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It’s a silk bed sheet.
It’s black, shiny even in the faint glow of the dimly lit room, and it holds only the echo of warmth.
It’s a silk bed sheet and it’s nothing like skin. It doesn’t breathe; it suffocates. It stretches out across seventy-six inches of Crowley’s mattress. Taut. And it’s soft, soft in a way that feels almost like touch escapes it. Like fingertips can barely register it exists.
It’s soft, yes, but somehow, it’s even softer when Crowley starts grinding down into it. It’s not a purposeful grind, not an urgent or desperate thrust of his hips; it’s lazy, and slow, and patient. It’s almost nothing, really; or at least that’s what Crowley pretends, because his mind is clouded in a fog of blonde curls and full, pink lips — probably softer still than silk — and he can’t handle it being something.
He’s still drenched from his absurdly long bath, short wet strands of auburn hair uncomfortably clinging to the nape of his neck, and he’s got miles of silk bed sheet gliding against his bare body. From his cheek pressed into it, to his belly, to the tip of his feet. If he focuses on it and happens to moans, weakly, his pillow swallows it.
Suddenly, he recalls what he’d hoped the absurdly long bath would’ve washed away, down the drain, far away . A foolish hope, really. There is nowhere far enough away; it’s always right there, somewhere beneath his ribcage, this craving nagging at him, this maddening desire that he can’t shake off. Blonde curls, and full, pink lips, and pale freckled skin —
Crowley halts his movements. He breathes. Maybe his fingers clench around the fabric of his pillow, but his mind is still too foggy to acknowledge it. Then he shifts slightly, props his right knee up to lie more comfortably, but maybe he’s just pretending again, because he pushes in with his hips, and a shiver passes through him.
Fuck — Stop it.
It’s not a battle, it’s a war. Crowley remembers the way Aziraphale looked at him from across the bookshop, eyes peeking above the hardcover of a hefty tome, and then he sees him so clearly, walking closer, snapping his book shut, dust flying off in the sun rays, leaning over where Crowley is splayed out on the couch, and — shelving the book back where it belongs. It takes him a second to do it, a second too long; he’s fumbling because the shelf is packed tight from left to right, and Crowley can still see it so clearly. The waistcoat rising up, dragging the undershirt along with it, exposing a sliver of hip bone. The curve of his waist, the concentrated look on his face. Pursed lips, furrowed brows. The soft grunt of exasperation when the books just won’t cooperate.
Damn him and his beautiful, perfect everything. Damn him for not even realizing how standing so close to him makes Crowley feel boneless, like he’s crawling under his own skin, like his forked tongue wants to slip out and taste the air. Taste him.
Crowley knows it’s something. He’s no idiot. His hips give a sharp twitch, but he resists it still. He holds on to his pillow like it’s a lifebuoy that will save him from drowning.
Maybe he just likes the taste of denial. Maybe it’s a twisted part of his demonic soul, maybe it’s not, but that twisted part is definitely the reason why he is so adamant on not moving, on not caving in. It’s intoxicating, the push and pull with his deepest, most filthy thoughts, thoughts that should be nowhere near the syllables of Aziraphale’s name. He hates himself, and yet he also doesn’t.
He shifts again, readjusting, but as soon as he sends a signal to his limbs that they’re allowed to move, his hips follow suit, seeking more of that softness, that firm mattress draped in mulberry silk. His eyes roll back. He gasps.
He is growing helpless to the craving. He’s growing weak. He pushes in once more, and it’s deliriously good, how the silk is determined not to give him the satisfaction of any friction.
It’s exactly what he needs.
He starts moving back and forth; slowly, so slow. If the movement is slow enough, he can convince himself it’s not deliberate. He can close his eyes and feign that he’s asleep. He’s dreaming, maybe. None of this is real. It’s not happening.
Aziraphale is tempting in ways so opposite to Crowley. He’s not a tall drink of confidence, he doesn’t flaunt long legs around when he walks. He doesn’t entice dirty thoughts by pulling on the hem of a deep V-neck and exposing collarbones, or by leaning against walls with a tilt in his hips, or a smirk tugging at his lips.
No, Aziraphale looks perpetually stuffed inside the tight collar of his dress shirt. He’s always dressed like he just came back from church sometime in the late 19th century; muted tones of beiges and pastels enhancing the deep blue of his eyes, with so many layers of clothes to uncover, and a bowtie snug around his neck. Crowley oh so wishes he could touch, and grab, and feel. Undress and taste and devour.
Aziraphale is tempting in the same way one’s fingers itches to tear at the label of plastic water bottles when in-hand. He ignites the same kind of yearning one feels for a hot sip of coffee to burn its way down their throat in the mornings. He’s dangerous even in his wholesomeness; he’s addictive, he’s… he’s…
He’s a temptation custom-made for Crowley.
Somehow, Crowley’s slow grinding, the slight push of his ass hovering up, then pressing down, grows even slower. Slacker. He lets it fizzle out and inhales a deep breath, suddenly focused on the feeling of his half-filled cock trapped between the silk sheet and his belly. It’s almost suffocating.
A whimper leaves his lips. No one is there to hear it, to mock him or judge him, yet still, Crowley blushes a fiery red. He feels his cheeks warm up in a burst of shame, and instantly he presses his nose into the memory foam of his pillow, reminding the oxygen around him that it’s completely superfluous. He whimpers again. It’s muffled and he cuts it off halfway out of his throat; but it’s there, it’s real, it’s inevitable.
To start moving again is not a conscious decision Crowley makes. He’s hit with the mental image of Aziraphale hovering above him – arm stretched and resting against the bookshelf to support himself – and he uses it to conjure up a different scene. Aziraphale leaning down to smile at him, to tease him, to communicate with a single, heavy look – eyelids fluttering – that he wants him.
Crowley’s body responds in-sync with the fantasy; one hand goes to grab the top of the headboard as he imagines reaching out to clasp a hand at the back of Aziraphale’s neck, and his cock throbs as it hardens, while he’s thinking about bringing his mouth to Aziraphale’s, thinking about darting his tongue out to taste his lips.
It’s almost a point of no return. Crowley is rutting against the bed by now, short spasms of his hips in a flood of sweet, sweet silk, his thoughts lost to any sort of self control; Aziraphale fencing him in with his thighs, straddling him, biting his neck, touching him —
He feels a familiar pressure build up at his core. It’s tight and warm — burning, even. It build up, and up, and up —
He stops. Slams his hand against the headrest, then finally raises his head to take a breath. It translates itself into more of a moan, a guttural, painful moan; and again he silences himself, slams the headboard once more.
If he moves even a muscle at his core, he’ll come. Practically stone-cold petrified, he tries to steady his breathing, to tame the body, control the mind. He lays there like that for a while.
His climax settles back down, although his cock twitches in complaint, oblivious to Crowley’s struggle, desperate for more. He gives it a moment to catch up with the program, until he’s sure that he’s not on the verge of spilling his release anymore, and, extra-sensitive, he resumes his movements.
He’s more deliberate this time. The time for pretending has passed, gone out of him like a puff of cigarette smoke from his lungs. With his hand on the headboard he’s got more leverage, and his fingers dig into the wood, crumbs of paint lodging themselves underneath his nails when he helplessly scratches at it, hips pistoning into the mattress.
The silk bed sheet is still so soft, too soft, and it makes Crowley’s cock weep. The material is already soaked with his fluid, a wet patch growing cold against his skin, but it’s glorious, it’s perfect, and yet it’s nothing like what he really wishes he could have. What he really wishes he could feel.
Maybe that’s why he’s allowing it. The torture of it, it’s the only thing keeping him from spiraling into a tornado of doubts, of guilt.
It doesn’t take long for his orgasm to rear its head again. It laps at his insides like the flicker of a flame, tightening a knot in his guts, and it pulses, tries to unknot itself, to spill out a mess of white upon the silk.
Before it can succeed, Crowley’s hips snap up, bringing himself to his knees, his face ever-more-so pressed into the pillow. He’s panting and drooling all over it, the complete, sudden loss of all contact tearing a groan out of his throat, half-muffled. His cock threatens to give out an unsatisfactory release, but by sheer force of will, Crowley holds it back; it’s truly a wonder how he doesn’t slam his body back into the mattress, hard, and come right there and then.
It’s almost too much, even though it’s excruciatingly not enough; the heavy weight between his legs, almost painful — tense, and angry. Crowley brings himself up on his elbows and lolls his head down to look at the state of himself, and he moans, breathless.
His cock is still twitching against the fanthom feel of the silk against it, trying to reach out to it, and if Crowley would only let himself drop slightly, he’d brush against it, and he’d be done for. Untethered from his restraints, a flash of hot bliss. He’d be gone.
He reaches behind himself and starts grasping at the flesh of his own thigh with one hand, trying to distract it from the urge to wrap around his cock, and oh, what a cruel joke it is that he’s a strong enough being to tear through almost anything, but that he cannot feel pain inflicted by his own hand.
So strong, he’s resistant to his own strength.
A sick part of him wishes that he could. He wants to feel a rush beyond what alcohol can give him, he wants to feel his longing materialized on his skin. Bite marks and red handprints all over him; a kind of pain an angel could most definitely make a demon feel.
Above all, he wishes he could wake up in the morning, and feel sore, and used, and loved — in the way that humans can be.
The thought forces his eyes tightly shut.
He feels like he’s hovering over a precipice, and like the fall is calling out to him. Asking him to let go, to give in.
He’s never wanted to fall before. His hand holds on tighter still to his thigh, it pulls at the skin, but it doesn’t help. He starts panting against the pillow, sinking.
His mind goes back to Aziraphale — always — another traitorous sound making its way out of his mouth. By the time Crowley’s lips are parted open wide, tongue darting out in delirium, his hand finally stops abusing his thigh, and moves on to tease the hairs at the base of his cock.
Something like a whine leaves him then. The sound escapes cracked and pitchy, and Crowley hides his face in his pillow again.
Aziraphale. It’s carved in his brain, not an echo but a shout, a relentless drumming of the angel’s name. Suddenly he’s thinking about kissing down the length of his neck, tearing off his clothes in impatience, gifting him with the softest of touches. He knows Aziraphale must be all warm flesh and delicate skin, elegant in his curves, yet strong even beyond what his celestial powers grant him. It’s in the thickness of his thighs and the distinct lines of his muscles, the width of his hands, his fingers.
Whereas Crowley had been created like a sketch in charcoal, all rough lines and dark shadows, Aziraphale had been sculpted in marble.
Fuck — it’s too much. Too pure. Crowley feels his heart drop in his gut, a pleasant weight which only gets heavier when his fingers finally dare to encircle his cock. Touch finally granted, a shiver goes through him from somewhere between his shoulder blades all the way to his toes. His cock twitches in anticipation, already begging for more.
Crowley is craving for Aziraphale to be here with him like he’s never craved before, and if he were a different kind, a different soul, he’d call him and tell him so. He’d beg him to come over and wreck him — take me, I’m yours, I’ve always been.
He groans, and his hand starts moving.
It’s shy on the upstroke. His grip is too loose, and he starts trembling with the urge to go faster, to indulge in his pleasure better. But he can’t; already he’s letting his thoughts run wild — Aziraphale’s hands on him, tracing patterns from his shoulder blades, to his ribs, to his thighs, maybe even going through the whole path again in reverse — and he just can’t. It’s already a mistake. Already, it’s a truth he’ll have to face in the morning and wrinkle his nose at. He does not wish to know what he would have to live with, if he did let himself enjoy this fully.
He steadies his hand and starts grinding again, the mess of precome slicking the way through his closed fist; it’s good, it’s so good he falls forward and spreads his knees further apart, giving himself more room to move. He’s not in control anymore, he’s completely lost, freefalling into a dream where it’s Aziraphale’s hand that’s on him; a dream where he’s lying beneath him, coaxing him on, praising him. Crowley starts deliriously mouthing at the fabric of his pillowcase, teeth coming out to bite at it, and the myriad of soft grunts he’s making suddenly grow in all aspects; in intensity, in volume, in power.
Again, he feels himself about to come. His climax wants to make itself undeniable, a wave of heat rushing at his core, his cock throbbing in his hand, but by some miracle, he recognizes it before it can topple over, and he stops. He snaps his hand away and starts helplessly grasping at the bedsheet.
To hear him then, one would think he was getting flayed; a cascade of profanities and high-pitched laments cascade their way out of him, and he is practically howling . His cock pulses and complains, and he is wet from sweat, now, his bath long forgotten; his hips, confused by the sudden loss of contact, continue to thrust into the empty air.
“Ah – Ah –” His tongue itches to say the name – Aziraphale, Aziraphale – but he is afraid that manifesting it into the dark, empty room will make him fall all the way to Hell, all over again. He whines and his body drops, slowly, beyond his control; his knees slide out and his legs stretch out, and he is one again with the sweet, smooth, silk bed sheet.
There is no point denying himself any longer. No point in trying to go back, in trying to ignore the pulsating need in his loins. He holds on to the headboard again, with both hands this time, and he gives in. He rubs himself against the mattress, up and down, back and forth, pressing in further and further in, harder and faster, and it’s glorious. It’s magnificent, it’s fucking euphoric; he drops his head back, neck bent almost completely backwards, and he moans, loud, right on the edge of unashamed.
When he finally comes, it’s in long, hard and heavy streaks, and the headboard cracks under his grip, shards of wood splitting off. Crowley gasps in surprise but he is experiencing such a wave of ecstasy that he cannot care about the splinters in the palm of his hands. He presses himself further into the mattress, stays deep in there, his cock completely trapped, and he feels it convulsing against his belly as it spills out the last of its release.
He cannot move. He cannot breathe. Not that he needs to, but he is able to feel all the breath punched out of him. A human would have blacked out, he thinks. Instead, he sees stars behind his eyes, he sees galaxies , and he lies there for what feels like a week.
He winces when he finally rolls himself over to his back. He stares at the ceiling, panting, chest heaving. If a tear escapes the corner of his eye, well, he tells himself it’s a natural reaction to such overstimulation.
And the silk bed sheet –
The silk bed sheet is ruined .
(And maybe Crowley is, too).