Auto Maintenance

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. We saved the world! Or, well, someone did. We should celebrate.”

“Angel.” Crowley groaned. Aziraphale’s hand was sliding up his arm, from where his hand rested on the gearshift up to his shoulder and then down his chest. “Aziraphale. We already celebrated. And I have thought about it every blessed day since I got the damn thing. But that was before I had experimentally verified that angel jizz stains everything. It’s impossible to get off.” He resolutely kept his eyes on the road, which was whizzing by at a relatively, if not entirely, Aziraphale-friendly speed.

Aziraphale glanced out through the windshield once, nervously, then seemingly decided that he’d rather not look. He unbuckled his seat belt, which was a ridiculous thing for him to be wearing in the first place, and with a resolute breath, clambered over the gearshift and settled on Crowley’s lap.

Crowley swerved wildly, which wasn’t all that different from what he had been doing before.

Aziraphale barely fit, his back bumping up against the steering wheel and that only because Crowley’s legs were long enough for him to keep the seat well back to reach the pedals. His left knee braced on the driver-side door and the right was crowding in against Crowley’s thigh as he slowly ground his erection into the demon’s lap.

“Chri-- for fuck’s-- Aziraphale, you’re going to make me crash! You hate crashing, remember?” Crowley wriggled desperately, trying to see around the fluff of Aziraphale’s hair as the angel buried his face in Crowley’s neck and started to suck. A lightning-bolt of arousal shot through him, and he just heard Aziraphale’s soft murmured “mhmm” in response. “And you’re going to stain the seat if you come in my lap, which I can feel you’re about three minutes from-- oh, shit.” On the side of the road, a constable’s radar suddenly started malfunctioning very badly indeed.

Aziraphale pulled off of Crowley’s now-pink neck, looking very pleased with himself indeed. “This,” he said giddily, “Is the best ride in this darned car I’ve ever had. It’s ever so much better when I can’t see where it’s going.”

“Okay.” Crowley couldn’t stop himself from punctuating the word with a small, desperate thrust of his hips up into Azirapahale’s warm, willing form. “Alright. Angel, I will roger you silly in the backseat of this thing, or vice versa, just let me park it, okay? I want to give you the attention you deserve.”

Aziraphale cocked his head, considering. Finally, he flopped back over into the passenger seat, a tiny, smug smile on his face. As if as an afterthought, he reached across and started stroking his fingers gently up and down the crotch of Crowley’s trousers. It was maddening, too light to be satisfying but too present to be ignored. Crowley grit his teeth and cast his mind around for somewhere suitably irritating to park.

When they pulled into the darkening parking lot of the Brent Cross shopping centre a few minutes later, Aziraphale looked momentarily confused. He glanced out the window, taking not of the fact that they were far from the only car parked with people waiting expectantly inside.

“Drive-in movie,” Crowley said with a grin. “Such a great success in America, and someone decided we needed our very own here. You have to respect this kind of tackiness.”

“I don’t have to,” Aziraphale pointed out reproachfully. “Well, if this is truly where you want it. Get in the back.”

Crowley gestured weakly out the front window. “But we haven’t even seen what they’re--”

Aziraphale’s glare was enough to put a stop to that line of thinking. Crowley shivered, then let himself slip into snake form; a medium size, just large enough to slither into the narrow backseat of the car and avoid the awkward scramble of four limbs in a tight space.

Aziraphale followed, having no such hangups about gracefulness and basically tipping and rolling into the backseat of the Bentley. “Oh no you don’t,” he said, and grabbed Crowley underneath the head and just above the tip of his tail. “Human body, if you please. And wings.”

Wings? Crowley squeaked, not out loud but directly into Aziraphale’s mind. The angel just grinned. “I won’t have any of the type of people who go to drive-in movies getting a free show,” he said, and unfurled his own.

They spread, wide and resplendent despite being in dire need of a good brush. They were also definitely too big for the car; white feathers crowded against all of the windows, blocking out any view from outside.

Crowley shifted back to his mostly-human form, Aziraphale’s hands ending up gripping his neck and knee too tight to be entirely comfortable. “They’re getting a show of a different kind now,” he muttered, and spared a small demonic intention to ensure that all the humans around them were vapid enough to be completely engrossed in whatever vaguely nostalgic movie was playing.

“Come on, then.’ Aziraphale’s tone was entirely too schoolmarmish to be arousing, which made it all the more irritating that he clearly knew how hot it got Crowley. “Let’s see them.”

Crowley let his wings unfurl underneath him, unable to smother a sigh at the feeling. They didn’t emerge from his skin so much as manifest where they had always been, and were always; letting them enter the plane of physical reality felt like letting out a deep breath you’ve been holding for a long time. The black feathers spread out with difficulty in the cramped space, brushing up against the white of Aziraphale’s, and the sensation of feathers brushing against feathers was more intimate even than Aziraphale’s hand still resting on his throat.

Aziraphale was balanced precariously above him, with his knees just barely staying on the back seat and a shoulder leaning against the front passenger seat for balance. It was entirely too small a space to remove clothing with any degree of ease, but Aziraphale leaned down and tried to yank Crowley’s shirt off of him anyway, because apparently using your literally God-given abilities to make clothing disappear at will was too easy. Crowley sighed and pushed himself up a little to let Aziraphale undress him, because the angel would complain if he cut corners and miracled the clothes off. And irritating a horny angel whose spunk has the power to permanently stain leather seats was not Crowley’s idea of proper auto maintenance.

“That’s it,” murmured Aziraphale, like Crowley was a small child who needed to be coaxed out of his clothes and into pyjamas for bed, which was a completely horrid thought. Crowley whimpered at it, because if it were Aziraphale looking at him sternly over the top of is stupid unneccesary little reading glasses and ordering him to bed--

Aziraphale just reached down and stroked over the feathers, his fingers coming away with a few loose ones. Crowley gasped then took several slow, deliberate breaths to avoid making any truly embarrassing, unignorable sounds, because it felt like Aziraphale was touching his soul when he did this, if he even had one to touch. No matter how many times they did this he would never get used to the feeling of a body infused with Grace touching his most intimate place.

It has been said that demons’ wings are, on average, better groomed than the wings of angels. This is true, but largely because Crowley skews the average. Crowley skews the average because Aziraphale helps him skew it; and Aziraphale helps him skew it because touching Crowley’s wings is the surest way to have the demon desperate and mindless with arousal. At certain times, Aziraphale manages to convince himself that this is a form of thwarting. Since the Apocalypse, however, he mostly hasn’t bothered.

Once he had gotten a hold of himself, Crowley tried to reach up to return the favour, but his wings were wedged tight enough against the sides of the seat and the lower edges of the windows that he could barely move. He couldn’t quite reach around Aziraphale’s body, so he just lay back and groaned and writhed. If the Aziraphale wanted him so badly, Crowley couldn’t promise not to be greedy.

“Angel,” he moaned. “Come on, do something, please, more. What do you want on me? Anything.”

Aziraphale glanced down, lifting his hips slightly to inspect Crowley’s pelvis. His knee nearly slipped off the seat, and Crowley grabbed it to haul him back up. Crowley’s body had a cock at the moment, which was how he had started keeping it by default after one particularly appreciative flick of Aziraphale’s eyes in the 1950s, the first time he had seen Crowley in tight jeans. “That will do just fine,” said Aziraphale primly, arms stretched out wide to capture the tips of Crowley’s wings with his probing fingers.

“Anything you want, just… fuck me… or something…” Every stroke of gentle fingers through his feathers was exquisite torture. “Come on-- vagina? Cloaca? Snakes?” Aziraphale had liked the snakes, that once, he recalled desperately. “Just do-- ahh!” Crowley yelped at a sudden prick of pain; Aziraphale had yanked out a feather that wasn’t loose at all.

Aziraphale leered, the strange flickering light of the film filtering into the car through several layers of feathers reflecting on his face and making him look vaguely diabolical. He tucked the black feather behind his ear, which looked utterly ridiculous, but the sight of Aziraphale’s face framed by a piece of him made Crowley gape up in something approximating wonder.

He was so busy trying to parse the image above him while still distracted by the sting of the missing feather that he didn’t notice until the tip of his cock was touching Aziraphale’s body that the angel was getting ready to sink down on him. Crowley looked down. Aziraphale, despite all of the other trappings of humanity that he collected like seashells, was less attached to specific human genitalia than Crowley; he tended to walk around with nothing at all between his legs, and manifest whatever he felt the situation demanded. He had a cock now-- probably specifically to threaten Crowley with his fear of seat-ruining angel semen-- and a hole too far forward and too enticingly slippery to be truthfully identified as a human anus. Crowley didn’t care; whatever it was, he wanted to be in it.

“Yesssss,” he hissed as Aziraphale took him in slowly, the tip of his prick slipping into tight warmth that fizzed against his senses with the enticing sting of holiness. The angel closed his eyes and threw his head back with pleasure; whatever else he might have omitted in the plumbing department, Aziraphale was a born hedonist and never skimped on the nerve endings.

Aziraphale was moving agonizingly slowly, and Crowley tried to reach up to grab his hips and speed him up. Instead, he found his wrists caught tight in manacles made of nothing but air and thought, and lifted above his head out of the way. He acquiesced, reaching around into the front seat to try to grab onto something to steady himself--

--and the door popped open as Crowley’s fingers found the handle and unthinkingly yanked at a particularly cruel thrust. Aziraphale gasped in surprise, his head whipping around to see where the tips of Crowley’s wings were now poking out into the open air as the door waved on its hinges.

“Shit!” muttered Crowley, managing to reach out and pull the door closed without trapping any feathers. Aziraphale was looking stern. “Be careful,” he admonished, and grabbed the demon’s wrists with his mind again, this time pinning them to the seat just beside Crowley’s head.

“Sssorry,” hissed Crowley. “Can’t-- control myself when you-- yesss, hold me down, please--”

“And you worry that I’m the one who’ll defile your precious car,” said Aziraphale severely, a slight sheen of sweat on his face at the effort of raising and lowering himself on Crowley’s cock. “Get some control over yourself, my dear boy.”

Crowley, of course, would do nothing of the sort, especially not when Aziraphale sped up, skin slapping on skin obscenely, and he could make out the amusement lurking behind that stern expression, and somehow this whole thing had been Aziraphale’s idea. Completely unknown to Crowley, the astonishing angel had apparently been fantasizing about having him in the Bentley for exactly as long as Crowley had been doing the same, which is to say since 1926.

It was the idea of Aziraphale’s having been just the slightest bit horny even as he dramatically protested against unsafe driving habits, every car ride for nearly a century, that finally pushed him over the edge; Crowely came hard, pushing up into Aziraphale’s body as forcefully as he could with his hands still being held down. Aziraphale grinned and tossed his head back as he came-- Crowley’s feather fluttering down from his ear to get lost somewhere underneath the seat, and a stream of semen heading for the seat and then vanishing into thin air the moment before it actually made contact.^[1]

Crowley panted slightly as he recovered, the tips of his wings twitching involuntarily. “You bastard,” he laughed, when he could.

Aziraphale shrugged, lips twitching. “Perhaps I have some sentimental attachment to her as well,” he admitted, patting the headrest of the driver’s seat.

“Alright,” said Crowley, “Let’s get out of here.” Outside, a man was coming around trying to sell bags of crisps by rapping on windows. Crowley slithered into the front passenger seat, and stared back at Aziraphale expectantly.

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide. “You... you would…”

“You can’t possibly be a worse driver than me,” Crowley pointed out reasonably.

As it turned out, Aziraphale could indeed be quite an appalling driver. Perhaps it was that he had never actually driven a car before; but then, perhaps it was the demonic fingers stroking gently over his wings, which also blocked out a good deal of the view out the windows.

Impossible to say.