Author: H.J. Bender
Rating: R for A/C slash, language.
Summary: Crowley has a weakness that Aziraphale ruthlessly exploits all over the wall of his bookshop. Sex. Kink. Profanity. Blasphemy. Violent mad shagging.
Disclaimer: Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett own Good Omens and everything to do with it. I only own this fic. My profound apologies to the authors. May they never, ever find this.
Feedback: Not recommended.

"It filled him with a great unrest and strange desires. It caused him to feel a vague, sweet gladness, and he was aware of wild yearnings and stirrings for he knew not what."
-Jack London, The Call of the Wild

"You know, it wouldn't kill you to answer the phone once in a while, Aziraphale. You'd think that after it rings for twenty nonstop minutes, you'd get the idea, yes?"

This was Crowley, stomping through the door of a musty-smelling, dimly illuminated little store very familiar to most of the readers, and slamming the door behind him. He was in a wonderful mood, actually; his malcontent was only half-hearted, vague, and very poorly directed. Of course, so was he. But he could do with a stout ranting every once in a while, and now just so happened to be one of those once-in-a-whiles.

"-and I hope you're aware of how absurd you're being and how greatly it inconveniences me when you decide to go into solitary confinement like this. I could almost swear you do it intentionally just to spite me. You know, I think I'm going to start carving notches on the door every time you force me to drive all the way out here because you refuse to pick up the phone. Why don't you just rip the thing out of the wall and use it for a-"

He was so preoccupied with establishing a solid argument that he didn't realise he was talking to thin air until he reached the counter. He was a little put out, and more than a little curious as to why the door would be open and nobody home. Of course, there was no such thing as a locked door to Crowley, anyway.

"Aziraphale?" he inquired to the empty shop.

He leaned over the counter and looked beneath it, searched between the book shelves, and found nothing.

Crowley scowled.

Then he smelled it. That scent.

Aziraphale was here. In the back room, precisely.

Six thousand years of camaraderie had lent the demon a few extra senses when it came to recognising the presence of his associate, not that his associate smelled pungent or offencive to him; it was simply a familiar Aziraphale aroma, an angel scent. Fresh clouds and lavender it was, mixed in with Aziraphale's personal brand of old paper and parchment glue, wool sweaters, tea leaves, and those sandalwood incense sticks that he lit on occasion.

Crowley scowled again and made his way towards the back room. He had actually been considering pardoning the angel for not answering his calls if he weren't here, but now that he knew he was here, it made him all the more annoyed.

He pushed open the door with a relentless "-and furthermore…" before the eyes behind the dark sunglasses registered what they were seeing, and he paused with one foot over the threshold.

White wings were spread wide in an astonishing display, reaching almost from one end of the room to the other, and the shirtless angel attached to them was diligently preening.

Aziraphale, bearing his true form¹, did not even pause in grooming to acknowledge Crowley's presence, though he said rather briskly without sparing a glance, "Would you please shut the door, Crowley. I'm replacing the blinds on the front windows and you can see straight through the entire shop." (1. Which, while certainly not as flawless as what humans may imagine heavenly bodies to look like, was a certain degree fairer than his mortal one.)

"If you've got eyes that can see round all this clutter," the demon snorted, and closed the door with a solid bang. Then he blinked.

Something had just changed. He didn't know what, but something was different now.

"Did you just feel that?" he asked.

"Feel what?"


"Could you be a little more vague, my dear? I don't think I'm completely lost yet."

"Never mind," Crowley muttered, and leaned against the door jamb.

"So," he drawled, changing the subject, "that's why you weren't answering the phone, eh?"

"I told you last month they were itching," Aziraphale murmured, pulling the old sheath off of a new alula feather and allowing it to drift to the pile of casings already littering the floor where he stood. "I presumed you would catch on eventually that I do not wish to be bothered or taken someplace when I'm moulting."

"You should get an ansaphone."

"Nobody calls me but you, Crowley."

"Maybe if you let me take you out more often you'd actually have people calling you."

"Oh, yes. I daresay that is all that I need, people interested in me. It's bad enough I've a demon who comes poking around every time I attempt to have a few consecutive hours of silence-"

"Well, if you'd groom your blessed wings more frequently instead of waiting until they become such a bother, maybe you wouldn't have to set aside an entire day to attend to-"

"Don't lecture me, Crowley!" Aziraphale snapped suddenly. "If I'd wanted to listen to a sermon on angelic hygiene I'd have gone to a meeting of the H.K.² Medical Doctors of Aviation, now you may either stay and make an attempt at civilised conversation or leave now." (2. Heavenly Kingdom, as in 'Up There'.)

Crowley looked thoroughly and unexpectedly chastised.

"All right, all right. Sorry," he said grudgingly. "Didn't expect you to be in such a lovely mood."

"You know very well how I am when I'm moulting. Don't guilt me."


Aziraphale continued preening. Crowley watched, unable to think of anything to say in the wake of the angel's vinegar-sweet comments. He knew that any and all efforts to chat would be met with annoyance and exasperation, making the whole point of dropping in a trifle useless when Aziraphale was like this. The demon would have gladly taken his lecturing, uncivilised self elsewhere had it not been for one thing:

Fresh, new, white-as-virgin-snow angel feathers.

Perhaps the angels themselves never noticed, but they carried a scent, not unpleasant or particularly fragrant, but nonetheless heady and powerful. Or perhaps it was something only noticed by others. There wasn't a smell like it on this Earth. A unique Heaven smell.

Sometimes it followed an angel around, even when cloaked in their guises of mortal flesh. Crowley could sniff an angel out of a crowd of humans without ever having to open his eyes. Greater still, he could sniff Aziraphale out of an army, even if he were to roll in mud and rub mothballs all over his skin. Familiarity had lent its talent to him, though not by any measure of mortal nature. This finely-tuned sense was a part of Crowley's basic demonic instinct, and it was this instinct that was solely responsible for his reluctance to leave the back room right now.

"May I," he began, licking his dry lips and watching intently, "be of any assistance?"

Aziraphale smiled momentarily at this as he bent one wing around to rearrange his greater coverts. "Wasn't aware you fancied yourself a stylist."

"I was being honest."

"I'm quite all right, thank you."

"Are you sure? Those scapulars are hard to reach."

He sidled slowly closer, hands in his pockets.

"They look a bit rough, if you ask me. I could just-"

He reached out towards one white wing.

"-smooth them down a bit-"

Before Crowley could place his hand on Aziraphale's wing, it was folded and tucked securely against the angel's side. Aziraphale was staring at him oddly.

"I am quite all right, thank you," he said with deliberation, "but if you'd like to be of any use you are more than welcome to sweep the floor."

Were it any other occasion, Crowley would have been repelled by the very indignation of cleaning up after a moulting angel, but this wasn't any other occasion, and the smell of new feathers was beginning to go to his head.

"Okay," he said, and turned to search for the broom. Anything to stay a few minutes longer.

Aziraphale, satisfied with his answer, looked the other way and left his right wing momentarily unguarded.

Crowley saw the opportunity and seized it like he had seized nothing else before in his immortal life; he quickly leaned down to the warm, rustling feathers, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He had meant to be quick about it but there was just something about the smell of brand new angel feathers that slowed his reactions down like a long night after too much rock and tequila.

Aziraphale turned around when he became curious as to why Crowley hadn't moved, and made a small noise of surprise. He snatched his wing away as the demon suddenly regained his senses and tried not to look as if he had been doing what he had just been doing.

"My dear, were you smelling me?"

The tone was accusational.

"I . . . er," came the impeccably witty reply.

"You were. You were smelling me. Dare I ask why? Have you a weird fetish I should know about, Crowley?"

"Uh, I . . . "

"Up to something, are you? Trying to be funny, perhaps? Decent people don't go about sniffing each other like that, it's crude. We're not animals."

"Ah, well-"

"I demand an explanation. Come now, don't be shy, out with it!"

Aziraphale, bare-chested and flustered, glared with an expression that would have frozen fire. It was quite enough to make one feel extremely uneasy.

Crowley massaged his forehead for a moment before turning his head to the side and muttering something.

"I'm sorry?" the angel prompted.

"I said, you smell nice."

He had hoped Aziraphale would be flattered at the compliment but his expectations took a complete 180 and fell even faster than he had. The angel looked more cross than before.

"Am I supposed to smell terrible, Crowley, is that it? Is it illegal to have a pleasant scent? I wasn't aware the Odour Patrol was in your jurisdiction. Do forgive me, Constable Crowley, I didn't mean to give your olfactory senses such a start. You really have some nerve, you arrogant prick."

Crowley's eyes shot open wide. He had never heard Aziraphale say that word before, ever. It made his heart unwittingly skip a beat and also excited a few other of his mortal organs³. He wanted to say something in response to this unexpected insult, but he also wanted to offer an explanation and deny Aziraphale's wild accusations. (3. Not limited to just his internal ones, either.)

When he eventually found his faculty to speak once more, it all came out in one word:


Aziraphale's face was worthy of an Oscar for Best Comedy. Crowley wanted to off himself right then and there.

"I think perhaps it would be best if one of us left this room," said Aziraphale lowly.

Crowley nodded and removed his sunglasses. They stared at each other and didn't move.

"I love the smell of angels," he abruptly confessed. "I love it. You all smell delicious and it drives me insane. It does something to my mind, messes it about. It's the most arousing thing I think I've ever experienced. It makes me want to get naked and feel your wings wrapped around me. I want rub my cock up and down your feathers and come all over them and lick it off. I want-"

Aziraphale closed his eyes and shouted, "Shut up, Crowley! Just shut up!"

And in the next moment he had pinned the demon against the opposite wall and was kissing him ravenously.

"Oh God in Heaven!" Crowley gasped his people's most unutterable blasphemy when the kiss was broken and his shirt torn open. Buttons plinked onto the polished wood floors as Aziraphale began to enthusiastically ravish him where he stood, pressed to the wall.

"S-sso," he uttered breathlessly between clenched teeth, "you're not sso ssexless after all."

"Shut up," the angel ordered, a frightening fierceness in his normally docile expression as he took Crowley by the jaw and stared into his eyes. "Don't say a word."

The demon nodded slightly, and a second later a hot mouth was sucking the tender flesh of his throat.

It felt wonderful.

Eventually Aziraphale's tongue found its way down Crowley's chest and stomach, leaving a smouldering trail of moistness until reaching the belt of his pants. A few swift motions later and the demon had one hand bracing himself against the wall as he struggled to remain on his feet, his other hand grasping a fistful of the angel's disheveled hair. Amber eyes threatened to roll back into his head as he stared up at the ceiling listlessly.

"Oh fuck no, yess," he moaned. "Azir . . . Aziraphale. Fuck."

It was so good it was excruciating.

He arched his back and pushed his hips forward a little. He looked down, and had to look back up again. His face burned, but not for himself. Nice little angels shouldn't be doing things like this. It was very naughty. Angels were supposed to be good. Angels were supposed to be chaste. Angels never did things that were-

"Sssacrilegious," Crowley hissed softly with a smile as Aziraphale worked him with skills that told this could not possibly be his first time on his knees.

Crowley's eyes were torn away from the interesting wood pattern on the ceiling and down to the angel between his legs. He tried to close them but they kept opening of their own half-horrified, half-fascinated accord. He soon gave up attempting to blind himself to this unspeakable act, and watched with lurid resignation his rigid shaft of flesh was swallowed whole by that warm, slippery, heavenly mouth again, and again, and again. Crowley never knew his associate was capable of a wanton act like this.

Crowley obviously never knew his associate.

Aziraphale murmured deep in his throat, causing the demon to grunt desperately and bite his tightly clenched fist to keep himself from screaming. Crowley wasn't the type to scream, he decided that for himself a long time ago. He felt like it. He wanted to, but he would never surrender himself so easily as that.

In some bizarre way the idea seemed forthwith very hypocritical to him right now, with someone that could broadly be considered his immortal enemy kneeling with his face pressed into Crowley's groin and his hands sliding up the back of his thighs like twin serpents. How could he have surrendered himself to this madness so quickly?

The answer was in front of him, whispering gently in their milky-white softness, emanating their potent aroma that made Crowley think of nothing but sex and fleshly pleasures.

Treacherous beacons of wanton lust. Nothing more, nothing less.

Whose idea was it that an angel should ever be capable of tempting a demon? Crowley helplessly thought as he bent himself over Aziraphale's shoulder and wrapped his arms around one gloriously warm wing. He buried himself into the sensuous smell of angel feathers and felt as if any humiliation he suffered now or later were well worth it to be able to feel this level of orgasmic bliss.

Bloody mercy, I'm such a whore.

Lips parted and Crowley's red, serpentine tongue began to drag itself along the elegant curve of each single feather like a cat washing its coat. Aziraphale hummed in approval, stretching his wing forward so that Crowley could continue his ministrations. He did, gradually working himself higher and higher onto that precipice of mortal euphoria.

It was almost too much to stand. Almost. Between the scent, the taste, the touch, and Aziraphale sucking his cock as if he were born to do it, Crowley yielded. And oh, how he yielded.

"I-I'm going to come, Aziraphale," he panted, "I'm going to. Come, ah!"

And he came. All over Aziraphale's face. And he wanted to die.

"I'm sso ssorry," he panted miserably as he retreated back against the wall once more. "I . . . I didn't mean-"

Aziraphale wordlessly rose to his feet and, with wings spread in an unmistakable sign of dominance, pressed himself against Crowley until the demon knew he couldn't breathe even if he wanted to.

"Lick," said Aziraphale in a husky murmur. "Lick it all off."

"B-but I-"

A fist seized a handful of his dark hair and pulled it sharply, painfully.


"Shut your mouth," came the terrifyingly cold command, "and do as I say."

Crowley didn't think it was possible for one to feel shocked, frightened, and overwhelmingly horny at the same time. But he was always amazingly talented when it came to proving himself wrong.

Afraid of what would happen if he dared to disobey the side of his old friend that he had never seen before, Crowley closed his eyes, leaned forward, and licked his own semen from Aziraphale's cheek.

"That's it," said the angel with subdued menace in his tone. "Get it all, dear boy."

As the demon dutifully lapped up his seed he became aware of the sensation of Aziraphale's bare body burning against his own like a flame; it was then that he realised all of his torn clothes had been removed through no means of his own, and that he was as naked as the angel now was.

With his shameful task completed, Crowley remained fearfully still as Aziraphale pressed his mouth against his ear to whisper, "Shall I fuck you now, or would you prefer to suck me off first?"

Crowley's knees promptly buckled. He almost blacked out, managing only to croak a faint, unintelligible reply. Fortunately Aziraphale had his wrists pinned to the wall to save him from tumbling out from under himself; steadily he eased Crowley down to the floor where the demon collapsed onto his folded legs with his head swimming and his senses reeling, groaning quietly to himself.

"I daresay you're making this frightfully easy," the angel smirked as he slinked his way behind Crowley and wrapped his arms around his slender waist. "One must wonder what your social status in Hell must be."

The demon was far too senseless to register the stinging insult, instead preoccupied with the sound of wings unfolding and Aziraphale's warm hands as they brushed across his chest and tweaked his nipples in such as way as to make him whine in abbreviated little gasps.

"Hmm, how badly do you want this, Crowley, my lad?" Aziraphale hummed against the side of Crowley's neck. "Do tell me how."

"Ahh, sso badly, very badly," he panted. "Pleasse. I'll do anything."

"Anything for what?"

"For you to . . ." Crowley gulped and closed his eyes, feeling the sweat dripping from his brow and rolling down the side of his face. ". . . to take me."

"Take you where?" the angel purred, enjoying this torturous game as he drew his wings in to wrap around both their bodies.

"I want you to have me."

"Have me what?"

"Know me!" Crowley cried with frustration. "Claim me! I . . ."

He could not say it, would not. But somehow, by some stretch of his most fantastic will, he managed.

"Fuck me, Azsssiraphale," he begged between gritted teeth. "I want you to put it in me. Come in me. I'll be … I'll be a good boy. I'll be anything you want. Jusst fuck me as hard as you can."

"Well now," Aziraphale murmured with triumph in his voice, "I suppose that is good enough."

Crowley felt the hard, heated erection of the angel prodding into the small of his back, then sliding low into the smooth cleft of his buttocks. And suddenly, he was there inside.

Then outside. Then inside again.

Crowley screamed.

He heard Aziraphale grunt in his ear, "Oh, yes. Right there. Hnn, you're tight, my dear. So very tight . . ."

Crowley screamed again and completely lost whatever was left of the rest of his mind. It floated out into the atmosphere somewhere, perhaps dissipating in twinkling sparkles like fading fairy dust. Wherever, whatever, however, it mattered nothing to nobody anymore.

He fell forward onto his hands and knees with a cry, Aziraphale's thrusts rocking his body forward and back as he pounded into him forcefully. Crowley's teeth clicked together each time the angel slid inside, and he was aroused so intensely by this rough and hurried intercourse that he was half-mad with pain.

"Harder," he pleaded gutturally, "fuck me harder!"

Each thrust became sharp and heavy, slamming and brutal and unspeakably violent. It wasn't love. It wasn't even sex. It was torture, cruel and merciless. And Crowley loved it beyond spoken expression. His consciousness faded into an absolute darkness where the only proof of his existence remained in the form of a single thought: more.

Aziraphale placed his hands on the demon's hips and moaned his name again and again.

"Oh, Crowley, dear Crowley . . ."

Over and over, until it became an irreverent mantra.

Crowley, Crowley, Crowley, Crowley, Crowley . . .

". . . Crowley, dear boy, can you hear me? Wake up."

Lids over golden eyes opened slowly, and Crowley found himself in a completely changed environment. His clothes were on, though his coat was missing and his tie loosened. Looking down, he also saw that his shoes had been removed and a throw blanket was draped over his body. He was in fact lying on Aziraphale's shabby sofa with a cold, wet rag on his forehead.

His forehead. Which was oddly sore and throbbing with a steady pulse of pain.

"Nnnhngk," he moaned, blinking hazily as if he had just come out of a drugged slumber. "-the hell did you do to me?"

"Now, now. Don't try to sit up just yet, you wild thing. No good in getting a head rush, you know. Just try to lie still and relax."

Crowley turned his head. Aziraphale was crouching on the floor beside the sofa, smiling with familiar, gentle warmth. No sadistic desire was writ onto his patient, caring expression. No carnal lust was flickering in the depths of his gentle blue eyes. No, it was simply the same old boring, bookish, silly, poofy angel he had always known and detested and admired, and Crowley couldn't have been more relieved and disappointed to see him.

"Aziraphale . . ." he murmured.

"Oh my. You're still a bit groggy, aren't you?"

"What happened? Where did . . . Where are your wings? You're wearing clothes now. But we just . . . Didn't we . . . ?"

"Try not to talk, Crowley. You sound delirious. Close your eyes now, there's a good lad."

The demon grimaced and reached up to rub the large knot that had formed above his right eye.

"You must have pushed me into the floor."

"Rubbish, I didn't push you into anything, except maybe this sofa. I could have knocked the living daylights out of you for doing something so stupid, though it would have been rather pointless seeing as how you were already unconscious."

"You, I . . . You what?"

Aziraphale sighed and rolled his eyes.

"I've been telling you for years not to slam that door, and now look where it's got you. You rattled that shelf completely off the wall. I say, you were quite fortunate to have only been struck with the bookend — there were several other statuettes up there that were much heavier than-"

"What shelf?"

"The one above the door, Crowley, the one whose strut gave out and sent everything on it down onto your head. Thank goodness the other strut held, otherwise you might have broken your silly neck."

"What bookend?"

"If you must know, that one," Aziraphale said, pointing to the solid marble figure of a smiling, portly cherub now sitting on the table in the centre of the room. "Had I known a simple bookend was capable of causing you such damage, I'd have set it out of harm's way."

Crowley was having trouble digesting it all.

"You, you're telling me that I hit my head. And it knocked me out?"

"In so many words, yes."


"Shortly after you walked in on me grooming my wings, though I don't expect you remember anything leading up to that point. Concussions are quite-"

"And you put me here on the couch?"

"Yes. I've been looking after you ever since. You've been out for nearly four hours. It's almost dark. You snore, you know. Well, not so much snore as snuffle every now and then. It's really quite adorable."

"I think I'm going to throw up, Aziraphale."

Crowley looked convincingly, worryingly nauseated.

"Oh dear. Would you like a bucket?"

"I think I'd like to leave."

"Nonsense, you're not going anywhere with your head in that conditi- hey! Crowley! Did you hear what I said? Get back here this instant, you incorrigible-"

But Crowley was already stumbling onto his feet and reeling out of the back room like a drunkard. He simply had to get out of here. He'd go home and try to sort things out, possibly break into a bottle of whisky and spend the evening wanking off, but now it was too much to be near him. Must get away, run, flee, abandon ship at all costs, every demon for himself.

He tripped going down the front steps and crashed into the side of the waiting Bentley. A moment later he slid into the driver's seat, started the engine, and left another pair of black tyre marks for Aziraphale to miracle away in the morning.

The driving relaxed Crowley somewhat, and he slumped down into the comfortably-moulded, demon-shaped indention in his seat and rubbed his aching forehead.

What a nightmare. What a dream come true. Half of him wanted remember it forever while half of him wanted to forget about it entirely for the sake of his relationship, no! No, his company! His acquaintance! With the angel. Yes, that was all. Oh, this was going to be unbearable. It would be months before he would be able to look Aziraphale in the face again without dredging up the memory of that frighteningly real, coma-induced state of delirium.

As he was making the turn off of Oxford Street, Crowley was momentarily seized with a particularly wretched fit of coughing, and he turned his head to the side to have himself a good hack. When his throat had at last stopped itching, he looked down into the passenger seat, described the most horrified expression in the history of man, and abruptly slammed on the breaks.

From the leather cushion of the passenger seat, a pearly white feather gleamed back up at him.

The End