowley," Aziraphale said, unpausing the video. "I don't have to follow the employee handbook anymore."

"That must be why you've left off abiding by the dress code, then," Crowley said. "Oh wait!"

"I'll do that when I'm good and ready," Aziraphale retorted. "You're one to talk—look, you're going to miss it!"

Crowley had already rewatched this part quite a lot, but that didn't mean he was at all bored of it. The camera had lavished attention on Crowley's thighs as the tentacles forced them apart and then, plagued by indecision, it had switched to a POV shot that would have otherwise only been achieved by implanting a GoPro in Crowley's forehead. These shots were interspersed with more close-ups of tentacles pressing indents into Crowley's arms and legs. The view then returned to Crowley's crotch, just as Aziraphale's tentacles were about to drench it.

"Perhaps until now," Aziraphale resumes narrating, "he might have been able to rationalize away what is about to happen to him. It was terrifying to think of being killed and eaten, sure; but being ravished and defiled and turned into a host or broodparent for its disgusting spawn, in whatever horrifying form they might take, is a less comprehensible prospect."

On the screen, the two pink tentacles dragged their tips over the lace, splurting slime as they went. The material of the knickers became translucent, showing Crowley's slightly parted labia and his swollen clit between them.

The camera pulled back to show all of Crowley, groaning and trembling at the sensation.

"His shivering intensifies," Aziraphale continued. "He can no longer deny it. The creature wants him, not as a crunchy little appetizer, but to slake its grotesque lusts and perhaps to breed him."

The tentacle in Crowley's pussy had been moving at a rate more easily measured in minutes per thrust than the other way around, but Aziraphale also used it for emphasis, pressing firmly inwards whenever he wished to underline a word. Now he did so to underline the words Crowley was saying on the video: "Yes, yes, no, no! Please! Oh fuck, please!" The view switched back to an extreme close-up in electrifying detail of blue tentacles dragging aside the knickers.

"No sooner has he understood his fate but he has accepted it," Aziraphale said smugly. "He begs for it, pleads for it. The creature's ooze plays a part, of course, but part of it is attributable to his own outrageously warped desires."

The video showed the moment the tentacles speared into Crowley's dripping cunt. Aziraphale waited for the moans to quiet down and departed from his documentary tone for a moment. "I know you sometimes keep yourself on a bit of a hair-trigger, dear," he said wryly, "but coming just from me putting them in? Really?"

Crowley snorted. "Do you have any idea how potent your slime was? See how well you keep it together, once I've figured out how to synthesize it myself!"

This was the kind of statement to which Crowley would have responded, "Is that a promise or a threat?" but Aziraphale merely replied, "I'll hold you to that, darling," and moved on.

"It begins to fuck him properly now. It pours its own fluids into his pussy, but that's hardly necessary, for he is already wet if not open, and a few minutes of relentless pounding is enough to make him open as well." As Aziraphale spoke, he thrust his tentacle into Crowley in time to the thrusting on screen, albeit at a calmer pace.

Crowley was torn between watching the screen and watching the writhing tentacle between his knees and vanishing up his skirt. The one he had seen already, while the other was maddening. Apart from the inexorable drag of it inside of him, there were also the nudges and touches it made against his sensitive inner thighs.

Another tentacle—he had lost count of how many there were on and near him—slithered into Crowley's partly-open jumper and latched onto his other nipple. When Crowley looked down at it, he was surprised to see that, unlike the other one, its orifice had opened up like a flower; as he watched, the fleshy petals bloomed around his nipple to engulf the entire mound of his tit. Their lining was squashy and gelatinous and made his whole breast tingle deliciously.

"Angel," he moaned. His head fell back against the seat cushion and he braced himself against it, struggling to keep his hips from rocking up reflexively.

But Aziraphale didn't respond. Instead, he carried on with his commentary. "The tentacles wriggle between his parted thighs, spread his pliant body wide, press against his inner walls like no human prick, finger, or tongue ever could. Will he be ruined for sex with others of his own kind after this, never to be satisfied again by a normal lover's length, girth, or skill? He all but howls when the tendrils withdraw; fortunately for him, however, the monster has plenty left on its to-do list."

"'His to-do list'?" Crowley said dubiously. "Nope. Not even gonna go there. Nuh-uh."

On screen, the tentacles began to fuck Crowley's arse. For a few minutes, the camera focused on his stretched hole as the ruddy appendages pushed into it and twined together inside of him. Then, an overhead shot showed the next tentacle lining itself up to take their place in his pussy. Crowley felt the one inside him now withdrawing almost all the way for a repeat performance and his eyes drifted shut. His orgasm had been at a low simmer since he'd hit "play" and, while there was something to be said for delayed gratification, there was also something to be said for coming now, now, now. Or even just soon, soon, soon.

"Do you want me to...? Or would you rather...?" Aziraphale asked breathlessly.

"Yes, yes," Crowley panted, not really sure what he was agreeing to. He put one hand over the tentacle that was coiled around his left breast and gave the whole thing a squeeze.

Aziraphale resumed his narration, much less put-together than before. "Look at him now. Impossible to see him as anything but the monster's slut. What traits does he have as a person? Occupation: tentacle slut. Hobbies: being fucked in every one of his slutty holes at once. Favorite food: tentacle come. Personality: desperate, pliant, and mindless with arousal."

"'Talents: Taking tentacle,'" Crowley added, then grimaced. "Ugh, you've got me doing it nnn—ah!"

With almost-perfect timing, Aziraphale's tentacle thrust into Crowley's cunt just as it did on the screen. It made Crowley's eyes roll with pleasure, but to both their surprise, it didn't quite push him over the edge. Even the groans and gasps pouring out of the surround sound system—his own debauched noises—were almost but not quite enough.

"Ah, I see," Aziraphale said knowingly, smugly. "You're holding out for the face-fucking, aren't you?"

"Fffuck, maybe," Crowley wheezed.

On the screen, the thick blue tentacle was tearing Crowley's white dress open, exposing his narrow chest. In response, Aziraphale's tentacle-flower pulsated on his right breast, and the other tentacle coiled more tightly, squeezing the soft flesh until it bulged between its coils. Crowley groaned.

"Such a lovely pair of breasts," Aziraphale purred. "The tentacle creature isn't what they would call a 'breast monster.' But these, these are so nice and adorable. I'm glad you kept the recipe."

"I—rather like them—myself," Crowley said.

He felt Aziraphale's attention, thus far divided, abruptly focus on him and him alone. The video paused of its own accord.

"Crowley," Aziraphale murmured, leaning towards him intently, "do you touch them? When you pleasure yourself?"

"Haven't yet, but could!" Crowley said.

"Do let's," Aziraphale said, settling back on the armrest. He uncoiled the tentacle on Crowley's left breast and withdrew it to settle on his shoulder. The one on the right, with its slowly oozing flower petals, he left latched in place, slurping and kneading away. "Watch the film and show me how you get yourself off."

Crowley pulled aside the front of his jumper to expose himself and took a firmer hold of the tentacle between his thighs, nudging the skirt up with his thumb. A pink tendril appeared from over Crowley's shoulder and caught his eye.

"You're not gonna do that thing with the—you know, up my nose, are you?" he said, eyeing it warily.

"Did you want me to?" Aziraphale snickered.

"Let's not and say we did!" Crowley said, managing not to sound hasty or anything.

The pink tentacle disappeared, and Aziraphale raised a green one in its place.

"Oh yeah," Crowley said, pulling his clothes further aside and parting his thighs as far as they would go. "Love it when you stare at me, stare at my body. More of those."

Aziraphale obliged him.

"One of these days," he said, "do you want—would you be willing—to let me stare at you with all my eyes?"

"Oh, fuck yeah, hold that thought for later," Crowley gasped, his own eyes wide. "Can't believe we never thought of that before."

"I did think of it, but—we're getting off track again," Aziraphale said, uncharacteristically focused. He lashed a blue tentacle in the direction of the screen to unpause it.

Crowley began to fuck himself on his tentacle, rocking his hips into it, and rubbed circles around his pebbled nipple.

"So depraved," Aziraphale murmured, "my delectable tentacle slut. I want to see you come on it; watch your face, your twitching belly, your quivering thighs."

"Fuck, yeah," Crowley moaned. The tentacle was twisting and squirming inside of him, and, as he urged it onwards, he felt his orgasm building again. As much for Aziraphale's benefit as his own, he cupped his breast and rolled his nipple under one fingertip.

Past the thicket of looming green tentacles, the screen showed his face, upside down, slick with ooze and tears, and with a wet leaf stuck to his temple. The tentacle probed at his mouth, forced its way up his nose, and thrust past his lips. The moment Crowley saw his own cheek, bulging lewdly outwards, he was done for. His back arched, his hands spasmed, and his head thrashed against the seat cushion as he came.

Aziraphale fucked him through it, slowing to a halt and stilling inside as Crowley's body relaxed again. "Lovely, just lovely," he sighed.

Crowley let out a chestful of air, too. "Did you...?" he asked. Given the volume of fluid involved, he could usually tell; but this time, there was little more than his own sweat between his legs, which he miracled away out of habit.

"Oh, not yet," Aziraphale said, flapping a tentacle dismissively. "I have an idea."

"Ooh, an idea," Crowley said, grinning. "Did you write it on your to-do list?"

Aziraphale sighed again.

Afterwards, they paused the video for an intermission. Out of habit, Crowley swapped out his lower set of front bits for his usual cock and balls. He kept the skirt, though. It was nice to have a bit of ventilation down there from time to time.

This time, Aziraphale did make popcorn.

"You'll be sure to use completely different appendages for eating that than you do for touching my nethers," Crowley said pointedly as Aziraphale returned from the kitchen. "I don't care what the succubi say—butter should never be used as lube."

Aziraphale scoffed, but dutifully set the bowl of popcorn away from Crowley at his end of the sofa.

"Do they really use butter...?" he asked tentatively, several minutes later.

"It's not that they use butter specifically so much as they are willing to use anything," Crowley said, rolling his eyes. "Even if, or perhaps especially if, it does the opposite of lubricate."

"You know, I kind of miss olive oil in that regard," Aziraphale mused. "For all the mess it makes."

"You and your Rome," Crowley sighed. "D'you really like smelling like a salad after?"

"What? No, olive oil, not vinegar. And there are worse things to smell like," Aziraphale said, shrugging his multitude of limbs.

They started up the video again. While editing the thing, Crowley had mostly managed to keep his hands out of his trousers, in part because fussing with the audio was actually pretty boring. Now, playing it out with, well, play involved, he concluded that it would be better recut as several separate storylines, or, if he could figure out how to rig the menus, a choose-your-own-adventure monster-rape experience. The only issue was going to be the lack of visual continuity in one specific regard: his belly got steadily bigger as Aziraphale shot off more and more come into his innards. The camera had (quite rightly so, he thought) paid a lot of attention to his expanding waistline, not to mention the moment when his navel had inverted itself mid-howling orgasm.

He didn't think the video was boring all strung together; simply, it was much more repetitive to watch than it was to partake in. Refractory period or no, there were still limits to how much porn a being could watch before starting to feel a bit icky. Still, this was the first time Aziraphale had seen the video, so Crowley let it play out as-is. Aziraphale, of course, kept pausing it to gawk at the extravagant close-ups. He also kept track, in an increasingly satirical tone, of how many orgasms they'd each had.

"What I want to know is," Crowley said, "why it took you until, what, two hours in? To pick that leaf off my face! It must've been driving you berserk!"

Aziraphale snorted. "I was trying just as hard to stay in character as you were!"

With miraculous timing, the camera panned down to the towel that Aziraphale had laid down to spare Crowley from lying in wet leaf litter. Crowley pointed at it, raising his eyebrows wordlessly, and Aziraphale sighed.

"Yes, yes, you win this one," he groused.

"Not that I didn't appreciate the thought, of course," Crowley said. "Anyway, we're getting on towards the end, so if you want to implement your idea..."

"Actually, I was thinking of doing a sort of epilogue to the film," Aziraphale said. Nevertheless, he wiped his tentacles on a tea towel and sat up straighter, or seemed to at least. "I don't even have a spine right now, yet somehow this sofa still manages to be bloody awful for my posture."

They watched the final scene: Crowley's arse hoisted in the air, his thin chest jerking convulsively each time the sloppy mass of tentacles in his mouth made him choke or retch, and the slow squirming of appendages in and out of his arse and cunt. All of these images conspired to have Crowley growing stiff beneath his skirt.

"Call me vain again, I dare you," he warned preemptively, glancing at Aziraphale again.

"You said it this time, not me," Aziraphale said cheekily. "What was it you were imagining during this part again?"

"Oh, various frightful ways one can get knocked up by a fictional horror. Eggs featured prominently."

"Still working on that, by the way," Aziraphale said. He extended a tentacle towards Crowley and produced a blue object from its orifice, about the size of a ping-pong ball.

"Better," Crowley said, taking it and weighing it in his hand. "Still a bit light. It'll fill me, but it won't, erm, settle very well."

"That's why I'm still working on it. I think I might try eating a very, very large meal first to give myself some extra matter to work with."

"That's a transparent excuse, even by your standards," Crowley teased, passing the attempted egg back to its parent tentacle. "Still think fish eggs would be easier. Mostly made of water, after all."

Aziraphale huffed. "I'm not ruining caviar for myself like that, not even for you, darling."

"You do you," Crowley said, palming the front of his skirt, "but one of these days I'm going to stuff myself up with fish eggs somehow, and it's gonna be sssmoking hot. I promise you I will come in my trousers all day long, and you won't get to have any part in it because of your precious caviar. Won't even let you pet my fat belly."

"Yes, all right, 'you do you,'" Aziraphale echoed, sounding very much like he was questioning his choice in partners, or perhaps existing at all.

Crowley suppressed a grin.

Aziraphale mustered up the composure to resume his narrator voice as the video drew to a close. "Our innocent waif—did we ever get around to naming your character, by the by?"

"'Chastity'?"

"Oh, good lord. No, Crowley," Aziraphale groaned. "Let's just leave it as 'waif,' shall we? Anyway, up on your knees, dear. It's time for you to find out what's going to happen to him after he wakes up."

Bathed in the violet light of the blu-ray player's default screen, Crowley knelt on the seat cushion facing Aziraphale with his feet against the armrest and one hand on the backrest. He started to pull up his skirt, but Aziraphale captured his hand with a tentacle and pushed it away so that it hung at an angle by his side. The tentacle stayed there, squishing rhythmically against his bare arm.

Aziraphale tipped himself back against the armrest and hoisted almost all of his tendrils, which were wriggling with excited energy, into the air. The sofa suddenly seemed not quite big enough to hold them both, and Crowley found his space abruptly filled with squirming things, close enough that he could feel their warmth but not their touch. In constant motion, they cast wavering and broken shadows on each other, which might have been unnerving if it weren't Aziraphale. They eclipsed Aziraphale's body as he arranged them—and as Crowley watched, the blue ones began to entwine themselves like vines around the pink ones, and Crowley realized what Aziraphale was getting at.

"Would you like a hand with that?" he asked. "Or two? I could do four in a pinch." He conjured an extra pair, floating armless in the air, and made them wave cheerily at Aziraphale's green appendages.

"Yes, oh yes," Aziraphale said, resting a pink tendril on each of Crowley's palms. "Such clever hands."

"Always thought handjobs were underrated," Crowley murmured as he closed said hands around the firm, blushing flesh. Aziraphale made a pleased noise, and then an outright groan as Crowley's thumbs began to circle the tips of each tentacle.

"All right," Crowley said, "tell me what our hero's fate is gonna be."

"He'll wake up naked, alone, and sore in the forest," Aziraphale began. "His memory of the event is vague yet terrifying—and shameful, for he realizes how much he enjoyed it. For the moment, however, his fear of what the creature has done to him—impregnated him? parasitised him?—overpowers the shame. He presses his belly to squeeze the fluids out of him, and they do gush out, a fresh, gelatinous horror from between his chafed thighs, slopping out onto the forest floor in thick gouts. And he enjoys that too, for the drug hasn't fully worn off, and he comes twice more at the sensation of the hot liquid sloshing out, crying the entire time."

"It's a good thing the monster didn't put eggs in him," Crowley adds. "Or else he'd have to lay them, wouldn't he?"

"That's right," Aziraphale said. "He wouldn't be able to get rid of them in the forest. He'd have to walk back to civilization with them tumbling together in his womb; they'd press against his internal organs and his diaphragm, making him short of breath. He'd have to hide away until they're ripe and ready to come out in their own time. It would be a renewed violation, having to expel one after another through his tight passage into a gooey pile."

Crowley groaned at the idea of it. "If you manage," he said, "to figure out the eggs, I'll—I don't know, whatever you want, I'll do it. Even that thing with the ginger."

"You know that's not necessary, dear," Aziraphale tutted, then continued. "For a while, he frets about a more conventional form of pregnancy, but months go by and his belly stays mercifully flat."

Crowley didn't have a hand free to rub his own belly, but Aziraphale anticipated his desire and laid tentacle tips on him, curling and uncurling and petting his torso all over. One unzipped his jumper and brushed it open, and Crowley momentarily regretted how chilly his flat was before the warm appendages surrounded him.

"His body, once the chafing and bruising heals, returns to normal. But as time goes on, the memories don't go away. To the contrary, they become clearer and clearer, and it becomes increasingly obvious to him that he wants more."

"More what?" Crowley breathed. Feeling feather-light touches above his knees, he glanced down and saw tendrils, vine-thin, beginning to inch their way up his legs.

"More horror," Aziraphale said. "He seeks out ever stranger sex, but no human, no matter how perverted, can satisfy him now. He returns to the forest several times, but fails to find the monster that corrupted him to begin with. Instead, he encounters an ogre with skin the color of lichen."

"What's the ogre like?"

"He is double your height and outweighs you by considerably more than that. He could pick you up and sling you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes—and not a very large sack, either."

"Go on..." Crowley said, shutting his eyes.

"His threadbare loincloth does nothing to conceal his gigantic prick, which starts to harden as soon as he spots you."

Crowley made a kissy face. "Perfection," he said.

"You've planned for something like this, though, and you just barely manage to fling the contents of a cruet of olive oil"—Crowley huffed—"onto his prick before he picks you up by the waist and shoves you onto it without so much as a hi, hello. It doesn't fit—not even half of it, even though you've customized yourself to fit a lot. Each time he thrusts into you, grunting and slobbering, your body flops around like a rag doll—it feels like your hips could pop out of their joints at any moment. He's splitting you apart and stirring up your insides and you love it, but then he comes inside you, drops you on the ground with his sticky seed dribbling down your legs, and stomps off into the forest."

"Not the most satisfying encounter," Crowley said, although the hitch in his voice suggested he felt otherwise.

"To add insult to injury, you smell like a salad afterwards. So you continue looking, and the next creature you find to slake your unspeakable thirsts, some weeks later, is a vampire."

"Sparkly sort, or...?"

"Ugh, Crowley! You find a conventional sort of vampire, a being that is clearly one of the living dead. The only way he can achieve an erection is if you offer your living blood to him, and so you bare your throat to his fangs. He does manage to fuck you, his gaunt and withered hips hammering between your comparably tender thighs, but your orgasm only comes as you teeter, lightheaded and woozy from the loss of blood, on the edge of unconsciousness. You faint dead away as he comes inside of you and later wake cold, partly drained, and alone. You feel so sore that you realize he has almost certainly taken his pleasure from your body several more times while you were out."

"Gotta use that prick while it lasts," Crowley groaned. Then he opened his eyes. "Hang on, you said some of these are your fantasies, right? Was that—?"

Aziraphale ignored his question, rushing onwards in a slightly too-loud voice and shooting tentacles up Crowley's skirt to distract him. "The next creature you encounter is no creature at all, living or dead!" he said. "It's a robot, a prototype sex robot designed by a mad genius expressly for sex!"

Crowley gasped as the vine-like appendages latched onto and twined around his scrotum and the base of his prick with a little bit too much vigour for comfort. "Steady on," he panted. "Tha's redundant, that is."

"The robot's member is made of what looks like blown glass, although as you peruse the user manual—"

"Do me a favour!"

"—you learn that it is made from an unbreakable new material that is safe for internal use, which you very much intend! When you activate the robot, its member begins to glow with brilliant neon-green light."

"What—what happens if I fiddle with the remote control?" Crowley asked. He tried grinding down on the tentacles, then found rolling his hips to be more effective.

"Erm," Aziraphale said, not having thought of any kind of remote control and also quite distracted at this point by the contents of Crowley's skirt. "The—the light changes color? Oh, and obviously the size and shape can change."

Crowley opened his eyes again and his hips stilled briefly. "What, like one of those LED things that cycles through all the colors? A rainbow glowing robo-willy?"

"Y-yes?" Aziraphale said. "Is that—does that—do you—?"

"That," Crowley said, stroking Aziraphale's appendages intently with all four hands, "is a brilliant idea, and I may have to give myself a multicolor glowing dick someday in the very near future."

"O-oh," Aziraphale said. "Well, all—all right then."

"I mean, it is also very, very silly," Crowley said. "But that doesn't make it any less brilliant. Are you close?"

"Yes," Aziraphale breathed. "Yes, oh yes."

"Right, better get cracking then," Crowley said. "I'm gonna have that rave dick in me, please and thank you—it lubes itself, right? Of course it does."

"I imagine so," Aziraphale said. "It thrusts up into you with mechanical precision, holding you firmly in place as it literally pistons into your body. ...Sorry, what does 'rave' mean in this context?"

"'Splain later," Crowley panted, snapping his hips erratically into the embrace of the writhing tendrils. He glanced down at his skirt, which was alive with the movement of the tangle underneath it. Between that and the fantasies, he was done: he came with a gasp, and just managed to keep his hands from clenching too tightly on Aziraphale's tender appendages.

He sat back on his heels as the tentacles withdrew from under his skirt, leaving him feeling unusually clean and dry even though he hadn't miracled away any of the mess himself. The tentacles in his hands tugged and waggled until they were positioned in front of him, two angled down at his forehead and the others at neck height. They were deeply ruddy and dribbling generously from their tips.

"I want to—I want to," Aziraphale said breathlessly. "Can I...?"

"Make a mess of me?" Crowley filled in. "You know you never have to ask."

He set up a rhythm with his two usual hands and the extras he had conjured, and had Aziraphale moaning incoherently in short order. The tentacles above began to quiver tellingly, and Crowley focused his efforts on them, playing a silent melody with his fingertips against the pliant flesh. They came after just a few minutes of this treatment, shooting thin ribbons of come over the bridge of his nose and cheekbone. He pulled one to his lips and rubbed it over them, drawing out the orgasm as long as it would go.

"Crowley," Aziraphale gasped. "Oh, oh, oh, Crowley!"

Crowley put all four hands onto the two lower tentacles and repeated what he had done until these two opened up as well, spilling onto his bare chest and shoulders. He looked down at himself, splattered with mess, and immediately summoned over a camera to get a few snaps before too much of it could drip off.

"Ugh, Crowley," Aziraphale complained. "Can't I look first?"

"But of course, how thoughtless of me," Crowley said, banishing the camera. He shrugged his jumper down so that it hung around his elbows and thrust out his chest. He struck several poses in quick succession.. "How's that? Filthy enough for you?"

"Perfectly filthy," Aziraphale said admiringly.

"Good," Crowley said. He flopped backwards onto the armrest of the sofa and unfolded his legs from under him into the sprawliest of sprawls. With a wave, the mess was gone but not forgotten. "Now," he said, "about that vampire thing—"

"Oh, for Someone's sake," Aziraphale huffed.

Chapter Text

Crowley slept in the next two days until Aziraphale turfed him out of bed the first day and off the ceiling the second day, for no other reason than on principle. They had nearly the same conversation, two days in a row, in which Crowley reiterated his not-a-morning-demon argument in the key of mostly-asleep mumble and Aziraphale asserted—failing to present adequate evidence, Crowley thought—that three p.m. certainly did not count as an hour of the morning.

Crowley offered to hold off on trying out his new drone until Aziraphale could join him outside, but Aziraphale, unaccountably, was happy to let Crowley enjoy his new toy without him. And so Crowley headed out, artfully tousled and blissfully unaware of the illegality of flying drones over central London. (Had he bothered to do his research, he would have made a proper trip of it: there was no better way to kill a dreary afternoon than the incitement of airport mayhem.)

When Crowley returned in the evening armed with a pair of pumpkin spice lattes, Aziraphale diagnosed him to be "chilled to the bone" and prescribed an hour of snuggling on the sofa to warm him up, to be administered immediately. Snuggling with Aziraphale in his current state meant being engulfed from neck to ankle in a warm tangle of plush spaghetti. He indulged Aziraphale in this without complaint, although he was beginning to suspect that Aziraphale had read some book or other about snakes and assumed that, since Crowley had been a serpent, he needed rather more warming than he technically did.

"So, how was your day?" Crowley asked dryly, once Aziraphale had pried the lid off his latte and gotten settled in, which he made as much of a production of as he ever did.

"You wouldn't have to ask if you hadn't slept through most of it," Aziraphale groused. "You could have even shared my fry-up."

"I'm sure it was delicious, angel," Crowley said.

"I made you a portion, of course, but then I had to eat it myself," Aziraphale said.

Crowley made a face and tutted. "Oh, you had to. Such a hardship, I'm sure."

"Well," Aziraphale mused, "I have been getting better and better at cooking without miracles. So it's not as much of a hardship as it used to be, certainly."

Crowley sipped his latte to avoid having to formulate a response to this statement.

"Anyway, while we're on the topic of eggs, I think, I think, I have finally produced something workable in that regard," Aziraphale continued.

"We were on the topic of eggs...?" Crowley asked, puzzled.

"Yes, of course we were. If you're talking about a fry-up, you're talking about eggs—they're rather intrinsic to the concept," Aziraphale said patiently, as if this should have been self-evident. "Eggs are about as relevant as sausage; that is to say, unquestionably so."

"...I'll take your word for it," Crowley said.

"Anyway, look," Aziraphale said, holding up a pink tentacle where Crowley could see it. A tiny nub appeared on it about a foot below its tip, then slid upwards, growing as it rose until the tip itself bulged thickly and started to flush a bit. The tentacle's orifice bloomed open around the object within it, and Aziraphale grunted softly as it did so.

Crowley liberated an arm with some effort and caught the egg as it freed itself from the parent tentacle. It was hefty and about twice the size of a chicken egg. The sky blue surface of it had a softly bumpy texture. Aziraphale produced a bony protrusion on a blue tentacle and knocked it against the egg, producing a dull thunk: it was either solid or as close enough as makes no difference.

"Well?" Aziraphale said after several moments. "Does it meet with your demanding specifications?"

"Oh, I rather think so," Crowley said, grinning and casually trying to pretend like the weight of the egg in his palm hadn't sent a jolt of heat straight down his spine to pool in his groin.

He pretended in vain. Aziraphale said, shifting his tendrils around Crowley's body and with an obvious, self-satisfied leer, "I've brought the eggs and you've brought the sausage, I see. This is turning out to be a proper fry-up."

"Do let's make puns now," Crowley said tartly, handing back the egg. He tried to wrestle Aziraphale off of him, in the interest of shifting proceedings to the bedroom, but Aziraphale remained stubbornly in place, plastered to his entire body. "I'm not letting you knock me up on the sofa, angel," he huffed.

"I'm not going to 'knock you up' at all, Crowley. The eggs are completely inert," Aziraphale said. "I just need to know more about what you want from this."

"Ooo, is this that 'relationship communication' thing everyone makes such a fuss about? What's there to know? You're going to bend me over my own bed and stuff me like a—a—a thing that gets stuffed—I dunno, you're the foodie," Crowley said, wriggling futilely. Aziraphale wasn't that heavy, or that strong—he had to be tethering himself down somehow. "Wipe my tears while you call me a slutte a few times and paint a masterpiece on my back in your own come; you know, more or less the same stuff we've been doing all month."

"Hmm," Aziraphale said. "Mushrooms. Quail. Peppers. Dates. Shishamo. Turkey. There are recipes for whole stuffed camel, but they're most likely a joke—"

"You're such a donkey, honestly!"

"Seriously, Crowley," Aziraphale said, "Are you sure you just want to do the same thing? Isn't there some way I can make it special for you—and no, don't say everything I do is special for you. It's a very sweet thing to say, but you just have to let me go the extra mile once in a while."

Crowley gurgled hopelessly for a moment, feeling very called out. "Angel, angel, angel," he said finally. "You shape-shifted yourself into a tentacle creature—and got stuck for, what, we're on week three now?—over some utter nonsense I said while hammered. Never mind an extra mile; that's an extra light-year."

"Yes, and while I'm here, I want to make the most of it," Aziraphale said resolutely. "For both of us. I'm enjoying this experience as much as you are, I think, and making you feel good makes me feel good."

Crowley bent his head down so that he could plant a kiss on the mat of tentacles holding his shoulder in place. "All right, you mushy old girl, you've worn me down," he said. "Personally, as a demon of simple tastes, I think just getting filled with your eggs is going to be plenty of an experience in itself—it is, if I'm honest, preposterously weird even by our laughable standards—but—"

"—but?"

Crowley's lips twisted. He could feel his face flushing, a tingling in his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. "I'd like to keep them in me for a day or two, maybe," he muttered. "Waddle around the house, make you sandwiches, let you massage my feet."

"Oh," Aziraphale breathed. "Oh! But really, darling, if you're doing me the honour of hosting my spawn, so to speak, it should be me making you sandwiches, shouldn't it?"

"Can't object to that," Crowley said, shrugging. "No guarantee I'll be able to walk, anyway. You may have to serve me up my sandwiches in bed."

"Nothing would delight me more. It's settled then," Aziraphale said cheerfully. Apparently satisfied, he disentangled himself from Crowley and collected the coffee cups, then headed to the kitchen to dispose of them.

Crowley got up, stretched, and headed for his bedroom, undoing buttons and zips as he went.

The bedroom was warmer than the rest of the flat and equipped with mood lighting for every conceivable mood, including ones that were not necessarily describable in any human language in less than a paragraph. Between this, the small bookcase that Crowley had encouraged Aziraphale to install there, and the obvious reason, it was Aziraphale's favorite place in Crowley's flat. When bored, Aziraphale could spend hours scrolling through the lighting options or, once Crowley had showed him how, creating his own settings.

For all that, Crowley found himself at a loss as he stared at the control app on his mobile. What mood lighting could possibly be appropriate for having your shape-shifted other half cram his artificial eggs up your customized anatomy while you came your brains out? Aziraphale would object if it were too dark, but Crowley rather liked the simulated flickering candlelight. As a compromise, Crowley selected something titled "Mars - AZF" on the assumption that another planet made about as much sense as anything could. It was exactly as dim as Crowley preferred, and if Aziraphale objected, it would be his own blessed fault, for he had signed the thing.

"How'd you come up with this Mars scheme, anyway?" Crowley asked as Aziraphale came bustling into the room. "Ever been?"

"No, I saw a documentary on the telly about it," Aziraphale said. "You?"

"Nah. Well," Crowley mused, peeling off his jeans, "we did need to settle on a destination for our spring trip."

"The candidate list is already two and a half pages long, dear," Aziraphale said in dismay, curling a warm tentacle around Crowley's now-bare waist. "Let's not add anything more, shall we?"

Aziraphale summoned the ottoman from the living room, studied it briefly, and miracled it into something entirely different: a low, padded bench with a tartan cover and indentations for Crowley's knees, spaced well apart. This he placed by the side of the bed.

Crowley stripped off his socks and hurled them into the corner with the rest of his clothing. Then he stood naked, hands on his hips, and said, "All right, how do you want me today?" and, punctuating each question with a miracle to his front bits, he continued, "Bush? No bush? Some bush?"

Aziraphale scoffed. "As if that's the most important consideration!"

Crowley shrugged. He climbed onto the bench and bed and stretched luxuriantly, pressing his chest against the mattress and turning from side to side, then lifted one thigh and glanced back at Aziraphale. "How about that?" He had settled on "some bush" and was sporting both a pussy, already wet, and a prick, already mostly hard.

"Delectable," Aziraphale murmured, sidling up to the bedside and coiling tendrils around Crowley's body and legs.

Crowley basked in the attention in the guise of continuing his stretching regime, which would not have made sense to anyone with ordinarily dysfunctional muscles and joints. Appendages curled around him, largely at random, and it didn't seem like Aziraphale was in a restraining mood tonight, for no sooner had they tightened around an arm or a wrist than they released and headed elsewhere. Crowley felt most of Aziraphale's weight settle on the bed next to his hip. He glanced back and was briefly captivated by the sight of a thick, dripping pink tentacle hanging in an arc in mid-air above his arse, with a round welt growing several feet from its end.

Crowley shivered with anticipation. "Ready when you are," he said, turning back around.

"No, you aren't," Aziraphale said slyly. "Not yet."

"Love it when you say stuff like that," Crowley sighed.

Aziraphale scoffed again. "Really. Usually when I ask for patience from you, you just start whinging," he said.

"'Cuz I'm a pest," Crowley sniffed, as if this should have been plainly obvious. "And you love me for it, right?" He let out a yelp as Aziraphale, in lieu of responding, gave him a solid spank with a flattened tentacle. "I'll take that as a yes," Crowley said, sticking out his tongue and arching an eyebrow. He reached across the bed, grabbed a pillow, and slung it behind him without looking, catching Aziraphale a glancing blow across his carapace.

"Careful, darling, or this is going to turn into a different kind of evening altogether," Aziraphale warned.

"All right, all right," Crowley conceded, putting up a hand in surrender. Unable to resist, however, he added, "Unless you're talking about sssmothering me with a pillow while you roger me, because that's always—"

"No, Crowley," Aziraphale said. "Or at least, not tonight."

"Put that on your to-do list," Crowley said, settling back down.

Moments later, he felt a wet, flattened tentacle catch on the head of his dangling prick before licking up it towards the base, so wide and flexible that it reached almost all the way around the circumference. It paused at the root briefly, then slid between Crowley's truncated labia, dipping gently into his hole. It repeated the action, once, twice, three times, wetter and deeper each time. Another tentacle prodded softly at the tip of Crowley's prick and, as the first one swirled languidly at his entrance, the second inched upwards to engulf Crowley's prick in its ciliated innards.

Crowley relaxed into it, letting his hips roll autonomically. He grabbed another pillow and hugged it under his head. His eyes drifted mostly shut, twin slits of amber beneath his fluttering eyelashes. Aziraphale was murmuring something, too quiet for Crowley to understand despite how close they were. Each time the tentacle slid in deeper, the volume of his voice rose, but still not loud enough for Crowley to make out any words—and it was also possible that he was just muttering nonsense, which he did sometimes. When they had finally gotten properly together, in the heady first days following the failed Armageddon, Crowley had played a prank on him by pretending that he thought the term "sweet nothings" meant literal nonsense syllables in a falsetto voice. Ever since, they had kept it going as a joke between them.

A fuzzy tingle began in Crowley's pussy and bloomed steadily throughout his hips and lower torso. He felt his muscles relaxing involuntarily, growing weaker and slacker with each stroke of the slime-slick appendage inside of him. On the one hand, he wasn't sure that he would be able to move anything below his solar plexus if he wanted to. On the other hand, he couldn't conceive of wanting to.

"There we go," Aziraphale said after some time, just barely audible.

"Yesss," Crowley said. Before he could think to lift his head from the pillow, he felt a new tentacle slip inside of him, not yet thickened, and he decided that just feeling would be entirely sufficient. He nestled his head deeper into the pillow.

"I'm going to open your—the inner part of you," Aziraphale said. "Do tell me if you need more numbing."

"Oh, fuck," Crowley groaned. "Do it, do it, do it. Please."

The tentacle inside nudged gently at the slick nub deep within Crowley, then suctioned onto it with vigour enough to make Crowley gasp. At this point, the necessity of the relaxing tentacle goo became clear, for Crowley knew he would have tensed up without it whether he wanted to or not. The inside of the tentacle produced a pinprick of chill against his inner orifice, which rapidly became a needle-thin spear of sensation just this side of painful. The brief cramp that ensued, not to mention the memory of the smooth bone corkscrew that Aziraphale had produced for opening wine bottles, made sweat break out on Crowley's forehead, his brows knit, and his jaw drop in a silent shriek. But the pain was gone almost immediately, replaced by an insistent pressure, lodging open the entrance to his womb.

The arm of the tentacle began to squirm again immediately. It formed a pulsating knot under its skin that started outside of Crowley's pussy and pressed inwards until it reached the hard little spear, which slid deeper each time the knot arrived at it, shriveled down, and started again. It reminded Crowley of a worm, and the association—being penetrated, impregnated, bred by a giant worm—only added to the oddness of the thrill. With each stroke, the knot grew larger, stretching him wider so that he would be ready to receive the eggs.

"Please, angel," Crowley panted. "I can take it—you know I can—these bodies are just toys for us—you know I can take it! Breed me, angel, please!"

Aziraphale moaned and shuddered all over. "Oh, Crowley, oh," he said helplessly. "You're ready—I know you're ready—the first one is coming."

The tentacle knot pushed past Crowley's entrance for the last time, squirmed up his passage, and shrank when it arrived at the bone spear. This time, however, the bone spear itself began to expand, smoothly but inexorably opening the mouth of Crowley's womb. A shudder rolled up Crowley's tailbone and into his spine, cresting in a wave of ferocious tingling over his scalp, face, neck, and chest. He wailed and clawed at the sheets and pillow, then wailed again as the soft part of the tentacle squeezed through that last bottleneck and bottomed out inside the pliable pocket of tissue within him.

He realized, midway through, that he was coming and that Aziraphale's other tentacle was greedily slurping up his spend and that Aziraphale was coming as well, groaning and leaning against his side.

He hardly had time to think about it before he could feel a hard round mass pressing insistently against his entrance.

"Ah, ah, ah," he cried raggedly. He buried his face in the pillow, then flung his arms around both face and pillow. It was all so much, so much. Even the dim Mars sunset lighting seemed too bluish-bright.

"You can do it," Aziraphale muttered, sounding scattered. "You can do this. I can do this. It's going in, oh, it's, oh, so lewd—"

The egg pressed into Crowley's slippery cunt, slowly but smoothly. His entire body jerked convulsively as the widest part of it slipped through his entrance. In advance of its passage, the tentacle slotted into Crowley's inner orifice swelled wider, producing a low, simmering burn that pervaded his hips and gut. Abruptly, he was far less confident that his custom anatomy would function as intended.

"Fffuck," he whined into his shoulder. "I can't, I can't, I can't, it won't."

"It will," Aziraphale whispered, petting Crowley's body all over. "You can! Let me—let me help—" His voice was harsh with effort, but the feeling behind it was anything but.

Crowley felt a cool gushing release inside of him as Aziraphale exuded some new deliciously soothing formulation of ooze. "Yeah, yeah," Crowley babbled. "Thassit, thassit. Oh, please, oh."

"Ready now?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley couldn't make his mouth form the word, so he simply nodded furiously.

The appendage inside him oozed, squidged, and pulsated warmly, and soon enough the burning clench gave way to throbbing waves of pleasure. His inner entrance yielded to the rounded end of the egg and bloomed open around it. Crowley's body spasmed again as the egg crowned and then plopped inwards, pushed by the tighter ring of muscle.

Barely down from his first orgasm, Crowley came again, wheezing through clenched teeth into his pillow. He could feel the egg settling and then he couldn't feel it at all, just the heat, wet, and fullness of the now-deflated tentacle still threaded up his cunt.

"Are you all right, dear?" Aziraphale asked, petting him with feather-light touches.

Crowley swallowed a mouthful of spit. "Yeah," he said finally. "'M good. Was good. Am good. Very good." He unwound his arms from his pillow, propped himself up on one elbow, and reached down to touch his belly. He was briefly surprised to find it as flat as ever. "Fuck me, it felt like a bloody grown goose going in," he said. In fact, it had been closer to the size of a goose egg. He was thin, but there was still more than enough room in him to fit a single goose egg without outward evidence.

He pressed on his belly until he could feel, just barely, the solid weight of the egg behind his pubic bone.

"The rest should go in easier," Aziraphale said reassuringly.

"The rest," Crowley hissed. "And then I'll be pregnant with your ssspawn, angel." He flopped back down on the bed, wriggling with pleasure and anticipation.

"Stuffed to the gills," Aziraphale agreed, his voice thick with arousal. "Well. I do hope I'll be able to produce enough."

Crowley grinned. "Good luck," he said. "We're all counting on you."

Aziraphale gave him another firm spank, which had the happy secondary effect of jerking Crowley's body a good inch off of the tentacle in his cunt. He let out a startled half-moan, bracing his forearms on the slippery sheets, and then a wholehearted one as Aziraphale restored the appendage to its original position, perhaps with a little more vigour than was strictly warranted.

"I suppose that means you're ready to continue," Aziraphale said dryly.

"Yeah," Crowley groaned. He could feel the knot forming at his entrance again, a firm promise of pleasure to come. "Oh yeah."

The knot began to plunge into Crowley's wet cunt again, setting his nerves alight with its rippling pulsations. The next egg came quickly—Crowley didn't look back, but he guessed it had to have been well on its way by the time Aziraphale had asked him if he was ready. Just as Aziraphale had said, its passage was easier than the first, and all the more pleasurable for it. Crowley's body cramped up again briefly as the second egg jostled the first inwards and forced its pointier end to prod awkwardly against the inside of his abdomen. Then, however, his "cervix" contracted shut over the new object, allowing both eggs to settle, and the flicker of pain faded to a barely-there tightness in the pit of his gut.

"Angel," he moaned, "do you have any idea—what it feels like—to be filled—like this?"

"No," Aziraphale rasped. "No, I can barely even imagine it."

"Mmm," Crowley said. "One of these days I'll be sure to remedy that."

"Ooo," Aziraphale said, punctuating each word with a suctioning tug on Crowley's prick. "Are you going to put that on your to-do list?"

Crowley didn't have the chance to respond before Aziraphale, with blatant intent, shoved the next egg into his sloppy cunt. Between the tentacle ooze and Crowley's own natural lubrication, the egg made an extravagant squelching sound as it slurped past his labia and thrust apart the fluttering walls of his pussy. His thoughts scattered before its passage, and as Aziraphale firmly eased it through the inner ring of muscle, Crowley gave up thinking altogether.

For whatever reason, Aziraphale either couldn't or didn't want to get a steady rhythm going, and so Crowley rapidly lost count of how many eggs the tentacle deposited in his womb. The anatomy he had created for this game was elastic but snug; periodically, the eggs jostled themselves into a new arrangement, rattling and clacking together in his belly and creating a sensation that made Crowley's hair stand on end each time it occurred.

His stomach began to swell downwards against the mattress, subtly at first and then more obviously as the clutch grew and grew. Crowley kept one hand on it, stroking it slowly as it expanded. Soon enough, Crowley found himself panting shallowly as the mass began to intrude upon what, in his largely jury-rigged body, passed for a diaphragm. By then, he was thrusting back weakly against each squirm of the tentacle, eager for each new egg to spread and fill him but not quite able to get his muscles to coöperate.

"You take my spawn so beautifully," Aziraphale murmured. "My very own tentacle slutte, broodparent to my horrid squelchy offspring."

"Give me all of them," Crowley groaned. "Every last silly little pastel angel egg."

Aziraphale hummed at this. "There's something a bit mixed up about all of this, you know," he said.

Crowley buried his face in the crook of his elbow and gasped through the insertion of another egg. "Oh, certainly," he wheezed. "If you want to go digging through biology textbooks and come up with something a bit more internally consistent, oh, be my guest. But at this point, 'squelchy' alone—nng!—is really doing it for me."

"How fortunate I am that my lover is so easy to please," Aziraphale said blandly.

Crowley laughed, which made Aziraphale laugh, which dislodged the clutch somehow and set Crowley to whimpering instead as he fought to keep them from spurting out of his womb. A hot gush of fluid coated his inner thighs, but he managed to clench down in just the right way to retain the eggs.

"I need—let me—help me," he babbled, flailing his arm in the air.

"Do you need to turn over, my dear?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley nodded fervently. Then he found himself enveloped in tentacles, which curled around his limbs and cradled his belly. Ever-so-gently, they eased him over in such a way that he barely felt his weight shift.

"Oh fuckkgghh," he gurgled as they settled him on his back. "Keep going."

Aziraphale swiftly put him onto his side, bent his legs so that they rested fully on the bed, and began to massage him soothingly. "Better?"

"Yeah," Crowley said, squirming into the touch. "Pressure off my poor spine."

"Surprised you've even got one, at this point," Aziraphale said.

Crowley flapped a hand vaguely. "Useful shorthand," he said. "Body with a spine is kinda paint-by-numbers for the rest, you know?"

"I can't say I do," said Aziraphale, who had never really gotten into the habit of altering the settings of his corporation to that extent. "Are you getting tired? How many more do you think you can take?"

"How many more do you have?"

"Oh, I'm making them as I go," Aziraphale said. "Each egg is charcuterie-fed, cage-free, and offered freshly laid in a carbon-neutral biointensive permaculture environment for your delectation."

Crowley tried not to laugh again. "I'm getting mixed messages here," he said. "Is this an exotic fetish or one of those twee farm-to-fork things?"

Aziraphale only hesitated for a moment before saying, "Well, I suppose that depends on just how far you're willing to take this."

Crowley couldn't stop the laughter this time, but with his thighs together in his new position, sandwiching the radiantly warm tendril, he didn't have to worry about escapees—just the extraordinary sensations of his abdomen contracting around the clutch.

"Oh, Someone," he moaned helplessly. "It'll be your blessed fault if I get the hiccups, you carbon-neutral pillock."

"Oh no, you're not going to pull that silly 'this is your fault' act when you lay these, are you?" Aziraphale said disapprovingly. "That is such a dreadful cliché."

"But it is—it really is—well, all right, it is kind of more my fault than yours," Crowley admitted. "If only because I pestered you a bit."

"'A bit,'" Aziraphale echoed. "'Kind of.'"

Crowley snickered. "Anyhow," he said, lazily stretching his arms out in front of him, "I will take however many more eggs you can comfortably produce, or, should I feel like I am running out of room—or running out of stretch—before then, I will let you know."

Aziraphale resettled the bulk of his appendages near where Crowley's knees rested. He reached out a few tendrils to caress Crowley's body, face, and hair. "It is oddly lovely to have you like this," he said tenderly. "I'm so deep inside, like I've touched all the very most intimate parts of you."

Crowley heaved a contented but very, very short sigh—there was precious little room in him for air at this point—and settled his head on his bent elbow. "Not quite all of them," he said enigmatically. "But do carry on. If you're at a loss as to what to do next, I highly recommend holding up my leg and stuffing me on my side."

"One of your favorite positions," Aziraphale said with delight, hopping off the bed again to rearrange himself between Crowley's thighs. "And one of mine, for that matter."

Aziraphale seized Crowley's knee and pushed it upwards. Crowley shuddered as the cooler air came into contact again with his slime-slathered inner thighs. When his hip joint reached the extent of its comfortable range of motion, Crowley grunted softly, and Aziraphale stopped there instantly and held him, supporting knee, calf, and ankle with blue tentacles. Instead of getting up onto the bed again, however, Aziraphale stayed where he was at.

Crowley glanced to where Aziraphale's eyes would be if he were in humanoid form and found only hovering green tentacles, intent on his displayed crotch.

"You haven't got some kind of idea, have you?" he asked breathlessly. His thigh was pressing against his belly, which was crowding his chest, and he was, very willingly and to sublime effect, allowing the reduced oxygen to go straight to his head.

"No," Aziraphale murmured softly. "Just enjoying the view."

Crowley moaned shamelessly and thrust his hips onto the tentacle. "Is it filthy? Wanton? Pornographic? Your swollen tentacle impaling my insatiably ssslutty pussy. My belly bulging with your brood. My spread thighs and arse sssplattered with your come."

"My dear," Aziraphale said, sounding increasingly frayed at the edges, "You are the lewdest, most bawdy and salacious, positively obscene, utterly magnificent slutte that any self-respecting tentacle creature could ever hope to ravish and impregnate."

Crowley pressed his hands to his heated cheeks, so turned on again—or still—that he could barely contain it. His half-soft prick, still engulfed in the slick embrace of a tentacle, rallied improbably. "Fuck, angel, fuck," he whimpered. "Finish me. Please."

Aziraphale groaned and all but lunged up onto the bed and between Crowley's spread legs. Tentacles engulfed Crowley below the waist, clenching furiously at his open thighs and sliding between his buttocks. Aziraphale began to ride Crowley's thigh, his mass of limbs in constant, frenetic motion over the entire tender surface of his skin. The tentacle knot began to fuck into Crowley's pussy at a frenzied rate, rocking his whole body like a ragdoll with each thrust.

The next egg arrived and was followed almost immediately by two more in quick succession. Crowley gasped shallowly through one insertion after another—each one caused the whole clutch to tumble into a new arrangement inside him. As if from a distance, he could hear the ragged and guttural sounds coming from his own throat.

"O-oh," Aziraphale moaned. "S-so sorry, I don't—I don't think I can do—more than a few more."

"It's fine," Crowley said, flopping his head weakly on his pillow. He couldn't even force his eyes open at this point. "Enough. It's enough. You—it's good. So good."

Aziraphale let out a harsh and inarticulate noise of his own. He pushed another egg into Crowley's womb, slumped heavily between his thighs, and then shoved in the last two almost at the same time before collapsing altogether. Crowley's orgasm crashed over him as his aching anatomy contracted jerkily shut over the last egg; his eyes rolled back in his head, his hands clawed spasmodically at the sheets, and he slumped forward just about as far as his distended belly allowed, cheek mashed against the mattress.

Sluggishly, he became aware of two things: one, that he was drooling into a puddle on his own bed, and two, that Aziraphale was repeating his name, softly but with intent, and petting his head. Aziraphale was flopped down between his thighs, just about as flat as he could get and with tendrils askew in every direction.

"What?" Crowley croaked. "I'm alive. I'm awake. Kind of. Fuck, that was... fuck."

"Shall I—well, shall I...?" Aziraphale said hesitantly. "Shall I, erm, fertilize them for you? Before you go to sleep?"

"What d'you mean?"

Aziraphale picked himself up off the mattress and gathered his splayed tendrils beneath him. One of his tentacles, thinned considerably compared to its normal bulk, was still lodged in Crowley's cunt, still laced through his inner orifice. Crowley thought he wouldn't have been able to feel it if not for the fact that he was so very chafed and sensitive down there. The whole complex of anatomy twinged intermittently and the clutch of eggs was pressing down inexorably on his pelvic floor. It was a sensation Crowley had never experienced before, never even imagined. Short of a minor miracle, he was going to be very tender tomorrow.

"I should have said something before," Aziraphale said sheepishly, "but I've been collecting your, ah, emissions rather than miracling them away. The eggs are inert, of course, but...."

Crowley considered this for a moment, then grinned sleepily. He was just about spent, but not so spent that he couldn't enjoy this one last thing. "What a brilliant idea," he said, pleased. "Otherwise it'd just be your disgusting spawn and not our disgusting spawn, right?"

Aziraphale huffed. He sounded just about as tired as Crowley felt, and his appendages looked downright withered. "Not sure that's how it works, biologically speaking," he said. "But anyway, I know you're exhausted—I'm shattered, for that matter—"

Crowley waved a hand vaguely. "Go for it," he rasped. "Inseminate me."

He looked down the bed towards his weary tentacle-angel, no longer able to see much between his thighs. Aziraphale freed the pink tentacle from the others and made sure Crowley had a view of the modest bolus moving up its length towards Crowley's cunt.

"That's your seed, my darling," Aziraphale murmured. "Are you ready for it?"

"Yeah," Crowley sighed. "'M ready for it."

The thin tendril was threading its way around inside Crowley, nudging through gaps between the eggs until it touched part of him deep inside. He gasped. There was no chance of another climax, but the residual reverberations of pleasure were enough.

The lump in the tentacle pressed into Crowley's entrance, squirted through the aching inner orifice, and, as Aziraphale shivered and sighed, Crowley felt the hot spurting against his inner wall where it would seep down around the eggs.

Crowley shivered too. "So good, angel," he slurred as Aziraphale gently extracted his tentacle. "Can't even begin to tell you." Then Aziraphale yawned, which made him yawn.

After that, he struggled to stay awake as Aziraphale helped him move to the other side of the bed, arranged him comfortably under the duvet, miracled away the mess, and brought him a glass of water. Listening to Aziraphale gulp down his own water, Crowley could only sip his.

Aziraphale left the room to get more water, and by the time he came back, full bucket clasped in his appendages, Crowley was out like a light.

Chapter Text

Crowley woke several times during the night to change position, awkwardly getting up onto his hands and knees to switch sides or liberating a limb that he had pinned beneath himself and caused to go numb and tingly. Each time, he was dimly aware of Aziraphale's presence, sometimes reading, sometimes moving quietly in the room or the flat beyond, but mostly sleeping. At first light, when Crowley woke and fell back asleep for the last time, he found his wrists and ankles entwined loosely in the ends of Aziraphale's soft, warm limbs, which twitched intermittently as Aziraphale dreamt the night away.

When Crowley woke for the day, it was next to a recently vacated warm spot on the bed. He immediately crawled into it even though it was not significantly warmer than his own spot.

He could hear Aziraphale in the kitchen running the coffee mill and, as he lazed about under the duvet, he caught a whiff of fresh coffee. On the assumption that his angel would bring him some sooner or later, however, he resisted the temptation to get up and follow his nose.

Sooner or later turned out to be later; so much later that, when flopping about under the duvet palled, Crowley got up to have a gander at what Aziraphale had done to his figure. He felt huge sitting on the edge of the bed with his belly practically in his lap, but a few cautious steps proved that he could walk without issue, and as he stood naked in front of the mirror, he decided that, all things considered, his egg bump was rather tasteful in size and shape. Especially compared to some of the pictures he'd seen on the internet during the course of his research. He miracled himself a generously-cut nightshirt in black with red piping, which was startled to find itself turning grey just seconds later. "Slimming" was not the effect Crowley wanted to aim for on this occasion.

Just when he was about to give up and go out to the kitchen to get his own coffee, Aziraphale finally arrived with a tray in his tendrils, held atop his flattened carapace.

"Oh good, you're up," Aziraphale said. "How are you feeling this morning? A little eggs-hausted, I imagine?"

"Oh, no," Crowley said. Then, in a very different tone of voice, he said, "Oh, no. Please don't tell me you're going to be lobbing egg puns at me all day."

"I also have a fine array of bird puns, if you'd prefer," Aziraphale said cheerfully. "And snake puns, though I can't imagine there's a single one you haven't heard a thousand times. I suppose I could come up with a platypus pun if pressed." He lifted the tray at Crowley, not at all apologetically.

Crowley made a long-suffering face, took the steaming cup of coffee from the tray, and sat himself down heavily on the side of the bed. "This is unfair of you," he said plaintively. "Did I throw octopus or squid puns at you? Did I though?"

Aziraphale shrugged. "You are feeling quite all right, then? Not too sore?" he said.

"I am," Crowley pronounced, "exactly as sore as I wish to be. I did unmake my effort, though. Didn't want to spring a leak in the night."

"Ah," Aziraphale said. He paused, then continued somewhat shyly, which Crowley thought was rather rich considering the month they'd been having, "If you, erm, need anything replenished."

"What, are you offering to pump more slime up my pussy if my belly starts to deflate?" Crowley teased. "Why not fill my arse while you're at it? Pour it down my throat until my stomach overflows?"

"Crowley, please!" Aziraphale fluttered. "There's no need to be so crude this early in the day. The purpose of the fluid is so the eggs don't grind together, for your own comfort!"

"Oh, it's comfortable all right," Crowley said. "In the same way that a Hitachi Magic Wand 'massager' is comfortable. I may very well take you up on that offer later."

"Right, anyway," Aziraphale grumbled. "In the mean time, can I interest you in a spot of brunch?"

Crowley set his mug aside and held out a hand for Aziraphale to help him up. He wasn't ready for Aziraphale to more or less engulf him fully in tentacles and carry him effortlessly upright into a standing position but with no weight whatsoever on his feet.

"Bloody heaven, angel, you saw me walking just fine on my own, didn't you?" he said, startled.

"I want to pamper you," Aziraphale said quietly. "You rarely let me. I hope you will today."

Crowley sighed, and whether it was a soppy romantic sigh or an exasperated sigh he himself could not quite decide. "All right," he said. "If you want to carry me like your bride, occasionally, I'll allow it. Until you run me poor head into a door frame—which I know you will, you've done it before, don't even try to deny it. I can and will walk on my own, please and thank you. But otherwise"—again, he sighed—"pamper away."

"I shall," Aziraphale said, pleased. He let Crowley's feet settle on the floor, but did not otherwise back away. Crowley returned the hug (it was probably a hug) as best as he could given Aziraphale's current height and how difficult it was for him to bend over.

Aziraphale led him by the hand to the breakfast nook, a space that only ever bothered or dared to exist when Aziraphale was in residence, where there was already a spread of what, to Crowley's eye, looked like a remarkably restrained continental breakfast. There were a lot of items to choose from, certainly, but no more than one or two of each. Crowley refrained from commenting on the telling presence of crumbs on several of the serving dishes.

"I didn't know if you'd be up or if you'd want anything if you did wake up, so I may have erred on the side of too little," Aziraphale said. "So do let me know if you'd like more."

"It looks lovely, angel," Crowley said. He allowed Aziraphale to pull out a chair for him, consented to having a fresh cup of coffee poured for him, and drew the line at Aziraphale arranging a napkin on his lap. "Unless it's a transparent excuse for you to touch my belly, that is," he said, plucking the napkin from Aziraphale's tentacles and tossing it onto the table. "In that case, you may touch to your heart's content, without any need for flimsy excuses."

Aziraphale snorted. "I should have known you'd be like this," he said. "If you eggs-pect me to pet your belly, just ask. You're not as subtle as you think you are."

Crowley winced, then shrugged unapologetically. "I am a demon," he said. "Subtlety is, despite my relentless and embarrassingly earnest lobbying to the personnel department over the centuries, not in the job description." There was a brief pause. Then Crowley rolled his eyes and said, "Yes, yes, all right. Please pet my belly, you notorious pest."

Aziraphale practically beamed. He was upon Crowley in an instant, cooing and stroking the egg bump with more tentacles than Crowley could keep track of. It was all very warm and gentle, and Crowley found himself longing for something a bit rougher, something that would set the eggs to tumbling around inside of him. But, he decided, it was too early for Aziraphale for that kind of thing. So he ate his breakfast in peace, and tried not to think too hard about how Aziraphale had managed to acquire croissants.

After breakfast, Aziraphale installed Crowley on the chaise longue with a cold compress for his lower back and another cup of coffee in easy reach. Then, he proceeded to page through an instruction manual and, to Crowley's vocal annoyance, meticulously follow its instructions in setting up a massage table, by tentacle, without the help of a single miracle.

"Oh, stop whinging," Aziraphale said. "You're supposed to be resting and recovering, not backseat driving."

"I wouldn't have to if you did things properly," Crowley said. "What are you going to do if you pinch a tentacle in a hinge?"

"This is the proper way to do this," Aziraphale retorted, flapping the booklet at him. "And you let me worry about my own tentacles, thank you very much."

Crowley rolled his eyes. Then, he watched in growing amusement as Aziraphale investigated the most distinctive feature of the massage table: three cushions, flush with the tabletop, that lifted out to accommodate a pregnant belly and one breast apiece.

"Will you be needing just the one removed?" Aziraphale asked.

"Oh, no, two please," Crowley said, stifling a grin.

"All right—wait, which two then?" Aziraphale said. He turned to look at Crowley properly. "Oh, good lord."

Crowley had given himself one breast, generous and round, on the left side of his chest, and altered his nightshirt to suit it. "What?" he said. "It's not like you complain when I have multiple options downstairs, now is it? Would you rather it be on the right?" Without waiting for an answer, he pressed his hand to the tender flesh and shrank it down, then used his other hand to pinch and tug his other nipple out while an equally plush mound filled beneath it. The sensation sent a jolt of heat to his featureless groin, and for a moment he was glad he had sealed himself up down there.

"Isn't it a bit unbalanced, though?" Aziraphale said. "At least the downstairs options are usually stacked one on top of the other."

Crowley glanced down at his chest and reluctantly concluded that there was not enough room at the moment to do vertically aligned tits, as entertaining as that would have been. Ultimately, he decided to give himself the usual two breasts, in the usual configuration: not out of any petty aesthetic considerations, but because they simply felt good, full and firm and rubbing against his nightshirt each time he moved.

It didn't last for very long before Aziraphale had him out of the nightshirt and face down on the table, his face, belly, and breasts slotted into their respective, well, slots. Aziraphale gave good massages in humanoid form, and, with so many limbs at his disposal, even given how difficult it was to control them all at once, Aziraphale gave excellent massages in squat upright land jellyfish form. His tentacles weren't quite as robust as his humanoid arms were, but he could create his own secretions rather than having to use plain old oil.

"Thth 'ncre'ble," Crowley said, just half an hour in and already turned mostly to humanoid mush. "You're saving samples of these exudations of yours, right? So we can work out how to recreate them."

"I suppose I could," Aziraphale said after a moment or so. "Often enough it's just lidocaine or some cannabinoid or other, honestly. Nothing too exotic."

"Mmm," Crowley said. "Missed your calling as a chemist."

Crowley half expected the session to go places that no respectable spa would ever permit a massage to go, but it didn't, if only because Crowley simply fell asleep on the table.

Crowley woke some time later cocooned in fabric and feeling pleasantly mauled. Aziraphale promptly unwrapped him, however; for the next item on his spa day agenda was a bubble bath, complete with a delightfully thorough soaping of Crowley's breasts and belly. After that came lunch, followed by a bracing and healthy (as Aziraphale described it) or possibly frigid and grey (as Crowley described it) stroll in the rooftop garden, empty of other punters by a minor miracle—or possibly thanks to the weather.

For this activity, Aziraphale insisted on re-swaddling Crowley in warm clothes, which included a tartan dressing gown, felt slippers, and a bobble hat. Crowley couldn't do anything about the bobble hat, but he did manage to distract Aziraphale long enough to bully the dressing gown into having a pattern of stars and moons instead, only to earn a sniffy "you could have just asked" for his trouble. Once they got back inside, Aziraphale proceeded to slather him from head to toe in hair and skin treatments, propped him up in a chair for a simultaneous manicure and pedicure, and, while his nails dried, fed him cheese, crackers, olives, and cured meats.

Crowley went to bed feeling like a brand-new demon. Aziraphale had gone so far as to change the linens on the bed at some point, perhaps while he had been napping, which meant that he could abolish his leg hair and enjoy the delicious slide of smooth skin on fresh sheet. It was a perfect ending to a luxurious day, and he dropped off imagining what delights tomorrow would bring.

Such imaginings, apparently, prompted his corporation to make an effort—a double effort, even, with one of each of the two most common options—of its own accord, and when Crowley woke the next morning, having slept the night through without waking once, he was half-hard already and there was a considerable damp spot in his nightshirt and on the bed. He got up on his hands and knees and turned onto his side facing the edge of the bed.

Aziraphale, who had been reading a book in his usual chair, noticed that he was awake and circled around the bed.

"Oh, dear," Crowley said with a leer, skipping the pleasantries and peeling back the duvet, "seems like I've sssprung a leak in the night."

"Oh, dear," Aziraphale echoed, equally salaciously. "Looks like you've made quite a mess of yourself. What shall I do with you, you sloppy creature?"

Crowley wriggled in place, lifting one leg and bracing his foot on the bed in such a way that made his hem ride up on his wiry thighs. He couldn't see around his egg bump, but he could tell his prick was tenting the soft fabric, although it was already so damp that a little precome probably wasn't going to show. "Something terribly obscene, I hope," he said. "You could even make me sloppier, I suppose."

"Filthy, shameless slutte," Aziraphale said affectionately. He slithered up onto the bed, engulfing Crowley's lower leg in tendrils, and began to insinuate himself under Crowley's nightshirt. "I don't know how I'll ever be able to satisfy you after I've turned back."

"Might have to enlist—some other beings—just to ssservice me," Crowley gasped. Tendrils were winding their way up his body, tracing the dramatic topography of his distended abdomen, arched back, and swollen breasts. He could see their movements by the fluttering of the fabric of his nightshirt. "I'll let you watch, of course," he added impertinently.

"'Let me,' really," Aziraphale sniffed. Then, he said, "Ah, but I do so enjoy watching. And I'll be wanting their sloppy seconds, naturally."

"Sevenths," Crowley corrected. "The sloppiest of sevenths."

Aziraphale pushed two tentacles out of the neck of Crowley's nightshirt and waved them lazily in front of the demon's face before letting them bloom open like lilies, albeit lilies with thick, fleshy petals glistening with ooze. At the same time, a similarly shaped tentacle was investigating the head of Crowley's prick, while a rounded one was nosing at his already-slippery labia. Crowley let his head rest on his bent arm and sighed. His eyes drifted shut.

"Love to wake up to this," he murmured. "Could almost convince myself to get up at eleven if you promised me this on a regular basis. Ten, even."

"Excuse me, 'almost'!" Aziraphale retorted. "With all the trouble I've taken! Dream on, you silly demon."

Crowley's hips jerked involuntarily as a tentacle sheathed his prick in gelatinous heat.

"Oh shit," he moaned. "Close. Angel, I'm already—"

"Turn off your refractory period," Aziraphale rasped. "I'm going inseminate you again."

Crowley came as if on command, spurting into the tendril's thick embrace.

"Fuck, fuck," he babbled. "You can't just say things like that."

"Can and will," Aziraphale said unapologetically as he collected every drop of Crowley's spend. "Now, let's see, where was I? Oh, yes."

Aziraphale didn't give Crowley a moment to recover from his orgasm before following through on the promises he had made at the entrance to Crowley's pussy. The tentacle thrust in, and Crowley was so wet and open already that it simply slipped in without the least resistance.

Aziraphale made a surprised noise as he bottomed out. "Oh, you are easy," he breathed. "So debauched, so wanton."

"All for you," Crowley groaned. Then, he clarified, "All for you, your clones, or the beings of your choosing. Especially if they're disguised as you. Or me."

Aziraphale paused. "What, like some kind of orgy of us?"

With effort, Crowley stilled his hips momentarily. "I—that is—I have, honestly, no idea how," he said. "But I'm game if you are."

Aziraphale moaned. His tentacle moved faster inside Crowley, losing its rhythm for a moment. "Gosh, what an erotic idea. A Crowley in the front and a Crowley in the back. Or you could take me from both ends at once."

Crowley's face, neck, and chest burned hot at the mental images. Still, he managed to say, "Don't say 'gosh' while you're inside me! Fucksake, angel!"

Aziraphale ignored his complaint. "Speaking of ideas," he said, "have you hatched any regarding your, erm, delivery?"

Crowley could not answer, nor even grimace at the pun, because he was shuddering through his second orgasm, spilling into one tentacle's orifice while his orifice clenched around another. He panted against the mattress.

This time, Aziraphale waited for him to catch his breath.

Crowley swallowed. "Well," he began, "I was thinking—I was thinking you could take control."

"Of your corporation?"

"Yeah," Crowley said. "Instead of just me squeezing them out, you could make my body have the, what are they called—?"

"Contractions?" Aziraphale supplied. "Yes, I could do that. It's been a while, though; I would want to ease you into it."

"Excellent idea," Crowley said. He was warming to the task now. "You've attended more births than I have, so you'd know. Anyway, I want you to, ah, choose the timing."

"Surprise you?"

"Yeah, but either today or tomorrow, not any longer than that. I'm spending more and more miracles keeping my back from being sore"—Aziraphale miracled him a cold compress—"thank you, but either way, today or tomorrow."

"All right," Aziraphale agreed. "What else?"

"Afterwards, I'll be all loose and slippery," Crowley said. "And I know you didn't like the idea before, but I really do think we can do it differently than the pictures, so I don't want to pester you about it—"

Aziraphale petted him gently, encouraging him to go on.

Crowley swallowed again. "I want you to stick your tentacle all the way through me," he said. "In one end and out the other."

"Crowley," Aziraphale said.

"If you're worried about harming me," Crowley soldiered on, "I promise you I will very, very carefully make it so that you can't hurt me at all, not even the way I usually like being hurt. Just to be absolutely sure. Anyway, you're not even bipedal at the moment, so I dunno what exactly your problem is worrying about my blessed anatomy." He fell silent, concerned that he had started to sound defensive.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said again, this time in a much more promising tone of voice. "You don't need to convince me. You're right. It is silly of me to worry about your anatomy when you have so much experience controlling it, and I do trust you absolutely."

Crowley looked at where Aziraphale's eyes would have been if he'd had any. "You'll do it?" he asked, mouth dry.

"I'll do it," Aziraphale said.

"Fuck yeah," Crowley said. "Knew you had it in you. Well done, Aziraphale."

"I haven't done it yet, Crowley," Aziraphale said, amused. "Save your congratulations for when I actually accomplish the act, won't you?"

Crowley chortled. "Good luck," he said. "We're all counting on you."

"If you start applauding me, I'll pull out this instant and let you take care of yourself, you cheeky beggar," Aziraphale said tartly, giving the tentacle in Crowley's cunt a vigorous twist.

"Wasn't going to," Crowley gasped, which was technically true: he had intended to do jazz hands instead. "Honest."

"I definitely believe you," Aziraphale said. "Anyway, we can talk more on that later."

Aziraphale had loosened his grip on Crowley's body while letting him regain his equilibrium, but now his tendrils twined more tightly around Crowley's lean limbs, rearranging him slightly on the bed. Crowley grunted in pleasure as Aziraphale lifted his thigh and slithered closer to his crotch.

Aziraphale hummed. "I've been neglecting this beautiful belly of yours, haven't I?" he said. "What a shameful lapse on my part."

Crowley gasped again as two of Aziraphale's tentacles, each finger-thick, coiled all the way around the protrusion of his abdomen and curled into a double spiral tracing its contours. "Not really, no," he said, thinking of the memorably scrupulous soaping he'd received yesterday. He bent an arm over his reddened face and mumbled into it, "I won't complain if you want to give it more attention, however." Then, as the eggs inside of him tumbled into a new arrangement, he emitted something that was definitely not an embarrassing squeak.

"Oh," Aziraphale sighed. "Does it feel good?" He dug a tentacle into Crowley's side just above his hip and pressed it gently up until Crowley yelped again. "Silly of me to ask; you're making such lovely noises."

"Yeah," Crowley moaned. "Feels ssstrange. But good."

The tentacles began to ripple against his skin, slowly at first and then more firmly, setting up a rhythmic kneading motion. The even pressure on the outside of him made the small, round objects dig into the tautly-stretched inside of him. Then, just as Crowley was getting used to it, the two tentacles sticking out of the neck of his nightshirt stirred again. They withdrew under the shirt, leaving glistening trails of slime on the bed, Crowley's sleeve, and his neck and collarbone. He watched in fascination from under his arm as they writhed beneath the fabric, brushing up against his swollen breasts and the top of his belly.

He shuddered as they latched onto his sensitive nipples one after the other.

"You missed your calling as a sculptor, darling," Aziraphale said appreciatively. "These are as marvelous as your last set."

"You know," Crowley said slowly, "they could do more than just look and feel good." Out of curiosity, he reached down the neck of his shirt and grabbed at one of the tentacles, well below where it opened up, and gave it a light tug. It remained attached, quivering spiritedly in his grasp, then took his breast all the way down into its hot, gooey mouth.

"Milk?" Aziraphale asked, sounding somewhat breathless, even greedy at the idea. "What kind of milk are you thinking?"

Crowley shrugged, a little overwhelmed himself. "Doesn't have to be milk. Or," he said slyly, "doesn't have to be only milk. Go on, have a sip, then."

Aziraphale's tendril sucked tentatively, as if sampling a new dish he had been told was very spicy or otherwise an acquired taste. "Oh, good Lord, Crowley, really? Pumpkin spice latte?"

Crowley gasped and moaned. The liquid flowing through his breast was almost but not quite hot enough to be uncomfortable. "Ugh—don't stop—feels so good," he whimpered, eyes rolling with the sheer pleasure.

"Strange," Aziraphale said, "but good." He latched the other tentacle onto Crowley's other tit and slurped on that one too until Crowley was squirming and scrabbling at the sheets.

Aziraphale asked, "Could you—"

Crowley interrupted him with a loud groan as he shuddered through an orgasm, clenching down on the twitching tentacle inside his cunt and spurting again into the tentacle on his prick.

"—come just from this?" Aziraphale faltered. "I suppose that's my answer."

Crowley caught his breath again and chortled. "The answer is always 'yes,' angel," he said. "Always, always, always. But angel, you haven't come yet at all, have you? Not gonna lie, it's really hard for me to tell usually."

"No," Aziraphale rasped. "I think I will now. Time for your injection, dear."

"Oh fuck," Crowley whimpered, not at all sorry he had mentioned it. He could feel the tentacle inside of him squirming and swelling. It worked him open using generous amounts of hot-cold slime that played merry havoc with the network of nerves in his soft pussy, increasing its sensitivity to minute movements and changes in pressure even as it numbed him to most, but not all, of the pain that the penetration of his inner orifice would bring.

The tendrils around Crowley's belly loosened and fell away, tangling around his thighs instead and dragging his body down the bed and against the bulk of Aziraphale's tentacles, then continued to tug, pulling Crowley down hard on the tendril inside him so that its stiffening end pushed against his "cervix." He gasped, then whimpered as a sharp pinprick of sensation heralded the appearance of the thin, smooth bone spear.

"Fuck, oh fuck," he babbled as it pressed inexorably inwards. There was a momentary gush of fluids out of his womb before the tentacle bulked up behind the spear and plugged it.

"Are you ready for it?" Aziraphale murmured. "Greedy creature, of course you are. Greedy, delightful, stuffed to the gills with my eggs. You'll lay them for me, won't you? I'll get to watch them slide out of your slutty pussy one at a time."

Crowley nodded furiously in response to the question, then moaned shamelessly in response to the rest of it. "Then you'll get to touch—all the most intimate bits of me—all of them."

Aziraphale thrust into him, once, twice, and then Crowley felt the hot gush of ooze pouring thickly into his womb and stretching the supple tissue. The eggs rearranged themselves, albeit with much less friction.

"Say when," Aziraphale groaned.

Crowley's jaw dropped in shock. "What?" he shrieked. "When, when!"

Crowley thrashed on the bed, driven half out of his head by a combination of arousal and outrage. To his credit, Aziraphale cut off the flow of goo the moment Crowley shouted his first "when," but Crowley still groaned at how full he was; Aziraphale had gotten a good several litres too much into him. He could barely look at his belly, which had expanded so much that it had pushed his nightshirt up to his chest; he could barely move anything other than his limbs. The eggs were more or less bobbing in a sea of ooze, and Crowley could feel them all bumping together now like tapioca pearls in the bottom of a drink.

"Aziraphale!" Crowley exclaimed. "I didn't mean 'blow me up like a balloon' literally!"

"Oh, didn't you?" Aziraphale said in an utterly false tone. "My apologies. Allow me to let off some of the pressure for you."

He did so, siphoning off slime directly from Crowley's glutted womb, and Crowley shrieked again at the sensation of the stuff flooding out of him. His belly visibly deflated, freckled skin crinkling slightly, and he tugged the nightshirt back down over himself, shivering at the chilled air on his skin.

"Is that better, dear?" Aziraphale said indulgently.

Crowley spluttered. He reached up, seized a pillow, and slung it at the being between his legs. "You're such a donkey, honestly!" he said. "Why I let you knock me up, I've no idea."

"Well, I am quite attractive in most forms," Aziraphale said. He retrieved the pillow and placed it out of Crowley's reach. "And clever, I might add."

"So modest, too!"

"Precisely! I am a paragon of merit and virtue. You should feel bles—delighted to have the opportunity to carry my brood!"

Crowley snorted. "Quit faffing about and seed me already," he said. "You should have eaten breakfast before you started this, you numpty. Don't think I can't hear your stomach grumbling from here."

Aziraphale huffed, but it was true: in this form, he apparently had a stomach, not only when eating but by default, and said stomach was growling away.

"Right, anyway," Aziraphale said. He unwound himself from Crowley's thighs and rose up from the bed. "Can you get on your knees?"—Crowley nodded—"Up you go, then."

Crowley struggled onto his knees and, cheekily, levered himself upright by shoving downward on Aziraphale's round dome and squashing the tentacle-angel unceremoniously into the mattress.

"Rude," Aziraphale sniffed.

Crowley only winked down at him, though he wasn't entirely certain Aziraphale was looking at his face. "Still a demon, you know," he said unapologetically.

Thus provoked, Aziraphale wasted no time in thrusting his tentacle deeper into Crowley, jostling the eggs mercilessly and prodding at the wall of Crowley's womb with enough force that Crowley grunted open-mouthed with each touch. He snatched up the hem of his nightshirt again and hoisted it up; as he had expected, he could see on his taut belly where the tendril was poking at him from the inside. The sight proved to be such an intense combination of weird and arousing that he had to look away.

"Fuck, angel," he gasped. "Look at what you're doing to me."

"I see it," Aziraphale breathed. "Does it—does it feel good?"

Crowley put his hand on the moving surface of his stomach and groaned, then grabbed a pair of stray tentacles and pressed them against himself so that Aziraphale could feel it too. "Do you even have to ask at this point...?"

"I do like to hear you say it."

"Then yesss, it feels unimaginably good."

Aziraphale let out a shaky moan and flopped backwards on the bed. Crowley saw the lashing tentacle that joined his body to the angel's and the little knots sliding up its length. Then they disappeared under his huge belly, and the next he knew of them they were squirting through his inner orifice one at a time and ending as hot little pulses painting his insides. Compared to being blown up like a balloon unexpectedly, it was a subtle sensation, but pleasurable nevertheless.

Crowley sighed and sank down on his knees.

"That," Crowley declared, "was very good wake-up sex."

"Was it egg-cellent?" Aziraphale asked. "Did it egg-ceed your egg-spectations?"

Crowley hid his face in his hands and collapsed slowly onto the bed in mock-despair. "Get out. Get out of my pussy, get out of my bed, get out of my day. Get out and go eat your breakfast, you hopeless muppet," he moaned.

Aziraphale snickered: he snickered as he withdrew his tendrils from Crowley's body and he was still snickering as he shuffled out the bedroom door heading for the kitchen.

"Just remember," he called out behind him, "I'll be choosing the timing of your delivery, today or tomorrow."

"Yes, but until then, take your unspeakable puns and go away!"