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The bed was so lusciously comfortable — the perfect blend of warmth and softness, the sheets lavender-scented, the pillows fluffy, Aziraphale breathing peacefully next to him — that Crowley burrowed under the covers and fell back into a deep sleep.
When he finally awoke, he stretched and yawned luxuriously, squinting against the sunlight that shone through a crack in the bedroom curtains. A glance to his side revealed that Aziraphale was already up and out of bed. Not surprising, given that the angel didn’t care much for sleeping.
What time was it, anyway?
A quick check of his watch informed Crowley that it was 2:33 in the afternoon. And that it was April. He stared at the timepiece in disbelief.
Oops.
He’d been asleep for several consecutive months.
He hadn’t meant to sleep that long. Like so many other things in Anthony J Crowley’s existence, it had just sort of happened. He sifted back through fond, hazy memories, trying to piece together the lost time. He and Aziraphale had moved into the cottage in late summer, fulfilling an eons-long dream he thought would never come true.
Those first heady, golden days had melted into crisp autumn evenings laced with red wine and crackling fires. Then came Christmas and all the fa-la-la-ing, and an epic New Year’s Eve bender that lasted upwards of a week. After that, the grey days began to merge together in damp monotony. The warm bed had offered a refuge from the winter chill and lulled him into a sort of extended, contented hibernation.
Isn’t my fault I have reptilian inclinations, Crowley muttered to himself. I never meant to be a serpent, after all.
The warm scent of cloves and cinnamon, sweet sugar, and mellow butter drifted into the room, revealing that Aziraphale was in the kitchen baking. The thought of Aziraphale puttering around in the cottage mere steps away sent an eager shiver down his spine. It was still a thrill to wake up with the realisation that he could see Aziraphale every day and hear his endearing giggle at all hours, that they could reach out and touch each other at any time. He loved their little house and new life together in the South Downs, and he felt far more sentimental about it than he could ever put into words.
As he thought about Aziraphale, Crowley was swept by a wave of desire that was intensified by their long sleep-induced hiatus apart.
Ping! His cock woke up with a big stretch of its own.
Patience, Crowley reminded himself. Should probably wash up and brush my teeth before starting any of that.
He could have snapped his fingers to freshen up, but he had to admit that he did enjoy a scalding hot shower. A long soak in a steaming Roman bath would have been welcome too, but those were hard to come by these days.
After showering and styling his hair into a perfect coif, Crowley dressed in extra tight jeans and the clingy black jumper that always earned appreciative glances from Aziraphale. He wanted to look good for his grand entrance.
He sauntered into the kitchen and took in the scene: Aziraphale stood at the island, his crisp button-down shirt and trousers protected by a long white apron. His top shirt buttons were undone, exposing the delicious notch in his throat. The worktop was littered with canisters of sugar and flour, sticks of butter, bowls and spoons, and every spare surface was covered with beautifully decorated baked goods — biscuits, tarts, pastries, and pies of every conceivable shape. Aziraphale furrowed his brow in concentration as he held a piping bag and squeezed swirls of icing onto a small cake.
Crowley leaned against the door frame, trying to strike a casual pose. “I’m awake,” he drawled.
Aziraphale flicked his eyes up at him, his mouth set in a prim line. “So I see,” he said coolly. “I’ll alert the media.” He went back to piping.
Oof. Being greeted with sarcasm was not how Crowley had pictured his surprise reappearance going. He quickly realised he needed to change gears and shifted directly into apology mode. “Er, sorry, I overslept a bit. Did I miss anything?”
Aziraphale tensed and slowly straightened up, his eyes narrowing. “Did you miss anything?” he repeated, his tone rich with disbelief. He let out a humourless laugh. “Oh, only a visit from Maggie and Nina, an unpleasant incident with Shax, which I took care of by myself, thank you very much, and several house repairs that, once again, I took care of by myself.
“Furthermore,” he continued, “you being asleep for so long led to some very awkward conversations in the village. I had to lie and say you were visiting your aunt in Cockermouth! But worst of all” — here his voice increased in volume and ire — “you slept through the very-difficult-to-obtain dinner reservation at Arpège to celebrate our six-month anniversary of moving into this cottage together!” He slammed down the piping bag, sending up a cloud of icing sugar. For a millisecond, Crowley swore he caught a rather terrifying glimpse of Aziraphale’s true form.
Crowley rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. He’d fucked up, big time. Arpège had earned three Michelin stars, a fact with which Aziraphale had peppered him repeatedly. It must have taken numerous complex miracles to secure reservations there. “I’m sorry, angel. I honestly didn’t mean to sleep that long. You should’ve woken me up.”
“Ha! I tried! You reverted to your snake form and just coiled up tighter. Once you even hissed at me!”
Crowley winced a little at that. “I’m really, really sorry. How can I make it up to you?”
Aziraphale gave a petulant sniff. “It’s a bit too late for that. And I’m very busy.”
Crowley took a cautious step into the kitchen. “What’s all this for?” He waved a hand at the plethora of baked goods.
“It’s for the BALLS Ball tonight.”
Crowley halted, not sure he’d heard that correctly. “The what?”
Aziraphale sighed. “BALLS — the Baking and Literary League of Sussex. Our big fundraiser is tonight.”
At Crowley’s blank look, Aziraphale huffed in irritation and continued. “It’s the culinary and book club I joined just before Christmas, remember?”
Crowley actually did remember, sort of. “Ahh, right. You and all the nice little old ladies wittering on about books and that baking show, swooning over the bloke with the piercing blue eyes.” He snort-laughed as the acronym finally sank in. “BALLS Ball. Funny.”
Aziraphale rolled up his shirt sleeves impatiently. “The fundraiser includes a silent auction for baked goods, and I’m chair of the baking committee. As you can see, it’s a demanding undertaking.”
“That is a big job,” Crowley agreed, distracted by the sight of Aziraphale’s strong forearms. He licked his lips, watching the flex of tendons as Aziraphale squeezed the piping bag again. He gave himself a little shake to refocus. “Can I help with your… BALLS thing?”
“No, thank you,” Aziraphale replied curtly.
“C’mon. I feel terrible about missing everything. Let me help.”
“If you want to be useful, I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea.”
Crowley seized the chance to regain Aziraphale’s good graces. He put the kettle on and pulled out the tin of Earl Grey, then set out Aziraphale’s favourite mug with angel wings.
Once the tea had brewed, he added the precise amount of sugar that he knew Aziraphale preferred, then offered the beverage as a peace offering.
“Here you are.” He carefully set the mug down in front of Aziraphale. “Just the way you like it.”
Aziraphale barely glanced at it, then went back to icing a batch of petit fours. “Thank you.”
It was hardly the burst of warmth that Crowley had been hoping for. Undeterred, he looked around for another way to help.
“Can I do anything else?”
Aziraphale took a sip of his tea, fixing Crowley with a stern look. “I think you should go outside and inspect the garden.”
Oof again. He was being sent outside like an irritating child who was underfoot or a dog that had been caught humping the sofa. So okay, it was going to take a while to fix this. Best to follow Aziraphale’s directive and give him some space, let him cool off a bit. “Good idea,” Crowley agreed. “I’ll see what plants are coming up.”
He left the kitchen and grabbed his black jacket before wandering outside, turning up his collar against the chill. The air was brisk but refreshing after his long slumber. As he roamed around the garden, he lost himself in the inspection of buds and spring blooms, mentally noting what would need to be thinned or cut back, staked or trimmed.
After a good amount of time had passed, he returned to a patch of daffodils, their sunny yellow blossoms and bright green leaves a striking contrast against the muddy earth. He stooped to gather a bunch of flowers into a bouquet. Surely this harbinger of spring would improve Aziraphale’s disposition.
Returning inside, Crowley hesitated in the kitchen doorway before clearing his throat and presenting the cheerful bouquet. “These are for you.”
Aziraphale turned around from where he had been washing a few dishes at the sink. “Oh.”
“Your favourite colour.” Crowley took a few steps closer, standing on the opposite side of the island to face Aziraphale. He held the flowers out in another effort to make amends, and Aziraphale carefully took them into his hand.
“Well… thank you. They’re lovely.” Aziraphale turned the bouquet, admiring the flowers at different angles.
Was he thawing a bit? Crowley hoped so.
“I’ll just put them in some water,” Aziraphale announced.
While Aziraphale was finding a vase, Crowley conjured up seven espressos in a big cup for himself. He was not going to risk falling asleep again anytime soon. He looked around at the gorgeous pastries, some still cooling, some placed neatly in charming pink boxes or on vintage glass plates. The messy worktop had been cleaned and the kitchen tidied. “You’ve outdone yourself,” Crowley said with genuine admiration. “Everything looks amazing.”
“Thank you,” Aziraphale replied again, fussing with the flower arrangement that he set on the end of the island. “I admit that I watched several seasons of The Great British Bake Off when you were asleep.”
“Well, it looks like a proper French patisserie in here. Very professional. And all done by hand! You’re going to earn so much money for, er, for your BALLS.”
Aziraphale shrugged humbly, his cheeks perhaps glowing a bit with the praise.
Sipping at his espresso, Crowley noticed a tiered cake on the worktop that was waiting to be iced. The bottom round was larger than the top round, and each tier appeared to have different fillings. “What flavour is this one?”
“That is the pièce de résistance,” Aziraphale said with pride, using his fanciest French accent. “The bottom tier is a chocolate genoise sponge with a French buttercream and chocolate brownie that will be coated in a Swiss meringue buttercream. The top tier is a lemon and rosemary Victoria sponge with summer fruit jam that will be iced with an American buttercream and topped with fresh berries.”
“Uh… wow.” Crowley had no clue what all those terms meant, but he knew it was impressive. “That sounds amazing.”
“I just have to ice and decorate it, then I’m finished with everything.”
Crowley leaned his elbows on the worktop and watched as Aziraphale began covering the cake with a thin base coat of icing.
“This ball tonight,” Crowley ventured. “Am I invited?”
Aziraphale sniffed and gave a tetchy little shrug with one shoulder. “I had assumed you’d still be sleeping, so I didn’t RSVP for you.”
Crowley grinned to himself, loving the bitchy little attitude. Oh, he could work with this. He knew it well. “That’s not a problem. Just tell them you’re bringing someone. You’re the chair of the baking committee, after all. Use the power of your BALLS position.”
Aziraphale paused to consider this, the icing spatula poised in his hand. “Well, I suppose you’re right. I am doing all this work. I think I’m entitled to bring a guest.”
“Of course you are. They’re lucky to have you, a baker of your talents. You should have a Michelin star.”
“Oh, please,” Aziraphale laughed, not entirely modestly.
Crowley straightened up and slowly prowled behind Aziraphale a few times, trying to keep his energy more housecat than snake. “That’s looking lovely,” he said, watching Aziraphale spread thick buttercream over the layers.
“Mmm,” Aziraphale responded, deep in concentration.
Crowley moved closer, hovering over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Is it a fancy do tonight, this ball?”
“It is.”
“Black tie?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Shall I wear a tux, then? The whole kit?”
“That would be nice.”
“M’kay. You can help me choose the style.” Crowley knew Aziraphale would enjoy fussing over their outfits.
“Alright. I have some ideas.” Aziraphale shot him a glance. “I think you’d look nice in a kilt.”
“Er, alright.” Crowley didn’t mind kilts, actually. Nice and breezy, they were. And his knees weren’t half bad, either, if he did say so himself. The tartan part wasn’t exactly his style, but he’d wear whatever his angel wanted.
Crowley watched as Aziraphale finished icing the cake layers, then switched out the tip at the end of the pastry bag for a different one. Aziraphale piped a few practice flourishes and swirls on a sheet of parchment paper, stopping to stretch his neck a few times.
Crowley decided to ratchet up his apology another notch. “You’ve been working so hard. You look tense. May I?” His hands hovered over Aziraphale’s shoulders, awaiting permission to touch.
Aziraphale leaned back ever so slightly towards Crowley’s hands. “You may.”
As Crowley began to massage Aziraphale’s shoulders, he heard an encouraging little sigh escape the angel’s lips.
“There will be dancing tonight,” Aziraphale warned, as if making sure to note that he hadn’t completely given in to Crowley’s charms.
“I’ll dance with you, angel. Whatever you want.”
They fell silent while Aziraphale focused on carefully adding decorative swirls to the cake and Crowley dug his thumbs into the taut muscles of Aziraphale’s shoulders.
“You’re so tight,” Crowley murmured.
“Well, I suppose I’m a bit… pent up,” Aziraphale admitted.
Pent up. Yeah, I know the feeling, Crowley thought, his cock stirring at the proximity to Aziraphale.
“Let’s see if I can’t loosen you up.” Crowley warmed his hands with demonic heat and worked on several tight spots, delighted to feel the gradual release of kinks and knots in Aziraphale’s upper back.
When Aziraphale sucked in a breath and let it out slowly while rolling his shoulders, Crowley knew his ministrations were working.
Sensing a receptiveness, he skimmed his lips over the exposed skin of Aziraphale’s neck. Satan, he smelled tempting, all angelic sugar and spice with a little naughty and nice thrown in. Aziraphale tilted his head to the side, accepting more of Crowley’s roving lips.
“You taste delicious,” Crowley growled, sliding his hands around Aziraphale’s waist and pressing his body into his back and thighs. He’d crawl into the angel if he could.
Aziraphale let out an uneven breath, and Crowley could tell he was trying not to completely give in to the warmth of his caresses.
“I st — still have to add the fruit,” Aziraphale stammered, reaching for a bowl of jewel-like berries.
“I’m not stopping you,” Crowley teased, closing his teeth gently around Aziraphale’s earlobe and releasing it with a soft tug.
Aziraphale shivered. “You are a menace,” he scolded, no malice in his voice. He managed to place berries around the bottom edge of the cake as Crowley pressed his hips into the soft pillow of the angel’s arse. Aziraphale exhaled sharply at the contact.
“Should I stop?” Crowley asked silkily, again pressing the outline of his now hard cock against Aziraphale’s bum and running his hands up the angel’s apron-covered chest.
“N-no,” Aziraphale whimpered, continuing to add berries around the cake with determination.
“Should I go on?” Crowley rocked into Aziraphale’s backside.
There was a pause, a twitch of Aziraphale’s hips pressing back against Crowley’s hardness. “Yes.”
Crowley smiled. Damn, I’m good at being a demon sometimes. Really, really good. “Then you won’t mind if I” — Crowley snapped his fingers — “get more comfortable.” His clothes vanished, his arms still wrapped around Aziraphale.
Aziraphale let out a gasp and glanced back at Crowley. “Are you — naked?”
“Yep.” Crowley grinned. “Care to join me?” He snapped his fingers again, and Aziraphale’s clothes vanished as well — all except for his shirt and apron.
Aziraphale gasped again, not nearly as shocked as he pretended to be.
“Hmm, that’s kind of sexy.” Crowley admired the way the strings of the apron trailed over Aziraphale’s plump buttocks. Crowley cupped his hands under the globes of his arse. “I do love your cake,” he quipped, letting his fingers sink into the soft flesh.
“You little devil!” Aziraphale protested while shivering with delight.
“Technically, that’s inaccurate. But I’ll let it… slide.” Crowley leaned forwards again, playfully sliding the tip of his cock along Aziraphale’s cleft. He caught a glimpse of the bulge beneath Aziraphale’s apron, which soon swelled into a jaunty tent in the fabric. The sight was oddly arousing in combination with his bare arse. Crowley couldn’t resist nudging the heat of his cock against Aziraphale’s skin again.
“Ohhh—” Aziraphale fumbled the bowl of berries, spilling a few before picking up the icing spatula again. “I’m still — not finished…”
“I’ll help you finish,” Crowley purred. “You’ll finish so hard your legs will buckle.” Oh yeah, that was smooth, Crowley congratulated himself.
“You mustn’t distract me,” Aziraphale chided him without conviction. In fact, he was grinding back against Crowley’s cock.
“Shall I fill your luscious cake with some cream?” Crowley swirled a slick fingertip over Aziraphale’s entrance.
“I like cream,” Aziraphale answered breathlessly, pushing back against him with a groan, rocking his hips slightly.
Crowley’s fingertip easily slipped inside the quivering angel. “Oh, you are eager, aren’t you?” He moved his finger gently, drawing out needy little moans from Aziraphale.
“Of course I’m eager. It’s been months!” Aziraphale groaned half in complaint, half in pleasure. “While you were asleep, I had to resort to — well, other things to relieve my needs!”
Crowley couldn’t help but laugh at that. “My poor angel, having to make do with inanimate objects. Well, I’m awake now, and ready to fulfill all your needs.”
“Oh, God, yes.”
Slicking his palm again with miracled lube, Crowley stroked his own stiff cock a few times, then placed a hand on Aziraphale’s hip. The angel automatically widened his stance, and Crowley lined up his cock with Aziraphale’s hot, inviting entrance that offered little resistance as he slowly pressed forward.
“Fuckkk,” Crowley groaned, sinking his cock in… and in… and in until he was balls deep in angel cake.
Aziraphale dropped the icing spatula with a clatter and gripped the edge of the counter, exhaling slowly. “Oh, sweet seraphim, that feels good.”
“Mmmm, I’ve missed this.” Crowley dragged his hips back and pushed his cock in again, taking his sweet, sweet time. “I missed you.” He nuzzled the corner of Aziraphale’s jaw.
“I — ohh — I missed you, too, darling.” Aziraphale melted into Crowley’s embrace, still clutching the edge of the island.
Crowley worked his hips, slowly drawing his shaft in and out as he covered Aziraphale’s nape with seductive kisses. The heady scent of sugar and butter, the riot of colourful baked goods surrounding them, the soft, plush warmth of Aziraphale’s skin were almost overwhelming after weeks of deep slumber.
Now Crowley felt alive, so very warm-blooded and lusty and hungry — ravenous, in fact — for the taste and feel of Aziraphale in his arms, his cock sheathed deep inside his angel’s warm, delicious body. He increased his tempo, thrusting into Aziraphale with more force.
“Faster! Oh, please, go faster,” Aziraphale begged, apparently starving for this contact as well. “I need a proper seeing-to, my dear.”
Crowley gripped Aziraphale’s hips and sped up his pace, his thighs slapping against Aziraphale’s soft curves. “Like this, angel?” he grunted. “You want it harder?”
“Oh, God.” Aziraphale braced his hands on the edge of the worktop, canting his hips and arching his back. “Right there, darling… Oh… fuck… yes!”
Hearing Aziraphale curse in utter pleasure never failed to stoke the flames of Crowley’s desire. He slammed into Aziraphale with abandon, thrusting his cock into the velvety heat with gusto, his balls heavy and aching with need. “Satan below, you feel amazing,” he panted. “I’m not gonna last much longer like this. It's been too long.”
“I want to come at the same time as you,” Aziraphale moaned, his fingers curling against the quartz worktop, clutching the cool stone desperately for purchase. Crowley could hear the fwap fwap fwap of Aziraphale’s cock bouncing against the cotton fabric of his apron as he pounded into him. He reached under the shirt tails and firmly grasped Aziraphale’s thick shaft, working his palm in time with his thrusts.
“You’re so hot in my hand.” Crowley’s voice was guttural with want. “You’re so fucking hard and absolutely dripping.”
Aziraphale whined, jerking into Crowley’s fist and writhing against his insistent thrusts that were growing shorter and faster. “Like that…” he breathed out.
“Oh, fuck, yeah…” Crowley groaned, smearing his thumb over the slit of Aziraphale’s cock in between increasingly frantic pumps of his hips. “I’m so close—”
“So close—” Aziraphale echoed. Then he gasped, his eyes closing, his mouth open and soundless. Time was briefly suspended, then a shudder rippled through Aziraphale’s body, his cock twitching just seconds before the first hot pulses of come cascaded down Crowley’s fingers. That moment — the gasp, the shudder, the twitch, the come — sparked a thrill straight to Crowley’s core, lighting it up in a white hot burst.
He climaxed, grinding his cock deeper into Aziraphale and shuddering out his release in urgent waves of pleasure.
As their ecstasy subsided, Aziraphale slumped forwards, Crowley collapsing onto his broad shoulders, their breaths catching in their throats. Crowley pressed his forehead against the back of Aziraphale’s head, burying his nose into the fragrant bounty of white blond curls. He clumsily wrapped his arms around Aziraphale again, miraculously removing their sticky messes before turning the angel around to find his mouth.
“Holy hell, that was good,” he murmured against Aziraphale’s lips, pressing him back against the island.
Aziraphale hummed in dreamy agreement, returning the slow and deep kisses.
But then Aziraphale suddenly stiffened in alarm. “Oh! The cake!” He whipped his head around in panic. Luckily, the beautiful cake remained unscathed, neither defiled nor damaged by their amorous exertions.
Aziraphale visibly relaxed. “I don’t know what I would have done if that cake had been ruined.”
“I would have miracled you another one,” Crowley reassured him.
Aziraphale smoothed his hands down Crowley’s chest. “I’m sure you would have. But what you can do, once we catch our breaths, is help me carry everything to the car and drive it to the venue.”
Crowley glanced around the kitchen, sizing up the generous amount of delicate cargo. “That’s going to take several trips.”
“Yes, it will,” Aziraphale answered sweetly, tapping the tip of Crowley’s nose.
Crowley sighed. “Will I be forgiven after that?”
“Mmm, maybe.” Aziraphale ran his palms down Crowley’s back to cup his arse. “After you do one more favour for me at the ball tonight.” He squeezed Crowley’s arse with a meaningful pinch.
Crowley smiled, enjoying the firm grasp of Aziraphale’s hands. “Does this have anything to do with me wearing a kilt tonight?”
“Oh, it does indeed, my dear,” Aziraphale affirmed, a saucy gleam in his eyes.”You’re going to give me the first ever apology lap dance.” He winked, giving Crowley another squeeze and a smart little slap on a pert cheek.
“Lap dance, eh?” Crowley pictured it, writhing on Aziraphale’s thick thighs, the kilt hitched up around his hips as he sank down on Aziraphale’s hard cock, riding him until they both burst into proverbial flames. He could be into that.
“There’s a sitting room with a sofa just off the ballroom,” Aziraphale whispered. “It’s not entirely private, but the risk of being caught just makes it more exciting, hm?”
Crowley grinned against Aziraphale’s lips, punctuating his words with promises disguised as kisses. “You are the most talented… imaginative… and filthiest angel I’ve ever known. No wonder I love you.”
Aziraphale smiled again, this time with besotted softness. “I love you, too, dear.”