Crowley's Dick Pic for Belayed Gratification

I wasn't kidding when I said I'm illustrating this fic that I'm writing.

Here's Crowley's dick pic from Chapter 10.

I'm working on Aziraphale's rn, too. Be back with that soon.

Love you all,
Q

Crowley scrambled to divest himself of his joggers and ratty 5k race t-shirt from 2011 and haphazardly arranged his sheets just enough to not look like he was the type of guy who never made his bed (he was exactly that type of guy).

crowley: you have such a gorgeous fucking cock angel

crowley: god i hope you're a top

crowley: and tbh, even if not, i'd pay money to suck you off and thank you for the opportunity

crowley: also wtf angel, that picture, how did you even? did someone take that for you?

He sat back against his headboard with pillows shoved behind his low back—too old now to be raw dogging the angle between the headboard and mattress. He opened his camera app, got jumpscared by his own face before switching quickly to the rear camera, and began artfully arranging his body for a dick pic. How much chest to include? Take the boxers off or just pull over the waistband? Legs straight out? No, that looked weirdly reminiscent of a corpse on a mortuary table. Legs artfully skewed, one knee bent and fallen off to the side. Perfect.

Aziraphale: You have such a colorful way with words, my dear.

Aziraphale: And no, no one took the picture for me. I used a phone tripod and the camera timer, do try to keep up, my dear.

crowley: lmao, youre settin an impossibly high standard for dick pics here

Crowley ended up taking forty-three pictures, which made an embarrassing streak of cock in his camera roll. He mercilessly culled the obvious rejects, narrowed the choices down to the two best, picked one of those at random, and hit Send.

Aziraphale is typing...

Oh god here we go again.

And here's the thing: Crowley knows what he looks like. Yeah, sure, he's some middle aged dude but he's kept himself up. He even moisturizes. He's got a fair few more silvers in his hair than even a year ago, but he thinks he wears his age pretty well. He's never had confidenc issues for appearance reasons (every other reason, indiscriminately, just not that). But suddenly, as if it all stored up for his whole lifetime just to unleash in this one moment, he feels terribly, hauntingly insecure. As if Aziraphale's approval is the only thing that has ever or will ever matter. And it's kind of a sucker punch to the fucking gut. He cares what Aziraphale thinks. Desperately. He cares what Aziraphale thinks of a picture of his cock, no less. And he's worried that he won't—

Aziraphale: God, you are like a dream. You're beautiful. I don't think words can really do justice to you.

Aziraphale: But I will try.

Aziraphale: I've never met anyone quite like you. The way you move is so graceful that I wondered at first if you'd been a dancer. And when you were on top of me this morning and I got to touch you, your body felt like mortal sin made flesh. If it weren't for our friends just outside the tent, I would have fucked you until you forgot your own name.

How's that for a confidence boost?

crowley: holy shit angel

Crowley had jerked off to a lot of things in his life (Sears catalogs, that one meme with the clingy girlfriend, character concept art from Final Fantasy VII…), but this? A piece of fucking literature written about his hotness? This was a first. He was certain he could never respond to that with any words that would do the sentiment justice, so he made a snap decision to film himself. He hit record on his phone and took his cock in hand.

"Fffuck," he groaned and let his head loll back, hoping the camera was still pointed in the right direction.

"Angel, nobody—ah—nobody's ever s-said anything like that to me, holy shit." If he had imagined Aziraphale sexting before, it definitely would not have been in the vein of hey bb u wan sum fuk? but at the same time, he was not at all prepared for fucking poetry. Why was it so hot?