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A certain angel loved to use certain words on a certain demon. Just to witness the unravelling effect they had on said certain demon. Because said angel was a wicked tease and a terribly smug bastard at times.
Terms of endearment such as ‘dear boy’, ‘darling’, ‘dearest’, ‘dear one’, even ‘sweetheart’ were all words the demon loved to hear. He would have eventually admitted - under torture - that they made him feel positively rosy and glowing, and not just because he was a demon.
But they weren’t the words.
The angel was suspiciously accomplished at filty talk and the words that dripped from his soft, peachy-coloured lips in the privacy of their bedroom quite often disconnected the demon’s brain and reduced him to a quivering, inarticulate jellyfish; to hear his angel utter such words so matter-of-factly, shocked him to his core every time and he loved it.
It certainly wasn’t these words, that the angel would speak in public. Part of the angel’s filthy talk that was special to the demon, went so far through the spectrum it came out the other side, sparkling clean. And this is what really hit the spot for him. And, unfortunately for him, they were words that could be uttered in public.
Even though he scoffingly teased the angel for his 18th/19th century vocabulary, he’d realised with dawning horror that the patois was having a surprising effect on him, which he became particularly aware of at Warlock’s 11th birthday party and The Amazing Mr Fell. He’d had to fight his own body that day, which had been very tricky for him given that he was wearing the tightest trousers ever known to waiter-kind. He hadn’t relished the thought of being chased out of the grounds by a bunch of angry and upset parents baying for his blood, had he not been able to gain control. Luckily for him, he’d been just a little bit pre-occupied with the imminent arrival of a Hell Hound which helped divert his attention somewhat.
Present day, the angel:
“Something something something and you know, it was really rather Jolly Good! Spiffing even!” The demon nodded, not really listening until his ears pricked up at “Jolly Good” and “Spiffing!” And then he got restless, fidgety, maybe even feeling a blush threatening his cheeks. He inwardly snarled to himself and outwardly grimaced to the world in general that he doesn’t blush, he’s a Demon! And then he blushed anyway.
“Are you quite alright my dear?” asked the angel, face prim and enquiring. “You’ve gone a bit red in the face.”
“Nnnyak,” answered the demon, intensely interested in his own fingernails.
So, the demon sat there with the angel, in public, wherever they happened to be, listening to how Tickety Boo something something was, and how Jolly Good something something else was, squirming and “ahh”ing his way through the conversation until eventually it became too much.
The angel knew exactly which buttons to press. Ordinarily, he liked to be very much in control. Even if he didn’t always feel in control of whatever their everyday lives threw at them in their retirement, their bedroom was somewhere he could be in Total Control…and that worked for the demon too. No complaints from him. For his partner was kind, considerate, gentle and loving, all those things you’d want from a partner.
But sometimes, the bastard won through.
When he felt he could take no more, the demon would swear under his breath, muttering about angels who got too cocky, grit his teeth and grab the angel’s hand, pulling him bodily to his feet. “Come on, angel, time to go!” he’d say tersely. The angel’s look of shocked surprise didn’t stop him being led away by a determined demon, shoulders hunched and striding purposefully.
Then the demon would just click his fingers, and they’d be back at their cottage, or if in the city, the bookshop. The demon would let go his hand, turn and…maybe wall-slam him into a carefully chosen wall, pinning him tightly, noses almost touching. Or if at the book shop, he’d throw him bodily onto the couch, conveniently behind the angel to catch his fall.
This time, they’re up against a wall of the cottage.
“Crowley,” said the angel, calmly, “just what the Deuce do you think you’re Jolly Well doing?” followed by a flash of pink tongue licking suddenly dry, perfectly pink lips. The demon, divested of his sunshades, his eyes flashing sparks, growled “you are a fucking tease and a menace!” He fell upon the angel’s mouth, biting, licking, kissing, sucking and probing roughly with his tongue.
Later, as they snuggled, the angel stroked the demon’s hair, dropping little kisses on the top of his head which was resting on the angel’s chest, as they talked quietly.
“Stop talking like that in public,” said the demon, without any real rancour in his voice.
“Like what? I haven’t done anything wrong! I don’t use expletives, like you. I’m very well spoken I’ll have you know.”
“I know you know what I mean. You know it, I know it, I know you-” and he was cut off by a hand tilting his chin up so that he could be soundly kissed.
“Shut up,” suggested Aziraphale, between kisses.
Resting his head again, the demon sighed contentedly. “Happy, darling?” asked the angel.
“Extremely,” was the answer.
“That’s absolutely Splendidly Spiffing, my love. Jolly Good, Top Hole my dear!”
Like I said, smug bastard.