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Crowley's hands slide from Aziraphale's shoulders down his arm, his breath licking the back of Aziraphale's neck like flames as he murmurs, "You want a nice, firm grip." His hand covers Aziraphale's, fingers tightening. "The technique is in how you hold it."
Crowley presses his chest into Aziraphale's back, bending him over the table. Aziraphale swallows, heat coiling behind his navel. "Then what?" he asks, throat dry and hungry.
"Once you get the angle right, concentrate on hard but deliberate strokes."
He grabs Aziraphale's other hand, guiding the movement. Aziraphale inhales sharply, his billowing lungs pushing him further back into Crowley.
With a swift thrust, Crowley snaps the cue stick forward. The resin balls clack as they scatter across the pool table.
Crowley stands upright. "Then when you're done —" He takes the cue stick and rolls a chalk cube around the head, gently blowing excess dust. "Gives you more control for consistent shots." He hands over the cue stick. "You try."
Aziraphale takes it timidly. "I just go for anything?"
Crowley evaluates the table. "Try the three ball in the corner. It's a pretty head-on shot."
"But save the magic eight-ball for last?"
Crowley chuckles. "After you get all yours in, yeah."
Aziraphale squares up behind the cue ball, imitates the position Crowley showed him, and strikes the ball. The three sinks into the side pocket.
"Well done!" Crowley says. "So that makes you solids. Now you go again, and you wanna —"
Before he can finish the sentence, Aziraphale sinks the six into a corner pocket.
Crowley blinks.
"Beginner's luck," Aziraphale quips modestly before lining up his next shot. He leans over, squints, and strikes the cue ball, knocking the seven and five into a pocket at once.
Crowley leans against the table, crossing one foot behind his shin. "Beginner's luck, huh?"
Aziraphale shrugs. He aims for the fourteen and knocks it into the nine, which bounces off the rail and sinks the one. He hums a pleased sound before reevaluating the table. He hops up backwards onto the rail, holding the stick vertically.
Crowley cocks an eyebrow. "There's no way —"
Aziraphale slams the stick onto the cue ball and it leaps over the twelve, rolls into the two and knocks it across the table into the pocket. Crowley scoffs as Aziraphale takes his shot at the four, which lands easily.
"Eight ball, side pocket." Aziraphale points the stick at his goal. Before Crowley can blink, the ball rockets over, landing with easy precision.
Crowley huffs indignantly, crossing his arms. "You hustling me, angel?"
"Not at all," Aziraphale chimes innocently. "I just... like the way you teach."
"How d'you mean?"
Aziraphale smirks, laying the stick down. He rounds the table and stands behind Crowley, resting his chin on Crowley's shoulder. He runs his hands down Crowley's arms, leaning in to bend him over the table.
"I stand by what I said." Crowley turns his head, murmuring against Aziraphale's lips. "You were hustling me. You were just... playing a different game."