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Old Black Magic

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Hesitantly, Aziraphale pushed open the door to the club. He didn’t want to be there. Yet another assignment from Heaven Aziraphale would have preferred to hand off to Crowley if they were speaking at all.

They’d at least spoken occasionally after their fight over the holy water in the park, but ever since Aziraphale handed over the thermos, there had been radio silence. Perhaps Crowley was busy. But it had been nearly ten years and Aziraphale kept hoping Crowley would reach out.

He never did.

The Barrett Club was a bit of a seedy place, known for strip shows and underhanded deals. But that wasn't what Aziraphale was here for.

According to the lower levels of the heavenly surveillance department, there was a witch operating out of this pub. He peddled artifacts and spells that were harming humans. Aziraphale was supposed to put a stop to it.

He sidled his way through the mostly empty bar, his feet sticking to the floor. Everything smelled of vodka and sweat and ordering a double gin and tonic did little to alleviate his distaste for the place.

Supposedly, the witch set up shop on Friday nights. It was early yet for Soho so Aziraphale would just have to wait.

Steadily more and more clientele trickled in, the room filling with the press of human emotion and Aziraphale tried to keep an eye out for his target. He was no good at this subterfuge business. He’d learned that lesson with the nazis.

An hour or so had passed when the witch finally appeared. A handsome fellow with a well-groomed moustache who took up post at a corner table as the evening’s show began.

Humans came and went from his table as men and women took to the stage, scantily clad and dancing for tips. Smoke curled into the ceiling, creating a haze of cinder and lust that Aziraphale could taste. This wasn’t his scene. He wished he could have traded an assignment with Crowley. The demon would have been right at home.

Aziraphale took a large sip of his gin and tonic and tried to push away the thought just as a flash of red hair caught his eye when another performer began to take the stage.

Speak of the devil.

The wry thought slipped away as Crowley stepped out into the light.

He had cut his hair short since Aziraphale had last seen him, cropped closer to his head, but that wasn’t the most shocking thing. Though perhaps Aziraphale shouldn’t have been surprised by his outfit when he was performing at a strip club.

In variations of black silk and leather, Crowley was dressed like something out of a dirty mag. Thigh-high fishnets held up by suspenders that connected to a lacy belt slung low on his hips. His corset laced in the front and showed off a splash of chest hair that drew Aziraphale’s gaze.

Even from this distance Aziraphale could see the line of his--well. His knickers left very little to the imagination.

Crowley caught his eye before Aziraphale had the presence of mind to look away. And then the demon was hopping off the performance platform, moving through the growing crowd and coming to a stop right beside Aziraphale.

“What’ll you have, Tony?” the bartender asked.

Tony? Aziraphale thought wildly.

“The usual,” Crowley said before he turned to Aziraphale and Aziraphale froze entirely.

“What have we here? An angel? In a strip club?” Crowley said, pretending to be shocked as he raised his eyebrows and rolled his tongue between his teeth.

Aziraphale spluttered and said, “Yes, I - I’m here on assignment. What are you doing here?”

Crowley accepted a glass from the bartender and took a long drink, rolling the liquid in his mouth for a moment before saying, “I’m here for a witch.”

“That’s what I’m here for!” Aziraphale cried, immediately realizing he was being too loud when Crowley glared at him.

“He works for the owner. I’ve been trying to get close to him but no dice. Bit of a prickly fellow.”

“And the outfit?” Aziraphale said, giving him another once-over out of the corner of his eye.

“Didn’t you hear? People are friendly with dancers,” Crowley said through bared teeth. His glasses shone in the muzzy red overhead light and Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat. "Free with information if they think I’ll fuck them."

Aziraphale's stomach contorted with something like jealousy, dark and sickly.

Crowley glanced at him and then took a very nonchalant sip of his vodka soda. "Not that I am fucking them. I generally operate with a look-don't-touch policy."

The sticky tar-like feeling receded and Aziraphale was left with pathetic want. Crowley all on display like this was a sight to behold. Stark collarbones above a leather bodice, garter belt punctuating his v-lines. Aziraphale had long accepted his desire for Crowley but right then it was painfully acute.

"Perhaps we could," Aziraphale began, licking his lips and trying not to be too obvious about his appreciation for Crowley's appearance. "Work together on this one. If we're both trying to get rid of the witch."

Crowley hummed and drained his drink. "Been a while since we worked together. I thought you weren't interested."

"It’ll be like old times,” Aziraphale said, trying to keep his tone light. He didn’t want Crowley to leave again.

"Well, what do you propose then?"

Aziraphale saw the way Crowley was fighting down a genuine smile. It made all of Aziraphale’s feelings come rushing back. He’d done so well ignoring them. But with Crowley here, Crowley smiling, Aziraphale was weak.

Before Aziraphale could offer up any ideas, there was a sharp crackling in the air that Aziraphale recognized as human magic. Before he could do anything to stop it, Crowley was collapsing in front of him. He hit the sticky floor with a dull thud and without thinking, Aziraphale emitted a burst of power that had every human in the club scurrying for the exit. He dropped to his knees beside Crowley.

“Oh no, oh lord,” Aziraphale said as he tried to lift Crowley into a standing position. He was dead weight, eyes rolling behind his lids as he sucked in heaving breaths.

A man--the witch--approached, making a show of sucking his teeth and looking at them with idle consideration.

"Did you think I wouldn't notice two occult beings in my club?" he said, cocking his head like Aziraphale and Crowley were an interesting science experiment. "I heard you plotting."

“What did you do?” Aziraphale demanded. He ran his hands over Crowley’s body, looking for outward signs of injury. He could find none and scantily clad as he was, Aziraphale was certain he’d be able to see any.

“I used a spell I had on hand,” the man said with a shrug. “Typical stuff for a strip club. Makes a human desperate to fuck but your demon boyfriend seems to be having an adverse reaction. Strange that lust magic doesn’t play nice with demonic essence. It's a bit ironic. Downright interesting actually.”

“Interesting?” Aziraphale replied, more of a yell than anything. Crowley had gone limp again, the heaving of his chest the only sign of life in his corporation. “You’re going to fix this. Immediately.”

“Don’t think I will. But you can,” the man said easily. He passed his hand in front of him and looked at his palm as if reading it. “Looks like you’ve got an hour before the spell burns him out of existence. Exciting stuff.”

“How can I stop it?” Aziraphale asked, blood running cold as his mind pieced together the most likely answer.

“Fuck it out of him,” the man said with a grin. He popped a cigarette in his mouth. “I’d stick around for the show but it's not exactly to my taste.”

With that, he disappeared.

Aziraphale looked down at Crowley and for the first time saw what was happening to his corporation, the blush that had spread over his chest above the piping of his corset. The strain of his cock through his silk pants.

He was aroused. At least his body was.

Aziraphale shook his shoulders. “Crowley, please.”

Crowley just moaned and rolled his hips up into nothing.

Aziraphale looked around, wishing they weren’t in this awful club and that this wasn’t happening at all.

With shaking hands, he reached out and unclipped the suspenders holding up Crowley’s fishnets. Crowley’s legs moved under his fingers, pressing up into his touch. It stirred something in Aziraphale he thought best ignored.

Aziraphale pushed up Crowley’s belt and tugged down his drawers. The friction of the lace against his cock must have felt good because Crowley’s hips jumped and he moaned.

And then Crowley's cock was free, long and leaking and painfully red.

Aziraphale's mouth watered at the sight and he felt like a monster of the worst order. He shouldn’t be lusting after Crowley like this. Clinical. He had to be clinical about it. A quick orgasm and Crowley would be fine.

He took Crowley into his hand, trying not to think about all the times he had fantasized about exactly this. Except those fantasies held no sticky floors. Crowley had been awake, not moaning in pain. He’d been enthusiastically participating. He’d been kissing Aziraphale.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut, working his hand over Crowley’s cock and hoping for it to be over. He felt so good in his hand, velvety and hot, and Aziraphale's prick hardened involuntarily.

When Aziraphale finally opened his eyes, Crowley was arching his back, crying out, hands scrabbling against the filthy floors. He was gorgeous and Aziraphale couldn't look away. He watched as Crowley came in thick pulses over his fist, come smearing over his corset and half removed knickers.

Crowley shuddered and gasped, "Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale yanked back his hand, miracled it clean.

"Whats happening?" Crowley groaned as he tried to sit up. "I feel like I swallowed coals or something."

He put a fist to his sternum and groaned. "Hurts."

It was then that Aziraphale noticed he was still hard, his filthy cock still upright, still an angry red.

Fuck it out of him.

Dread rose in Aziraphale's throat. "The witch."

Crowley curled in on himself, growing pale as he tried to tug off his corset. His hands were shaking as he ground out, “I can’t...breathe.”

Fuck it out of him.

"The witch knew we were here. He cast a spell on you. A-a lust spell."

"Doesn' lust...spell," Crowley grated out, still struggling with his laces.

Aziraphale couldn't watch any more. He pushed Crowley onto his back and wrapped his hand around his slick cock, stroking him again. Crowley gasped in pleasure and relief before jerking away, shoving Aziraphale off him.

"What the fuck?" he demanded but some of the color was back in his cheeks.

Aziraphale pushed through the burning embarrassment, the shame and the terror. “The witch said you’d die if you didn’t...find relief.”

“No,” Crowley said, shoulders shaking, chest heaving. “I'm a demon. Can’t die.”

Even as he said it, he grew pale and then he swore, more a gasp of air than an actual word.

"You don't have to," Crowley said, his hand creeping down as he began to touch himself, clearly not realizing what he was doing.

"It's not a hardship," Aziraphale said. Crowley was a vision like this and Aziraphale wanted. Bugger it all. Aziraphale wanted.

He managed to miracle a blanket but that was it, maneuvering Crowley back onto it as he began to stroke him again. Crowley rolled his hips up into his hand and moaned.

Crowley ripped at his buttons but Aziraphale pushed them away. He was taking care of Crowley. He wasn't about to sate his own lust, take advantage of Crowley. He would get Crowley off and then this would be over and they could--they could pretend it had never happened

Mark it down as an accident. An aberration.

He let Crowley tear ineffectually at his clothes as he wrapped his hand back around Crowley's cock, stroking it firmly. Would another orgasm end this?

But then Crowley came with another full body spasm, a sharp inhalation. His hands fell to his sides as he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Is it over?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley was a mess; one of his hose had ripped, a gaping hole in the netting. His lace knickers were torn, hanging from one thigh. Aziraphale wanted to reach out to mend, to soothe. He couldn’t.

Crowley groaned and shook his head. “Still hurts.”

When Aziraphale moved to touch him again, to bring him relief, Crowley grasped at his arms. “Please. You too. I can’t just - it’s...please.”

Aziraphale hesitated. It felt selfish. Unconscionable. He would be taking advantage.

And yet Crowley was tugging off his waistcoat, undoing his braces, trying to undo his zip. In the face of that, Aziraphale’s resolve crumbled. He’d do anything for Crowley. He’d proven that in 1967, a tartan thermos in hand.

Aziraphale put his hands on Crowley’s laces and undid them, slipping the ribbons through the eyelets so the corset fell to either side of Crowley’s chest. Without it, Aziraphale could see every rib, the concave of his stomach. He wanted to kiss that pale expanse of skin, nose the smattering of ginger chest hair, map the freckles he could see scattered over his torso.

It was useless. He couldn’t. If he did that, he’d never stop. And Crowley had been right all those years ago, asking for insurance. There was no protection from this. From being in love with a demon. If Heaven found out...

Crowley’s hand was in his trousers and he was touching Aziraphale. The first being in existence to touch him like this and Aziraphale wished it was perfect, wished it was sweet nothings and soft pillows. Not this horrid vodka-soaked floor, ruby red lighting, the scent of smoke.

“Inside me,” Crowley gasped, eyes wild. “Please. I need…”

Aziraphale pulled away from Crowley’s seeking hands and pressed his legs apart, obeying him in this. This was about Crowley. It had to be.

He slipped his hand under Crowley, slicking him open with a miracle as he pressed his fingers inside him. He settled back on his haunches and tugged Crowley back onto his knees to angle his hips up.

He watched the way Crowley’s body accepted his fingers greedily, the way Crowley moaned and fucked down against his hand. Aziraphale felt powerful and it stoked the lust he was trying so hard to control.

When he finally laid Crowley back on the blanket and sank into him, legs pushed back so he could get deep enough, Crowley was just staring at him, mouth open, reverent. It was too much. He knew what Crowley wanted. He’d known for a long time. He wanted it too.

He rocked his hips and Crowley rolled up to meet him. “Kiss me,” Crowley gasped, sinking his fingers into Aziraphale’s forearms where they were wrapped around his thighs, supporting him.

Aziraphale shook his head. “I - I can’t.”

He refused to look at Crowley as he said it. If Aziraphale kissed him, he wouldn’t be able to hold back. He’d fall into him, kiss him and kiss him until this awful place disappeared. Kiss him and whisper how he loved him, how he wanted him. So he forced himself to look away, to stare at the place their bodies connected as he tried his best to bring Crowley to orgasm. It was all he could do. Perhaps the witch had meant exactly this. Fuck it out of him. Fuck him and this will be over.

Aziraphale’s heart twisted just as his own pleasure began to coil tight, grief and arousal tugging through him. He came sharply, painfully.

Slipping out, he dropped Crowley’s legs and fisted his cock for hopefully the final time. It happened quickly, weakly, Crowley’s body practically drained.

Aziraphale wiped his hand on the blanket and tried not to feel ashamed.

He failed.

Crowley sat up as his breathing evened out. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Aziraphale wanted to wipe it away, to gather him close and kiss the top of his head.

Silly and impossible.

“Better?” Aziraphale asked, voice false bright, as if his cock wasn’t hanging out of his drawers, as if his heart wasn’t breaking.

Crowley wouldn’t look at him. He hunched over his knees and snapped his fingers, suddenly clad in a black t-shirt and trousers. Black glasses materialized on his face.

Aziraphale rushed to put himself together and rise to his feet.

Crowley followed suit. He finally looked at him. “Right as rain,” he said bitterly. “I suppose I have a witch to find.”

And then he disappeared.

Aziraphale looked down at the blanket where they had--

He wondered how many years it would be until he saw Crowley again.