It was a rainy Saturday.
The kind that can only be found in England, when the gray hue of the sky seems to bleed into the landscape and turns every inch of the two-and-a-half metre visibility radius into a dreary sludge.
It was a rainy Saturday and Anthony J. Crowley was strolling up and down the street, punching surreptitious cracks into lorry windows so the seats would get soggy and the passengers would get cranky. Keeping the cracks small enough to be invisible, yet large enough to let in the rain wasn't an easy task, and the demon was quite proud of his handiwork. Every expression of misery as a passenger sank into the seat with a tooth-rattling squelch made him chuckle with unholy glee.
Crowley wasn't on the job. He was simply bored.
And the reason that Anthony Crowley was bored enough to be out wreaking subtle havoc on this particular rainy Saturday was that a certain angel was on duty.
Although Azirahale had been tainted, as had Crowley, by the touch of humanity, the Upstairs Boss was a little more lenient about that sort of thing than his Downstairs counterpart. Go figure. So Aziraphale was still called upon from time to time to appear in dreams delivering messages of hope, put the fear of God into junkies, and hold supporting roles in Nativity plays.
So to be perfectly accurate, when Jeremy Mason, aged thirty-nine, collapsed into the back of a cab after a long afternoon of answering telephones and being bureaucratic and let out a yell of despair to find himself soaked from knees to navel, the party towards whom he should have been directing his copious and fluent profanity was, in fact, a young woman named Jessica McKay who had decided to end it all and was currently perched on a ledge fourteen stories up about eight blocks from Mr. Mason, and into whose ear Aziraphale was resignedly murmuring things like "You're really better off without him."
This was the life they led these days. Aziraphale worked, Crowley sulked, and civilians suffered for it.
But about an hour later, when Miss Jessica McKay had staggered into the arms of the friendly policeman, whimpering, "I 'eard the voice of jay-sus, I did," Crowley had lost interest in his torturous game and gone home to prepare a torturous game of a different sort.
"Crowley," called Aziraphale, shutting the door of Crowley's apartment behind him and hanging his keys neatly on the hook beside the doorframe. "Crowley."
Puzzled, he poked his head into the kitchen, which was empty of both food and implements and contained instead Crowley's magnificent array of potted plants. But no demon.
"Show yourself, spawn of Satan," he called playfully, hanging his beloved tweed jacket in the closet and buttoning it up on the hanger.
He stepped into the bedroom and found himself slammed face first against the wall with a pair of strong, unnaturally hot hands pinning his wrists to his sides.
"Hallo, Crowley," he said.
"Quiet, angel," snarled the voice by his ear. "Another word and I'll discorporate you."
There was a short pause.
"And wipe that smile off your face, you smug little cherub."
The hands holding him motionless tightened on his wrists, then spun him around, and Aziraphale found himself staring into golden eyes fringed with surprisingly long lashes. His eyes flickered to the curve of Crowley's lower lip before he stretched forward and bit down on it lightly. Taking advantage of Crowley's surprise, he gripped him by the elbows and whirled him around until their positions were reversed and the demon was the one with his shoulderblades pressed into the wall.
Aziraphale kissed him again, his lips demanding against Crowley's mouth, which was soft and dry.
"Get on your knees," said Crowley hoarsely, trying to regain control of the situation, and Aziraphale did. Without being prompted, he wrenched Crowley's trousers open and and shoved him more firmly against the wall, one hand curled around each narrow hipbone.
"Good," Crowley meant to say, but it would have been ridiculous to imply that Aziraphale was on his knees because Crowley had ordered it, so he rumbled out a quiet groan instead.
"Shut up," Aziraphale meant to say, but his mouth was otherwise occupied, so it emerged as a low hum.
Crowley's head fell back against the wall with a dull thud and he clutched at the angel's shoulders. This encounter had not gone quite according to plan.
"Please," he managed, "Aziraphale," (which was no small feat in his current state of verbal dishevelment) and then, "Fuck, you holy bastard, please."
"You want something, demon?" A smile touched the very corners of Aziraphale's mouth as he drew back and met Crowley's eyes.
The angel's lips were full and pink and faintly glistening. Crowley launched himself at Aziraphale, muffling his quiet yelp with his own lips as Aziraphale's back hit the floor, Crowley atop him. Clumsy fingers pushed at Aziraphale's clothes until they fell haphazardly free, exposing skin to warm, slightly scaled skin.
"I need you," murmured Crowley, knowing what effect his words would have on the angel, "No more teasing. I need you now." Sure enough, Aziraphale's back arched up, pressing the soft expanse of his chest firmly against Crowley's.
"No more teasing," agreed Aziraphale breathlessly. They had played this game enough times, taking it in turns to be the aggressor as it suited them, that he knew that he could push his infernal lover to the point of desperation, tantalizing him and then denying satisfaction for as many snarling, sweaty hours as his fairly abundant supply of angelic whimsy prompted.
To a point.
Aziraphale opened eyes hazy with lust to a sight more tempting than any he'd encountered. Crowley had reared up, straddling him there on the lush carpet, and leaned back at an angle that would have had a human spine cracking and wrenching in protest. His left hand had vanished behind him, but Aziraphale could feel the motion of the demon's knuckles against his hip as Crowley prepared himself perfunctorily, his long-lashed eyes fluttering at the sensations supplied him by his own unnaturally long and dextrous fingers.
The demon's right hand was curled into a loose fist before him, moving languidly up and down. Aziraphale frowned and knocked it away, replacing it instantly with his own. His grip was slower yet than Crowley's had been, promising pleasure rather than supplying it, and Crowley's answering wriggle was so satisfying that Aziraphale felt a clutch of almost in the bottom of his stomach.
Which, he thought sternly, quelling the sensation, was simply absurd. Crowley would mock him sans merci if he spilled early, losing control like some youngster mere centuries old.
And then Crowley was sliding down on him, leaning back on one pale, lean arm, slicker than sin and twice as hot with something he had to have miracled up. Aziraphale's lips parted, but there was nothing to say that wasn't dangerously profane, so he reached up and gripped Crowley by the upper arms, hard. As Crowley arched his hips, slipping off Aziraphale inch by torturous inch, the angel tightened his grip and pulled, lifting himself until he was chest to chest with Crowley and forcing the demon back down onto him in an instant of breathless pleasure so intense it was nearly painful.
Crowley gave a strangled yelp as the control he'd been savoring was taken deftly from his pale hands. In the next instant, Aziraphale had gotten his legs beneath him, lowered Crowley with tender inexorability to the carpet, and held him there. Keeping most of his weight on Crowley's upper arms, he gently eased himself free, just teasing the demon, barely nudging at him, waiting patiently. Crowley writhed mutedly, trying to force some contact, but Aziraphale only kissed him and laughed.
After a long moment that was as agonizing for him as it was for his demonic lover, Aziraphale relented and pressed forward and exquisitely forward. Crowley squirmed, snarled, jerked at his lover's grip on his hands – but all struggling ceased as the angel's gradual motion became a rhythmic one.
"Yeah," said Crowley, breathless.
"Yes," agreed Aziraphale around Crowley's earlobe.
Twenty clutching fingers, eight limbs, four lips.
One point of perfect brightness.