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Aziraphale is in the library. He typically is, and if he's not, Crowley can find him in the kitchen making another cup of cocoa or trying out a new sourdough recipe. Failing that, Crowley will check the rest of their cottage and find him reading in the garden or nestled on the living room sofa, and sometimes (Crowley’s favourite times), his angel will be waiting for him in their bedroom, a smile on his face and mischief in his soft blue eyes.
Today is the sixth anniversary of their first kiss, their first time, and their first hushed confessions, whispered hotly as they paused to catch their breath. It was an especially important anniversary, Crowley said the day before, draping his long arms around his love. Because, he said, six years was one-thousandth of how long they'd known each other; how long they'd been in love. Aziraphale had called him an awful sap then, and Crowley licked his ear in retaliation.
Crowley is in the library with him. They'd wordlessly agreed that they would spend the entire day together—no demons leaving to cause minor annoyances, no angels hunting down rare volumes in the corners of old bookshops. Just them. He has a meal planned for them later (oysters), and after that, he knows Aziraphale’s been aching to try out that thing they'd ordered last week. So they'll probably do that. Crowley can't wait.
Aziraphale is still reading his book. Crowley knows he's at his favourite part—his brow has scrunched up in that cute way that makes Crowley want to kiss it, and he's got one finger under the rightmost page, ready to flip it over the moment he's finished.
Crowley hums contentedly, adjusting his sprawl on their couch to something more nap-friendly. He closes his eyes, knowing he'll be awakened gently when Aziraphale finishes, and slips into sleep, thinking of that night six years ago.
***
“And what role did you have in it, my dear?”
“Nothing! I got there after it’d all happened and the humans were running around screaming. Did what I could to help ‘em, but I was too late.”
Aziraphale softens, accusatory eyebrows smoothing back on his pretty forehead. “Of course.” He pauses, looking thoughtfully down at his wine, and smiles. “You did take credit for it though, didn’t you?”
“Bet your arse I did. I was up for a commendation for it. Hastur got it, though. Bloody buffoon.”
Aziraphale hums in agreement. “Yes, can’t say I’m a fan of his.”
Crowley jerks his head around when hears a scared little gasp come from the angel. He is still on edge and tenses, ready to pounce on whatever had frightened Aziraphale.
“The leftovers! Oh, Crowley, I forgot to grab the leftovers! Now I can’t have them later. Such a shame, the curry was so good,” he pouts.
No danger, then. Just a gorgeous, fussy angel who is looking at him with distraught eyes and a bottom lip that’s nearly quivering. He smiles, impossibly fond. “Relax, angel. I got them. Two boxes, yeah? They’re in your fridge.”
“Oh, my dear, thank you. I’d have been so upset if they were forgotten. Imagine such food going to waste.”
“Can’t, ‘Ziraphale, ‘s too painful to think about.”
“Oh, hush. I’m glad you got them. We’ll have to go back there sometime. The staff was so friendly and the food was delicious…” he trails off.
“Yeah. Liked the staff. Our server was great. ‘Specially liked their markings.”
“Their tattoos? Those were lovely.”
“Sure they were. Wasn’t talking ‘bout those, though. I meant their hickies. They didn’t even try to hide them! Just two big bruises right there on their neck for the world to see. Lust and Pride all in one. Made me proud.”
Aziraphale hiccups. “Do you mean to tell me you invented hickies?”
“Nah. Would’ve been a good idea, though.”
There is a pause, a moment of time in which Crowley looks at the angel. It’s been a few months since Armageddon’t, and his familiar blond hair has grown into tighter, fuller curls that surround Aziraphale’s head like a halo. His lips and cheeks are pink with wine, the straight edge of his teeth showing as he takes a single, elegant sip. Crowley appreciates, for a moment, the swell of his stomach and how it gives way to plush, perfect thighs. An upturned nose wrinkles, pretty mouth opens to speak, and the moment is gone.
“You know, I’ve always wondered what all the fuss was about those. Humans call them ‘love bites,’ too. But they’re just bruises, why do they like them so much?”
Crowley doesn’t know what makes him say it. He could blame it on the wine, sure, or anxieties leftover from the still-too-recent tricking of their bosses. Or perhaps, it is simply because the angel looks too beautiful that night, flushed face and curious words construed as an invitation for something. Something more.
“I could give you one. You know, if you really want to know what they’re like.” As soon as he says it, he knows it’s a mistake. Stupid demon, he thinks. Always going too goddamn fast.
“I—that is,” Aziraphale flushes deeper, ears going scarlet. He clears his throat. “I would be amenable to that, if you’re offering.”
Ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit. Fuck.
What is he going to do now? Give his best friend whom he is madly in love with a platonic hickey ? Does such a thing even exist?
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m offering.”
“Jolly good. Would you like to come here or should I go to you?”
“No, no, I’ll go to you.”
Crowley breathes deeply, not at all sure of what he is doing as he stands and crosses the rug to lean over the angel’s chair. Aziraphale tilts his head up expectantly, exposing that wonderful neck. Now all Crowley has to do is lean in and taste it. He wonders briefly if it will taste salty. Nah, he thinks, panic and stupid human hormones criss-crossing all the wires of his brain. It’ll be sweet, like the rest of him.
Crowley picks a spot, right on the underside of Aziraphale’s jaw. His nose makes it there first, bumping clumsily into lovely warm flesh. He steadies himself on the arms of the chair, leaning on them for support as his knees threaten to give way.
Lips meet soft angel skin, and Crowley lingers there for a moment, barely touching him. He adds pressure then, kissing that one spot where he knows a sensitive bundle of nerves lie hidden. His tongue slips between his teeth, and a sweet hint of cologne is there to greet it.
Aziraphale moans, a quiet, desperate thing, and Crowley nearly keens. Opening his mouth against perfect neck, he gathers soft skin between his lips, laving over it with his slightly forked tongue before sucking the tissue deep into his mouth.
“Crowley,” whispers Aziraphale.
He hums around the bruise he’s making, certain the vibrations will tickle. Sure enough, Aziraphale huffs a breathy laugh, gasping and winding his arms around Crowley, dragging thick fingers through his hair as if to hold him there. Crowley takes this as an invitation to suck harder, and he delights in the soft noises the angel makes. He nips a little, allowing just an echo of his fangs over his neck before kissing it better.
Almost as soon as it began, it’s over. Crowley pulls back, admiring the dark bruise, wet with his own spit and undoubtedly throbbing.
Then the terror sinks in.
Had he hurt him? Was it too much? Wouldn’t surprise him, he was very good at going too fast . He briefly wonders if he should wipe it off, remove the disgusting, unwelcome demon saliva before it burns. Should he have moved back to his seat by now? He's still hovering over the angel in his weird, lurky way, arms trapping him between his body and the chair. Aziraphale’s arms are still half around him, awkwardly sliding down his back as the angel comes to.
“Crowley…That was, well it was lovely, really, although I’m not sure I fully understand them,” says Aziraphale, avoiding his gaze.
Oh. That was fine. Truly. Did he expect him to enjoy it? Of course not. It didn’t matter that Crowley had, that he’d remember that for at least another six thousand years, the beautiful, wiggling angel beneath him and the taste of his skin.
“That is,” Aziraphale continues, “unless you’d like to try again? To see if that will help me make sense of them, of course.”
Crowley blinks, a rare occurrence. “Of course. Sure, angel, yeah.”
He dips down again, selecting a new spot just above his clavicle and entrapping it in the wet heat of his mouth. Moaning low and dark, he rubs the area with his tongue and bites it gently.
Aziraphale shudders and fists his hands in Crowley’s shirt.
“Oh, darling. The things you do with your tongue,” he says.
The endearment comes as a surprise, but it’s a pleasant one. Crowley would certainly like being Aziraphale's darling, and if it is on the condition of giving his best friend hickies, that is fine. Yep. Fine.
Eventually, Crowley pulls back again. They stare at each other, both of them suspended in something thick and heavy. Lust , Crowley thinks. He is sure his face looks ridiculous, flushed and slack-jawed as he is. But Aziraphale is a sight to behold, blue eyes blown wide with emotion, cheeks rosy and heated and mouth open in a delightful little ‘o.’
“Angel, you okay? Was it too much?” Was I too much?
“My dear…” Aziraphale mumbles, unable to finish his thought. His hands slip away from Crowley’s back, coming up to rest on his cheeks instead. Crowley’s face burns hot beneath his fingers, and he flushes even deeper as Aziraphale bites his lip.
He’s pulled forward by the strong hands cradling his face, guiding him gently to perch dangerously on the angel’s lap. Not a sound escapes him, his mind blank save for the one word running at six thousand miles per hour through his head— angel angel angel angelangelangelangelangelangel.
Aziraphale smiles kindly at the demon in his lap. His lips look so pink, so soft, and so close as Crowley is pulled nearer and nearer and—
Oh.
Oh.
They’re kissing. They’re kissing and it’s as simple as two mouths meeting, as deep as the stars. Crowley’s heart burns fiercely, sending wave after wave of emotion, of desire though him. He wants to press Aziraphale back into the seat cushions, snog him silly until they’re both gasping for air.
And yet, he can’t move.. He’s stuck, immobilized by love as Aziraphale presses their lips together. He seems to realize, suddenly, that Crowley isn’t responding and pulls back.
“Crowley, I’m so sorry, I thought—” Aziraphale says, his pretty blue eyes growing wet, “I don’t know what I thought, really. Forgive me.”
“Aziraphale.” says Crowley hoarsely. “You kissed me.”
“I rather think I did, my dear, and I do apologize. Please, let’s talk about something else.” Aziraphale’s bottom lip trembles a bit as he says it, and Crowley feels terrible.
“Why?” he asks simply.
“Don’t be cruel, Crowley. I said I was sorry. Now please, get off of me and we can talk about something else.” His eyes are pleading, silently asking Crowley not to press him.
After six thousand years, however, Crowley can’t pass up an opportunity like this. Not when he is so close.
“Do it again. Please. And I swear I won’t freeze up again. Just, please, kiss me again.” He takes the glasses off his face, flings them carelessly aside. His eyes are wet, too.
“If...if that is what you want, yes, I will kiss you again.”
“Please,” it comes out as a whimper. Crowley doesn’t mean for it to, but there he is, flayed open as Aziraphale leans in, tugs him closer.
This time, they do it right. Gentle touches at first, asking permission. It’s granted—eagerly—and their mouths open against each other. Crowley had imagined kissing Aziraphale, of course he had, but even with an imagination as vivid as his, he never could have predicted the thrill of it, the way it felt like home.
Aziraphale’s lips are soft beneath his. Crowley can taste his wine and vanilla chapstick, and it’s sweet, it’s so sweet, the way their mouths fit together. He dares to touch the inside of that sweet, soft mouth with his tongue, and is rewarded with a little moan. His hands have found their way up the arms of the chair, one coming to rest on the angel’s chest, the other curling around the base of his neck. He’s fully seated on Aziraphale’s thighs now, and he half-straddles them with his gangly legs. Gorgeous fingers claim fistfuls of his hair and Crowley lets out a moan of his own.
Who knew mouths were so warm? That is what Crowley can’t get over—the golden heat of Aziraphale’s mouth, how it responds so positively to the weird things he does with his tongue. And Aziraphale’s tongue—a welcome weight in his mouth that seems to lick at every crevice, pushing deeper, mapping out the territory of his teeth and the insides of his cheeks, leaves him breathless. It’s all hot and wanting and he lets his hand slip from that beautiful neck to clutch at the fabric of his ridiculous waistcoat, needing something to ground himself with.
A plump, glorious hand slips down his back to clutch at his arse. If that’s not grounding, he doesn’t know what is.
“‘Zirphale,” he gasps, needing to pull away from those too-sweet lips, just for a moment, just so he can calm the pounding blood in his ears. His lips find the angel’s throat again, and he relishes in its salty flesh. The fingers in his hair pull again, insistent, so he opens his mouth and sucks a third dark bite onto that patch of skin.
“Crowley, darling,” Aziraphale pants. “Clearly, we’re both enjoying this, yes?”
What kind of question was that? Crowley hasn’t been anywhere near this aroused since . . . probably since the last time he saw Aziraphale’s bare calves. He pulls back just long enough to nod slowly before resuming his attacks on the exposed flesh above his collar.
“Please, dear, look at me a moment.” Aziraphale’s voice is pleading, and Crowley gives him one last nibble before sitting back. For good, this time.
“I just—” he begins shakily. “I need to be sure. That we’re doing this for the right reason. Please.”
Fuck. Of course, of course, here he is, pouring out his heart to an angel who didn’t want it via kisses and those stupid human ‘love bites’. It made sense, now that his higher brain functions had turned on again. Aziraphale has always enjoyed earthly pleasures, Crowley knows that, and pleasures of the flesh are just the next step up. What a fool he is. Does this mean they are technically friends with benefits now? Shit. That might discorporate him. He thinks of kissing Aziraphale, and often, and oh christ, making love to Aziraphale—except it wouldn't be love and it would never be. No one could ever love a demon, certainly not someone as precious as Aziraphale.
“Crowley. Why did you ask me to kiss you again?” the precious person in question asks.
He stares open-mouthed at him, speechless. “Dunno,” he mutters, long after the silence between them passes the awkward stage, the word hanging in a thick cloud of self-loathing.
“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “That’s alright, I suppose. Got caught up in the moment, didn’t we? I shouldn’t have expected you to feel the same way. It’s fine, though, really. Just I don’t know if I could do it again.”
“What?” rasps Crowley.
“Don’t make me say it, if you’re only kissing me to have a good time. You know already, leave it be.” Aziraphale’s blue eyes brim with tears, and Crowley hates himself for it. But, perhaps there’s hope here, for him, in the angel’s last words. Crowley can make it right, he has to.
“Who said I was only kissing you to have a good time? Angel, you can sense the blasted thing. Surely, you know.”
Aziraphale gapes at him. “Sense—what? Do you mean to tell me, that after all this time, all the horrid things I’ve said to you, that you love me?”
“Yessss, angel. Ssso much.” Crowley says, unable to stop the hiss from escaping.
“Oh, you marvelous creature.” Aziraphale beams, tugging him down for another kiss. This one is more tender, filled with light and love and consisting of a slow graze of lips. That is, until tongues get involved.
Crowley finds that he very much likes Aziraphale’s tongue. It reaches deep into the corners of his mouth, hot and thick, and Crowley is reminded of the dreamy thighs beneath him. He reaches down, gathering a handful of trouser fabric and flesh and squeezes, eliciting a long moan from Aziraphale.
They kiss for what feels like hours. In reality, only about fifteen minutes have gone by, but that doesn’t stop Crowley’s head from spinning when they pull away. He gazes at Aziraphale, dizzy with love and devotion. His bowtie has come undone, Crowley notes, as well the first couple buttons of his shirt, but he can't recall having anything to do with that. As far as he can remember, his hands haven't strayed too far from his soft white hair or delicious thighs. He wants to kiss him again, hard and desperate enough to bruise his already swollen lips. Mine, he thinks. My angel.
Aziraphale’s blue eyes travel over him hungrily. He looks absolutely debauched. Panting breaths escape between his deep pink lips, and his head of tousled curls reminds Crowley strangely of a benevolent cloud.
“You’re so beautiful,” whispers Aziraphale, looking right into his yellow serpentine eyes. Crowley shakes his head, no, Aziraphale is the pretty one, and opens his mouth to say so, but he’s shushed with a kiss.
“You’re gorgeous, my dear.” Aziraphale whispers into his mouth, moving to kiss his neck. “I must admit, I find you terribly attractive,” he murmurs into the skin there.
Crowley hisses in protest, clinging tightly to his neck, back—anywhere his snakey hands can reach. “I’m—’M not. Christ, angel. You’re sssso bloody gorgeouss, an’ ffuck, are you giving me a hickey right now?”
Aziraphale let go of his skin with a light popping sound.“I prefer ‘love bite,’ but yes, I am. I thought it fitting.”
Crowley whines pathetically, throwing his head back in fond exasperation. “Gonna be the death of me,” he murmurs, Aziraphale now kissing under his jaw.
“Mmm. Love you too, dear,” he hums.
“Yeah, yeah angel. Love you.” Crowley blinks back tears, still hardly believing they can say that now. He pulls his angel (his!) in for a kiss, wanting to immortalize the moment forever, carry the whole damn evening around with him in a heart-shaped locket.
“I wonder,” says Aziraphale between kisses.”If you might want to bring this upstairs?”
Crowley bites his bottom lip, resolving to not use words to communicate that yes, he would very much like to go upstairs, holy fuck, he’d like that.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Let’s get up then, love.”
***
A gentle hand brushing the hair from his face awakens him. Crowley blinks blearily, returning to the present.
“Morning, angel,” he mumbles.
“It’s afternoon, love. Happy anniversary, my silly serpent.” Aziraphale is looking at him fondly, something that Crowley still isn’t entirely used to. But he pushes down that quiet discomfort that bubbles up whenever Aziraphale is feeling particularly sentimental. He’s safe now. He knows that.
“Happy anniversary to you too,” he says, standing up to place a warm, feather-light kiss on Aziraphale’s temple.
“Shall we have an early dinner? It’d leave us more time for the rest of the evening.” The last part is a whisper in Crowley’s ear, close enough that he can feel each movement of divine lips on his skin. He shivers.
“Jesus fuck, angel. Yes, satan bless it. Let’s do that. I know you’ve been waiting to try out that thing .” Crowley punctuates the last word with a peck on the cheek. “Oysters still sound good?”
“They sound marvelous, my dear boy. You’re too good to me.”
“Ngh. ‘M not good. Tempting you,” he huffs.
“Tempting me to use the thing tonight, perhaps?” Aziraphale asks, his bastard smile beginning to break open on his face
“You’re going to use it whether I tempt you or not.”
“That I am.”