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Good Omens After Dark Official
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Published:
2024-04-04
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3,789
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1/1
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Your Mouth As If It’s Heaven’s Gate

Summary:

“Sorry, sorry,” but he’s grinning — this is delightful, this is perfect, after six thousand years of longing and fantasies and frustration, Crowley is in trouble for this five-second pause he has taken to let this love just wash over him. He cannot believe his good luck.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

Crowley locks the door softly behind the last humans, and they’re alone in the bookshop again.

There had been a flurry of activity at the end of the night, the dozen or so humans they’d picked up along the way hurrying off to put in motion the plan they had all scraped together out of sheer desperation. Clutching their phones with the “maps” functions still open, and their hastily-scribbled lists, and their ancient scrolls, and their coats, and each others’ hands. The humans had seen the apocalypse movies; they were a plucky little group, they were nervous and excited, cheering each other on—and, in Crowley’s estimation, a good deal more optimistic than was really warranted by the situation. 

But you had to admire them, really. 

It had been three days since Aziraphale showed up at Crowley’s front door for the first time in three years, exhausted and trying for cheeriness that he seemed to know was unconvincing. Help me, he’d begged, and Crowley, who had just the night before hate-watched a particularly sweet and romantic classic, had agreed, fought the urge to say as you wish.

And there hadn’t been time. There hadn’t been time to blow up, to get all his yelling out at Aziraphale, to collapse into tears and into the angel’s arms like he’d been half-expecting to be offered. No time for hugs or nuzzles or apologies or forgiveness. No time to talk. Barely a moment for a meaningful look between them. 

Instead, there had been seventy-seven straight hours of rushed explanations and desperate plans to avert the Second Coming, of gathering up the few frightened, brave little humans that could potentially help, some delighted epiphanies and lots of frustration, of  theorising and judgement calls and a few truly wild guesses. 

Three days, and they hadn’t had a moment alone. Not really. 

Now, with the departure of the humans and the soft click of the latch after them, a familiar hush has settled over the bookshop. 

Aziraphale is sitting, just there, in his usual spot on the couch, making some last notes from the scroll in front of him. His hair glows gold in the lamplight. 

Crowley takes a deep breath. He can feel every one of his atoms zinging around his body. 

Six thousand years, and tonight is very likely the last one they’ll ever spend…well. Alive. At the very least, it will almost certainly be the last they spend in each others’ company. 

Their plan…isn’t going to work. He knows that in his bones. There are too many loose ends, too many factors out of their control. Too much faith placed in humanity. 

But he’ll be damned again if he lets this last chance pass him by. 

He knows he won’t sleep tonight. But it would be nice…it would be so nice to be held. It would be so good to cling to Aziraphale and make their  last night in existence mean something, bring him pleasure, bring him comfort. Let him feel loved. 

He finds himself standing in front of the couch, in front of Aziraphale. Takes a moment to just look. Aziraphale’s gentle face upturned, a fond, tired smile, a curious quirk of his beautiful mouth. 

Crowley reaches up and slowly, deliberately removes his sunglasses. Folds them and (slightly awkwardly) places them gently on the little marble table. Clink.

Cups Aziraphale’s face in his hands, and leans in—

The angel does not seem at all surprised by the first questioning brush of Crowley’s mouth. He kisses back immediately, sweetly, fondly, like they have done this a million times before. Aziraphale’s hands wind into Crowley’s hair and scratch lightly. Crowley can feel him smiling. 

Oh. Yes. This, please.

Aziraphale slides his hands out of Crowley’s hair and all the way down to the small of his back. He tugs forward just a little, encouraging Crowley to climb into his lap. 

Crowley climbs up, straddles the angel, settles himself onto Aziraphale’s thighs. Winds his arms around the angel’s neck. Tilts his head to deepen the kiss. 

Crowley has been studying. 

He’d seen a lot of living in six millennia. Humans were quite easily tempted by each other, and during that long span of history they sometimes didn’t bother to keep their couplings hidden. Crowley had seen their curious and fumbling delight in the Garden, heard their muffled groans rising into agonised bliss when Eve came to Adam and laid him on the grass for the first time. He’d wondered, when he’d met the sweet, smiling angel, if he would ever make similar sounds. The thought had been electrifying, and had rather quickly led to some self-discovery, some curious fumbling and agonised bliss of his own. 

He’d been aware of that sensuality ever since, not on purpose exactly — it was just hard to miss as humans rolled out across the planet. He became familiar with the pleasures of the body, from a distance, anyway; he could never bring himself to participate in those actual pleasures with actual humans. How could they compare?

But he’d memorised (rather helplessly) all of the sounds and expressions the angel would make when he wanted something, when he was enjoying something a little, when he was enjoying something a lot, when he was ever-so-slightly dissatisfied. And as soon as the internet had been sufficiently populated by the writings of knowledgeable humans, he had dived into online research. He’d read articles from Men’s Health and the Bad Girls Bible (funny, that last one) and watched instructional (not to mention inspirational) videos on YouTube. Crowley feels confident by now that his mental library of techniques (and those sounds) would be sufficient to guide him in making the angel feel good. If he ever got a chance to do so. 

He’s thrumming with tension, sitting in the angel’s lap. He’s got one night. He has to make this perfect. 

But maybe just for a minute, he can take some of this for himself. Aziraphale’s mouth is soft and sweet; he’s sighing happily and murmuring little  “mmm’s” like this is normal, like there is nowhere else either of them had to be, like they can stay here, snogging on the couch in the bookshop for all eternity.  The slide and shiver of swollen lips, the tiny wet sounds they make and they part and rejoin. The hot velvet of his tongue, running along the inside of Crowley’s lower lip, the sweet indentation of teeth, the low laughter. The angel’s warm hands run up and down Crowley’s sides soothingly, pull at his back gently to tilt him closer. He settles lower with a little “mph” and contentedly returns to kissing. Sucks on a plump lower lip and elicits a gasp and a squeeze. 

Oh why hadn’t they ever done this before? Now that it’s here it’s so easy, so natural — they could possibly have been doing this for centuries, millennia. Cuddled against each other on the couch to binge something dramatic on TV, a casual smooch upon leaving and returning, fingers in his hair. Awakening all twined together. Crowley longs for that bygone life.

Without him realising it, the room has grown warmer. Aziraphale’s eyes look dark and love-drunk when Crowley breaks away briefly to pant. 

“Crowley—“ the angel whispers, like he can’t help it. 

He tilts his forehead gently against the angel’s. A moment. He feels alive, he is electric. His sweaty fringe is mashing against Aziraphale’s damp cloud-puff curls, the tip of his nose smooshed slightly against  Aziraphale’s. He takes deep shuddering breaths. Aziraphale’s warm breath ghosts over his lips. 

In all the times he’s fantasised about this, he’s hoped Aziraphale would be the brave one and make the first real move to take them further, so Crowley can be absolutely sure. But the angel seems perfectly content to lounge on the couch with his hands stroking from his back all the way down to his arse, and just kiss him forever. 

Oh. Well. Actually. Without breaking the kiss, the angel has somehow slid down a bit more so that he’s more lying down on the pillows than sitting up, and Crowley is helplessly, adoringly, tilted forward into his chest, still astride his lap. He huffs, rises to his elbows and knees without relinquishing the angel’s sweet mouth, stretching out and sliding down just a bit, and resettling on top of Aziraphale’s inviting body. 

And oh. God. 

That’s…that’s really…

Aziraphale’s hands pull down at the small of his back, pressing their hips together. Crowley feels hot and desperate. He drops his forehead to Aziraphale’s neck with a groan. 

“Oh, Crowley—“ Aziraphale breathes, arching his back. “That’s so good, oh—“ he sounds shaky already. Crowley feels a rush of euphoria and gratitude to the universe for giving them this moment, even if it’s one of their last. 

He raises his head. Kisses the angel’s parted lips again. Shimmies just a little farther down Aziraphale’s body. Returns to his lips and murmurs, “Can I, Angel?”

He can feel the rush of arousal and coquettishness this elicits, because the angel knows very well what he means even if he pretends not to. Surely he must think this is all happening too fast. 

Crowley can hardly blame him. Of course this is too fast. If they’d had more time…

Well. They should take advantage of every moment, that’s all. 

He hasn’t exactly said yes, yet, however, so Crowley bides his time by leaning in for more kissing and starts a slow grind of his hips against Aziraphale’s. He had definitely approved of that earlier. 

“Oh, Crowley, yes, please,” whines Aziraphale and Crowley smiles against his lips. Slides a hand down his stomach to stroke him lightly where he’s straining upward against the fabric of his trousers. At his touch, the angel makes a high-pitched sound and his hips buck forward just a little, like he can’t help it. 

Crowley settles slightly to one side, slides greedy fingers just to the top button of those ridiculous trousers and toys with it instead, just for a moment, just to see Aziraphale’s pupils dilate further and hear his adorable frustrated sigh just before he grabs Crowley’s hand and presses it flat against the ridge of himself. 

Oho, so the angel is in a hurry too! Delighted, Crowley makes the movement his own, rubbing and pressing in a not-quite-rhythm and adoring the way Aziraphale’s mouth falls open and his eyes flutter closed. 

He’s enjoying it so much, in fact, that he takes a moment to realise he’s instinctively grinding his own erection against Aziraphale’s hip. Considers being embarrassed for a moment. Decides not to be. This may not be about him, but he’s going to savour every moment of it anyway. Dips down for another kiss. Bites the angel’s chin a little, just because he can, and he won’t get another chance to. 

“Can I?” He whispers again, and Aziraphale’s punched out breath is immediate. He’s trembling. 

“Yes, yes, please, whatever you— oh!” 

Crowley’s hand has pressed down more firmly, just for a second. He feels the length underneath his palm twitch as Aziraphale cries out. 

Takes his hand back to the buttons again. Undoes them as gracefully as he can one-handed. (He should have practised this part too.) Reaches in. 

Aziraphale is hot and damp and satin-smooth in his palm. He shudders as Crowley strokes up and down experimentally. Bites his lip. 

He’s thick and flushed, heavy in Crowley’s hand. He feels along the shaft for the tender underside, the silky bit near the tip, strokes it for a second. The angel’s eyelashes flutter. Circles his thumb around the velvety-plump head, loving the way the angel is pushing his hips into Crowley’s hand. 

He’s leaning up on his other elbow, watching the angel’s beautiful face, watching his expressions. There are beads of sweat forming at his hairline. Crowley kisses them away. 

Aziraphale turns his head into Crowley’s and opens his eyes to look straight into Crowley’s own. They are so wide, blue-grey and unfocused with desire close-up. He looks so happy. 

Crowley has to stop for a second to collect himself. 

“Crowley!” Good lord this Angel is demanding. Pushing his hips up, starting to frown just a little. Crowley almost laughs. 

“Sorry, sorry,” but he’s grinning — this is delightful, this is perfect , after six thousand years of longing and fantasies and sexual frustration, Crowley is in trouble for this five-second pause he has taken to let this love just wash over him. He cannot believe his good luck. 

Still grinning, he shimmies further down Aziraphale’s body and settles on his stomach between his legs. The angel has never looked so dishevelled in his life — cheeks pink and clothes all askew. (Did Crowley undo his bow tie? He doesn’t remember doing so. Aziraphale must have torn it open himself when he got too hot.) 

He leans in, nuzzles Aziraphale’s cock. Breathes deep. He smells like white truffles and tea and sweat. Licks a line up the underside. Aziraphale’s strong hands (gah, angelic strength, he’d almost forgotten) have gripped Crowley’s shoulders and are squeezing almost enough to hurt. 

“Please, please, please,” he is muttering, seemingly unable to decide how to move. The angel’s back is arched like a bow. Even his feet are moving restlessly. 

Crowley circles the crown with his tongue, tasting the salt at the tip, and Aziraphale groans long and low. Crowley glances up. The angel’s head has fallen back into the pillow. Completely given over. 

So he swallows him down. 

“Ohhh—!” the angel gasps. Crowley is having a hard time not grinning. Focus. He sucks slowly from the base allllll the way to the top, letting it be wet and slippery. He’s grinding his hips against the couch again—when did he start doing that? Holy hell it feels fantastic though. His pants are way too tight so he snakes one hand down to undo them— ohhhhh so much better. Holy fuck. 

Takes him back down. Keeps going. Oh yes. Aziraphale’s hips making restless tiny motions, his hands squeezing Crowley’s shoulders rhythmically. He reaches up, takes a hand. Places it on top of his head. Show me. 

Aziraphale doesn’t seem to need to, though. He just pushes his trembling fingers through Crowley’s hair. He’s apparently doing fine on his own. He feels a rush of pride. 

He’s not worried about his own pleasure at all—for one thing, this is really not about him. His fantasies over the entire course of history have focused around exactly this: the angel finding pleasure in him, not the other way around. He’s imagined (and researched) every possible way to make him tremble and whine and groan and arch. He wants Aziraphale to take his pleasure and to know that it was Crowley who made him feel that kind of hot ecstatic bliss.

Also, he is definitely going to come right here on this couch cushion beneath him in a very short time if he doesn’t pull himself together. 

Aziraphale’s cries are getting higher-pitched and a little louder. He sounds desperate. This is not really helping Crowley pull himself together, but it’s fine—after all this, he can’t really be too upset about the cushion. Especially with the end of the world being tomorrow. Crowley redoubles his efforts. Hears the reward of agonised pleasure in the angel’s voice. 

“Crowley…!” 

Ohhhh this is exactly what he wanted. Yes, this, come on angel, spill on my tongue, down my throat, there, do you like that? A little swallow around where you’re most sensitive?

“Crowley…oh…I’m…!”

It’s okay, Angel, let it happen, I want you to, please let me taste you, just—

“Crowley, wait, STOP, I’m too—“

Stop. 

He looks up. Holy fuck, he could come right now. The angel’s cock is deep pink, trembling, as hard as Crowley himself is, on the very edge…

But he’s said “stop.”

Crowley waits. 

The angel is gasping above him. Crowley doesn’t know what to do. So he waits. 

After a few seconds of heaving breath (it makes his cock jump deliciously, so close to Crowley’s mouth), he looks down at Crowley and grins. 

“Darling. Why in such a hurry?”

He means it, Crowley knows, as a little flirt. His eyes are still unfocused with lust and his cock is still right there, and he was about to come in Crowley’s mouth five seconds ago, and now he’s flirting.  

Why in such a hurry indeed. 

“ I—“ Crowley doesn’t know how to answer that question. What does he mean? Of course he’s in a hurry, they have hours left to exist, he doesn’t want to waste a single second…

Aziraphale’s face changes. “Darling? What’s wrong?” 

And Crowley would really like to focus on the “darling” part, but he is running out of time, and Aziraphale is still hard, and he still feels like he might come on the cushion (scrambles to his knees, can avert that potential disaster, anyway). 

Aziraphale is clearly devastated by this turn of events. He reaches out to cup Crowley’s face hesitantly, like he’s not sure it’s allowed anymore. Crowley leans into his palm and closes his eyes. 

“We don’t—“ he swallows. “Don’t have much time left. Don’ want to waste any.” 

Silence. He risks opening his eyes. 

Aziraphale’s eyes are the gentlest he’s seen them. Soft like a cashmere blanket. Grey like a cozy day spent snuggling with your beloved. Open like the sky above the Garden. Warm like mulled wine slipping down your throat. 

“Oh, my love,” he whispers, and Crowley’s throat almost closes. 

And then he sits up and gently pushes Crowley flat onto his back. 

This is not by any means a graceful move. There’s a great deal of surprise, and a bit of flailing, and the way Crowley is sitting on his knees means that he has to get his legs out of the way - why does he have so many - but within a few seconds he is lying flat on his back on the opposite side of the couch (has the angel miracled it bigger? Wait, what else could he miracle bigger?), his head on a perfectly soft pillow, and a gorgeous, insane angel trying to remove his pants. 

“Wait wait wait—“ he is yelping, because this is ridiculous, this is wonderful, this was absolutely a scene from one of those fantasies he’d been having for millennia, but it’s also the End Times and what the hell, Aziraphale….!

“You don’t mean that,” the angel says, and throws himself to lie on his belly between Crowley’s legs. He looks up and arches an eyebrow at him. “Do you?” 

Crowley gives up. He can’t stage manage this thing. Something amazing is about to happen,  and Aziraphale, despite being close to the best orgasm of his life thirty seconds ago, is wholly and completely in charge of it. 

He groans. Drops his head back to the pillow. Picks it back up just in time to see the angel give a smug little smile and then lick his lips.

His head hits the pillow again immediately. 

It takes another sixty seconds, if that. Crowley shudders beneath Aziraphale’s warm hands, arches under the sweet slippery torture of his mouth. Babbles utter nonsense (he’s sure there was an I-love-you in there somewhere, so, not all nonsense). Tries valiantly not to thrust up into the angel’s mouth, and mostly succeeds. Grabs his hand and clings to it instead. 

Aziraphale plays him like a musical instrument, drawing it out as much as he can, taking him deep and then sucking off slowly, rolling his tongue sweetly on the way back down. 

Crowley can feel it rising up in him like a shimmering tide, alive and unstoppable, slow and thick. He grips Aziraphale’s hand more tightly and struggles to speak. 

“Angel—I’m—“ 

And that’s as far as he gets before he’s gone, sobbing, crying out Aziraphale’s name, his whole body arching and pressing up into the angel’s perfect mouth as the absolute bliss rushes over him and leaves him shaking. 

“Well that was lovely, ” Aziraphale is saying when he comes back to himself. “I’m very much looking forward to next time already.”

He has flopped himself back on the couch next to Crowley’s still-trembling body (he’s definitely miracled the couch bigger, then) and is lying flat on his back, hands clenched at his sides. His trousers are neatly buttoned over his still-straining cock.

“Angel—“ Crowley is almost laughing, blissed-out, euphoric. He reaches for Aziraphale, eager to get his hands back on him. The angel lightly bats him away. 

“What—“

“I said I am looking forward to next time, my dear. Tomorrow. And the day after that and the day after that. Preferably multiple times every day.”

Oh. Oh. 

“But what if—“ Crowley can’t stop himself from saying. 

Aziraphale meets his eyes. “Crowley. When have you ever known me to turn down something pleasurable?” His voice is tense and gravelly but warm.  

Crowley makes a little noise that means “practically never, unless you count six thousand years of me wanting to do almost exactly this.” 

Aziraphale seems to understand. “So I’m not turning down this particular pleasure either, darling. I’m just putting it off until tomorrow. I hear that can be quite pleasurable, in the end.” He takes a deep breath to calm himself. “It had better be, because you are…quite difficult to resist like this.” His cock is still enormously hard. Crowley is pretty sure can see the angel’s heartbeat in it. He reaches out again, as if hypnotised. 

Aziraphale grabs his wrist and presses it neatly back on the couch. “Tomorrow, Crowley.” His eyes are still so soft. “We will have a tomorrow. We will have many, many tomorrows.” He bites his lip. “If I weren’t certain of that I’d be having you right now.” 

Crowley is too blissed out to argue. He knows the angel can’t be one hundred percent certain it will all work out in their favour. But Aziraphale’s hope is seductive. Reassuring. He turns to the angel and arranges himself around his body, drawing him into a comfortable cuddle that won’t torture Aziraphale with accidental caresses or pressure where he doesn’t currently want to be caressed or pressed. Tucks his face against his neck. Sighs. 

“Okay, Angel. Have it your way.” He’s yawning. “Where’d you learn to do that, by the way? S’really good.” 

“I have read a number of instructional articles on the internet about it, in case I ever got the chance. The Bad Girls Bible was especially informative.” Aziraphale is stroking his hair. 

Crowley hums, sleepy and delighted. Settles in. 

After a moment, Aziraphale presses a kiss into Crowley’s hair. Whispers, “the apocalypse cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while.”

He still sounds deliciously horny. 

Crowley sleeps. 

 

Notes:

The lovely and thoughtful YesIt’sUnholy was kind enough to beta this for me—thank goodness for antipodean friends!