Chapter Text
It wasn’t the first time they had kissed - far from it. In fact, the semi-regular locking of lips had progressed from an accidental and inelegant press of mouths while they were already several bottles in, to - well, to whatever they were doing at that moment.
Crowley wasn’t entirely certain what they were doing, but he was pretty sure he liked it.
If, in fact, anyone had ever bothered to ask Crowley about his first kiss with Aziraphale, they might well have received one of a possible two unlikely tales. This did, of course, depend entirely on who was actually doing the asking and why. The first, and more widely telegraphed story, would be that he had never so much as touched the angel. They were most decidedly enemies on opposite sides of the heaven-hell war, and that he didn’t so much as like the pretentious git. At all. In fact, they hadn’t even met.
That would, of course, have been a lie.
The other, and entirely less likely story to ever be vocalised - unless one happened to be an entirely neutral party who also happened to have the foresight provide two or three bottles of a decent quality scotch to loosen Crowley’s tongue before posing the question - involved rather more demonic corruption of one of God’s messengers. Which isn’t to say that his impassioned recount of pinning Aziraphale against the eastern gate of the Garden of Eden and kissing the goodness out of him entirely was any more truthful than the alternative, but it did serve to illustrate just how long he had been utterly gone for the angel.
Aziraphale, of course, recalled their first kiss rather differently. His version - and he did only have the one, being an Angel of the Lord and therefore morally against the telling of falsehoods in almost all forms. At least, in theory - involved rather less denial, absolutely no pinning-to-walls whatsoever, and a backing track of no fewer than sixteen different types of birdsong. What Aziraphale couldn’t possibly realise, however, was that his version was also entirely false - yes, they had traded a fumbling, inexperienced kiss at the bandstand at four in the morning at the height of summer. And yes, he had flushed in a pleased sort of embarrassment when Crowley’s face lit up brighter than Blackpool Illuminations as he realised, after a scant handful of moments, what Aziraphale had just done - but that hadn’t been their first.
It hadn’t even been their second, but the memory of lips and teeth and tongue are too easily forgotten to the haze of alcohol and centuries when there is no real pressing need to recall them. Not when it was something that felt all too natural, as though it had simply always been . Always would be, if Crowley had anything to say about it.
Which, considering he had spent the past few minutes trying to coax Aziraphale’s tongue back into his mouth from where it had retreated behind the angel’s teeth and therefore entirely unable to speak, it was rather unlikely that he would be saying much about anything for the foreseeable future. Not that he minded in the slightest. Really, it was the best afternoon he could recall having in at least two decades, if not three.
They had been three quarters of the way into a bottle of cabernet sauvignon that had cost more than the average weekly food bill for a family of four, and the angel had leaned over to kiss him. It had been a rather delightful surprise, considering their track record. With that one, notable exception two years prior - the memory of which still set butterflies fluttering within Crowley’s chest - the demon had initiated every single one of their following encounters. Which wasn’t to say that Aziraphale was anything other than willing; he was a more than enthusiastic participant in their more personal get-togethers, he simply didn’t seem to want to start them.
It had all seemed rather irrelevant, who started what when, at least to Crowley. Right up until the point where suddenly it wasn’t, with a lap filled by an eager and slightly dishevelled angel and hands that wanted to touch everywhere .
Despite his status as one of the fallen - one of the original demons - Crowley had never been overly interested in the pleasures of the flesh. The whole thing seemed too indisputably human for him, and he couldn’t quite understand why anyone would bother going to the effort required for five minutes of endorphins and exertion. Some of his co-workers had, of course. Not many, mind; it was well-known that demons were notoriously unimaginative, a trait which didn’t exactly lend itself to an inspired sex life. Still, the overly enthusiastic endorsements of those who had given sex a try had come to Crowley’s attention on more than one occasion, it just hadn’t really appealed to him before.
He was entirely delighted to have been proved wrong. The kissing had been nice, certainly, but this? This was something new and exciting , and the body he had been issued prior to his exit from hell after his last discorporation certainly seemed to agree. It was eagerly reacting to the press of heat across his chest, down to the thick thighs that straddled his own, pushing up against Aziraphale’s too-hot form even as he pulled the angel closer, until-
Oh.
The shudder that ran through him was full-bodied and wonderful, and Crowley had at least the presence of mind to wrench his mouth away before he could bite down on the cautiously exploring tongue that had just begun to press tentatively back against his own in a clear request for the permission he had given eons ago.
“Crowley? Are you quite alright?” Aziraphale was looking down at him from his lap, concern painted across his features, kiss-bitten lips puffed and swollen as a nervous tongue flicked out to swipe across them. Crowley couldn’t help the way his yellow-eyed gaze flicked to the movement, nor could he prevent the slow, lazy smile that stretched across his face, eyes lidded and undeniably pleased .
“I’m perfect , angel.” He hummed, body lax in a way he couldn’t entirely understand yet, the wet patch at the front of his jeans not quite at the point of discomfort. Aziraphale was warm in his arms, and he was happy enough to stay where he was, for the moment at least.
He understood the theory of the thing, of course. How could he not? Aziraphale had been assigned to Earth since the very beginning, since the before , and likely would be until the after as well if he was allowed to exist for that long. Despite his complete disregard for the practice as a whole, it would have been an unforgivable oversight had he entirely ignored the existence of such an important act.
So of course, he knew the what , the why and the how . In theory.
Intercourse was a requirement to ensure the continued existence of humanity as a whole, of all living species on the mudball of a planet that they called home. It was a necessity, and one which needed to continue if life itself was to continue, yet Aziraphale could not for the life of him understand why the Almighty had chosen to make it so, well... messy .
The one aspect of it he couldn’t understand however, no matter how hard he tried, was the need for humans - and a select few other species - to pursue the act of physical intimacy beyond what was absolutely required for reproduction. For pleasure . The whole thing really was entirely baffling.
He had tried, just the once. Angels simply didn’t do that sort of thing, and yet the curiosity had gotten the better of him one quiet evening, curled up alone and comfortable in a too-large bed that he didn’t need and wasn’t technically his anyway. Taking himself in hand, it had taken rather a lot longer than he thought it really should , and by the time the cresting wave of pleasantness washed over him his arm was tired and he wondered again at the why of it. The whole thing really was, in his opinion, rather too much effort.
Which was why, seated upon Crowley’s lap in the dim mood lighting of his shop with the buzz of alcohol running through his system, it took Aziraphale a good couple of minutes to understand just what precisely had happened.
He felt - well, he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt. Shocked, certainly. Flustered, though that much was a given. Oddly proud, if he was being entirely honest with himself, and while he would need to unpick that particular emotion in great detail once he was sober and without company, he left it alone for the moment.
Mostly though, Aziraphale felt a bubbling layer of concern coat his insides. Not over what they - he, Crowley - had just done, but over what he hadn’t . A half-drunk fumble had brought the demon to a fairly satisfying-looking climax within his trousers, and Aziraphale?
He wasn’t even hard.