Chapter Text
When he reaches his flat, Aziraphale makes sure to eat his meal, gaze fastened to his book. It's Pride and Prejudice once again, but the plot always catches his attention. Riveting. He's divested himself of his button-up, glad to find it's not his clothes which had suffered the brunt of the damage.
In between sips of his latte, he tries not to think about Crowley. Whether he would have arrived home already and changed his wet clothes into new, dry ones. Whether he's watering his plants, or perhaps playing with his mobile, legs tossed over the back of the sofa, head hanging down.
The image brings a smile to Aziraphale's face that takes its time dying down. Clings there like the last slant of sunlight after dusk.
His heart has somewhat quietened to its usual steady beat after their encounter. He has a date with Crowley. A lunch. It seems impossible, yet Aziraphale is already jotting it down in his notebook, and he stares at it, at the troves of possibilities buried in those three words, feeling a spiderwebbing spark all over under his skin.
Friendship. Yes. And perhaps… perhaps something more? No, no, he's getting ahead of himself. He has no idea if Crowley even fancies him.
Once he's tossed the dregs of his dinner into the bin, Aziraphale pads to his bedroom to set his book aside and head to the shower.
As soon as he steps a foot in the bedroom, though, Aziraphale halts in the threshold, spell-bound.
The window across holds his gaze. It's unseasonably hot for August, and the moment slows, rollicking with stale air and the slick of his own sweat under his collar.
Aziraphale's fingers curl around the spine of his book, mouth running dry. Crowley's bedroom is dimly lit, a soft glow from a lamp on his bedside table giving the space an intimate, impossibly alluring air. It's odd to find signs of the presence of its owner so early in the evening, but every shard of logical thinking dissipates when Aziraphale's gaze catches on the lean figure of Crowley standing next to his bed, a towel tied around his waist his only clothing.
He's striking. A flushed, beautiful stretch of skin and elegant limbs that Aziraphale finds rather devastating. He's never caught Crowley like this before.
Facing the bed, as Crowley is, Aziraphale can see the long flow of his back, and a slash of his thin chest, aside from the line of a collarbone, and the flushed point of a barely visible nipple that the angle is generous enough to expose. The view is enticing in a way Aziraphale hasn't experienced in such a long time it feels almost new. It stirs heat in his thighs, and heaviness of breath, the tingling of fingers that itch to press themselves against blood-hot skin. He wants. Desires. For a terrible, terrible moment Aziraphale covets .
His own bedroom is still dark, which probably makes his presence unknown. He wonders if he should change that situation, turn a light on. But the more he thinks about it, the less he sees any way in which to explain everything in a sensible manner, should Crowley see him. He really should just leave.
In front of him, Crowley shifts in his spot and adjusts the hold of the towel over the jut of those sinfully sharp hips. Aziraphale's heart beats in a flurry when he thinks Crowley's going to let the terrycloth drop. The anticipation is immolating-hot, and mixes with the dreadful desperation of wanting it. Of hoping for it.
But Crowley does nothing of the sort.
It's painfully obvious Crowley's freshly showered, the vibrant red of his hair now deep rust. Aziraphale watches him draw a hand up to push between the wet strands, combing it with his fingers, slow and lazy. The movement tips that long neck back making it look deliciously tender with that tensing of tendons and warm flesh. A strange desire rises in Aziraphale's mind, when he imagines what it would be like to push his lips there, on the stalk of skin just under Crowley's jaw. Hear him gasp, feel him tremble.
Aziraphale breathes hard, air sawing his throat on the way out.
The muscles of Crowley's back glint with the water, pulling as he moves, and Aziraphale thinks there's nothing, right this moment, that he wants more than to fold his hands around the flexing shift of that narrow waist. Crowley would feel warm, he thinks, would be soft, skin giving under the pressure of eager fingers. Would smell of shampoo and soap and that smoky scent that's all him.
Aziraphale knows he's aroused. There's a heated squirm in his stomach, his cock twitching between his legs. It's the knowledge that beneath that brief piece of clothing Crowley's entirely bare, and it would take nothing more than a gentle pull to let the towel fall to the floor, sliding down the tight curve of Crowley's naked buttocks, to leave him exposed. Skin flushed, wet from the shower. Muscles lazy with the pliant ease of wanting to be manhandled into bed.
Aziraphale has no idea where all of this is coming from.
It's an obscene thought that takes him at the knees.
Reaching for the jamb of the door, he leans against it. Tries to steady his breath. His book drops to the floor, thudding against the rug, very much accusing. It's rude, what he's doing. Several degrees of distasteful.
In the silence that spreads heavy, Aziraphale can hear the rasp of his own breath, the beat of blood in his ears.
He should leave.
In the building across, Aziraphale's worst fear and most desired wish clash and coalesce when Crowley lets the towel slip down his body.
Bare. He's beautifully, wonderfully bare.
"Fuck."
Aziraphale catches the round curve of a small but pert bottom, and dimples just above, before he throws himself headlong into the shower. Escaping, yes, quite so.
His cock is shamelessly hard.
He tears his clothes off and slides under the rush of water that's only lukewarm, with hope that the not-entirely-pleasant temperature will cut any misguided desire to the root. He can't stop seeing Crowley in his mind, though, all damp and glistening. The dip of his wonderfully beautiful spine holding drops of water tantalisingly slipping down to those dimples, into the crease of that tight arse. Aziraphale presses palms flat on the tiles to avoid grasping the leaking shape of his cock that pulses with the discomfort of arousal pooling deep, so heated. He hasn't had sex in such a long time that the desire blazes through him, scouring everything else and leaving only raw, hot want that curls in his groin. Aziraphale wants to splay a hand across Crowley's chest, press himself to his back. He wants to touch and kiss, and feel the soft roundness of those buttocks push against his hard cock, part them to fit between them.
The image wrenches a groan from him, the spill of water doing nothing to alleviate the way his erection pulses between his trembling thighs.
But Crowley should be off limits. He has only offered Aziraphale kindness, and he doesn’t deserve to be treated like a lurid fantasy.
Even if no one else would know, Aziraphale would, and that's terrible enough.
His hand shakes as it sets over the tap and turns the cold water up until it prickles over his skin. Until he can't feel anything else but the uncoiling of his own muscles, his heart slowing.
Until he's razed all ludicrous ideas about Crowley from his mind, where they have no place.
Fifteen minutes later, when he steps out of the shower, Aziraphale decides to do something he's never done. He closes the curtains of the window in his bedroom before changing.
Yes, it's quite accurate to say he has a crush on his handsome neighbour the size of Westminster Abbey. But it's terrible and invasive to think he can reach anywhere through the mirage on the window. Because that's not the real Crowley. He isn't only black clothes, plants, lazy mornings in bed, and slouching on any surface. He's also a voice, a heartbeat, a smile, and the impossible warmth of pale skin. All things that can't be enjoyed over a distance.
Everything Aziraphale knows up to now is only bits and pieces of a greater image he hopes to know in an honest way. That he wishes Crowley would show him of his own free will.
With that hope tucked in his heart, pulsing golden, Aziraphale drifts into sleep.
"I don't know why you brought me here," Aziraphale says to Anathema. "You know pubs aren't really my scene."
It's Friday night and Saturday is coming, fast and unstoppable, carrying in its hold his lunch date with Crowley. He thinks things could be worse than being in a pub with a slightly jarring din in the background. He could be at home despairing over his closed drapes.
Anathema takes a sip of her fizzy pink drink. "I brought you here so you can unknot your spine and stop wringing your hands for a sec. Really. Jesus, you've been weird all week. Did you forget you almost fucked up that Tintoretto?" She snorts. "You were this close to making it the next Ecce Homo."
"I beg your pardon?" Aziraphale can be many things, but he's very good at his job. "You take that back!"
Anathema resorts to glaring at him over the line of her thick glasses. "Really now. What's bothering you, sweetcheeks?"
"I told you I hate when you call me that," Aziraphale says, but reflectively, with no real bite to it. He sighs, long suffering, and downs a gulp of his whiskey. "I'm only nervous about tomorrow. That's all."
"You decided to tell him?"
Aziraphale feels his stomach kick up a fuss. "Yes."
"And you're afraid that he'll think you've been deceitful."
"To put it mildly, yes," Aziraphale says, burying his wince in another blessedly burning sip of alcohol.
"Welp, my nan always said, ‘There's no sense in worrying about things you can't change, and even less before they happen,’ so it seems to me your best bet is to drink until you pass out." Anathema clinks his tumbler with her fancy glass. "So, c'mon. Down with it."
Whatever it might be, he thinks tomorrow is still so many hours away, hundreds of minutes, a million seconds to be filled by flooding anxiety when he's least expecting it. Alcohol is of the essence. He downs it in one go, winces at the burn.
Maybe Anathema has a point.
"I'm going to fetch another," he tells her, to which she nods, scrolling furiously on her mobile, already lost to her many apps.
The bar is a bit crowded, so he steps in line, to wait for a spot when a warm, smoky voice rises at his back.
"Fancy that. Of all the pubs in all of London."
Aziraphale knows it's Crowley even before turning around. When he does though, Aziraphale tries to slant a smile in his direction, the sight of him wrenching a painful beat of his heart. He does his level best to trample on any memories of the shower night, because if one single frame of Crowley's naked body latches to his mind, he'll be unable to function like a normal person.
"Crowley! I thought-" isn't this Golden Girls night ? Aziraphale swallows, smiles tentatively. "How lovely to find you here."
Crowley's dressed in his regular tight trousers, but his shirt is a deep burgundy that silhouettes the angles and dips of his body in a way that Aziraphale finds irresistible.
"Thought I’d take a bit of a break," Crowley says. His hair is down, and Aziraphale has to stop himself from tucking away a soft strand behind his ear, see if it's really as soft as it looks. "You come here often?"
"Not at all. My friend over there," he signals to Anathema, who is absorbed in her mobile, "dragged me here unawares."
Crowley laughs. "Well, let me know if you need help with the rescue. Been told I'm a fine rescuer."
"I'm sure you're very fine indeed," Aziraphale answers, painfully honest, catching the shape and weight of his own words after they're out there. Crowley's mouth lifts up, eyes glinting bright with mischief, and Aziraphale tries to fend off the blush he feels threatening to flood his face. "She seems quite engrossed in her mobile, though. Doubt she'll miss me."
The smile Crowley gives him is wide, delighted. It offers and tempts. "Then why don't you join me here on my nook."
"Nook?"
"Yeah, it's cosy and warm, perfect for lonely fuckers like me," he smirks, "and some much-needed company."
Aziraphale knows he's being flirted with, and something pleased curls and coils up under his breastbone. There's no doubt about the tone of Crowley's voice and the arch of his brows, the whole thing suggestive of interest of a deeper kind that has a flaming blush staining Aziraphale's cheeks. He's still quite aware of his predicament, regardless, but it's difficult to keep away, with Crowley so close, with each breath carrying the deep, smokey and musky scent of him.
Perhaps the opportunity will arise to tell Crowley, 'oh, fancy that, I've been looking at you for two weeks now without your knowing, sorry about that,' in a way that doesn't mean he'll hate Aziraphale for it.
He forcefully ignores the pang in his stomach.
"Of course." Aziraphale makes a noise in his throat, adds, "and I don't think you're- you're-"
"A fucker?"
"Yes, exactly."
"My, you can't even say the word," Crowley says, amused. "A proper angel, you are."
"I can assure you, I'm nothing of the sort."
Aziraphale forgets about whiskey when Crowley guides him to a little table hidden in a corner that allows two chairs and no more. Their knees bump, knuckles brush, and Aziraphale can't remember a better night. He quickly slides his hand in his pocket and sends a " I'm at the table in the corner, don't worry ," message to Anathema, before she frets.
"Hope this doesn't mean you'll leave me hanging tomorrow," Crowley says. "I was looking forward to that lunch."
"No, not at all. I’m looking forward to that as well." It feels like too big an admission, but Aziraphale supposes he'll have to wrestle with even thornier subjects come morning. He steadies, breathes, "So, do you come here often?"
"Feeding me my lines already? But no, not really my sort of place. Much prefer to spend nights at home, but sometimes it is fun to be indulgent, don't you think?"
Crowley's grin bunches up his cheeks. He leans in an inch, not so much to be in Aziraphale's space, which is a shame, but enough to feel the heat of him through his shirt up to the elbow, where their arms are now pushed together. His mouth is a damp line of enticing redness, probably from his drink, which seems to be some sort of cocktail that Aziraphale is desperate to find out the taste of.
He tries not to be hopeful, not to be greedy. "I uh, I'm trying to implement that concept as well."
"'M sure you'll make a good job out of it." Crowley downs the rest of his cocktail, gets closer, whispers, "Fuck. Has anyone told you how bloody handsome you are?"
Aziraphale's breath lodges, because Crowley's words feel like the first stone of a paved path that could easily lead to a sort of permission for Aziraphale to put his hands on him. To slide trembling fingers over warm skin. To- to kiss him.
"Not- not recently," he croaks out. Not ever.
"Fucking disgrace." The space between them narrows to nothing, when Crowley drags his chair until they're side by side. "Thought so the first time I saw you. Told myself, look there, there's a fucking angel if I ever saw one."
Aziraphale's heart hammers in his wrists, his neck. Deafening in his ears, but he pushes through. "Does that mean you don't pay for strangers' meals on the regular?"
Crowley laughs, the long line of his neck thrown back. Aziraphale snatches his eyes away, drawing a shaky breath at the idea of touching the side of it. Rubbing warm lips over it.
"Nah. Only the gorgeous ones."
Crowley sinks in and presses their mouths together, goes the last yard, which Aziraphale knows it's always the hardest. It's easy; a warm, soft push that makes Aziraphale give a gentle shudder of honest surprise. Even if the idea of a kiss had lived in Aziraphale's mind since he’d met him, the reality of it is impossibly exquisite, shockingly new to the point Aziraphale's heart pounds hard enough to break. He can't help a soft noise of pleasure that dies where their lips meet because he's been wanting this probably since a second after he set eyes on Crowley. Has been desiring the beautiful, infuriatingly tempting warmth of his closeness. Just like this.
"Fuck, I've been wanting to do this for ages," Crowley rasps out, curling closer into Aziraphale, as if to climb on his lap, long legs knocking his under the table. "Difficult thing to catch, aren't you?"
"Do- do you mean it?" Aziraphale asks around a ball in his throat, feeling his lips kiss-stung. He doesn't know where to put his hands, if he should touch more. He wants so much he's woozy with it.
But this is a public place.
Crowley smirks loudly . "Yes. Christ. Look at you."
Aziraphale can't do anything but kiss Crowley back, revel in the damp softness of those lips, in the cherry taste that's probably from the drink, and he feels it bloom in his mouth when Crowley slides his tongue in. It's tentative, deliciously enticing, and Aziraphale can feel his body teeming with need. He'd thought he'd feel clumsy, subpar, but Crowley groans at the back of his throat when Aziraphale licks into his mouth, those long hands curling tight on the folds of his lapels. Without thinking, Aziraphale pushes fingers through the silky, red strands of Crowley's hair, hand curling at the back of his head to pull him closer, feels Crowley give in so easily that it makes him grow hot until he's lost, panting, dizzy with it.
But he hasn't told him yet.
Aziraphale eases himself off Crowley's beautiful mouth, like an absolute fool. Presses a warm palm to the line of his chest. "Wait, wait Crowley."
"Shit. Sorry." Crowley sighs, mouth thick and wet with Aziraphale's kisses, irresistible. "Was too fast, wasn't I? Too much?"
You're not, Aziraphale wants to say. How can anything be too fast when he already knows so much about Crowley, without permission? This is not a balanced terrain. And perhaps this is the moment; the held breath before the dive.
He could tell him. Quick, like ripping a bandaid.
I can see you from my flat. I've been watching you since I moved in. I- I think I'm in love with you. I can't think of anything else than being with you, even if you occupy all the bed, even if you hate tea and don't know how to sit properly.
A flurry of heartbeats.
"I…" Aziraphale's mouth is desert-dry, heart rushing to meet the fast paced rhythm of whatever song reverberates in the walls. "Crowley I…" He swallows. Feels the swell of liquid courage dwindling. "I need to go. I'll see you tomorrow." Aziraphale stands up so quickly, it knocks the chair backwards. "I forgot I had a thing to attend to."
He hears Crowley calling him on his way out, but Aziraphale shoulders through the crowd, relentlessly pushing out of the pub until he can break through the doors, quickly pulling up a cab that can take him to his flat. He sends a quick text to Anathema to tell her he's leaving. So sorry. Forgot I had left the oven on.
He doesn't have an oven.
Anathema texts back, you alright?
Tickety-boo, will call you tomorrow.
Letting his face fall into his hands, Aziraphale wonders if Crowley will still show up at their scheduled lunch or if he will leave Aziraphale waiting. He thinks he doesn't mind being stood up after the rude way he left the pub.
When he reaches his flat, Aziraphale burrows in his armchair. The draped curtains feel dull in their tawny colours, and for a second Aziraphale can't bear it. It's not the sky, or the glittering line of the city that he wants to see.
He's desperate to pull the drapes aside and watch, at least see if Crowley's terribly upset. Which he doesn't think he is. But the desire is raw and heavy, selfish, shapeless like grey, billowing clouds and just as oppressive.
Aziraphale pulls the curtains open because he can't help himself. He needs to see Crowley go to bed, follow his usual routine, languid and silent, peaceful.
His flat is dark, which means he hasn't come back yet, which is probably understandable. Otherwise it would have meant he had left the pub just after Aziraphale did.
A flicker of soft light pulls at Aziraphale's attention. It's Crowley's bedside lamp. He must have arrived in darkness without Aziraphale noticing it. Trying to keep his breath steady, he sits back on his armchair to watch Crowley's face. There's an unreadable expression there when Crowley pushes his jeans down and sprawls on his bed. Aziraphale's heartbeat kicks up a notch at the gift of a sight, knowing he only has to wait for Crowley to be in his boxers and slide under the covers. The mile-long stretch of skin taunts him, but he supposes is a fitting punishment, if only to make sure Crowley is well.
His neighbour doesn't seem upset or disturbed, more like slightly indulgent on his king size bed. A smile stretches on his lips when he starts opening his silk shirt, long fingers slipping down the buttons. Aziraphale has caught sight of the narrow line of Crowley's chest before, but there's something different now, something that has Aziraphale biting down on his lip when the shirt falls open entirely and he realises Crowley's thumbs are rolling lax and lazy over his flat, pink nipples.
"Oh, lord."
He clutches the sides of the armchair, probably leaving dents in the leather. He's pinned in place like a butterfly on a board when Crowley rubs the heel of his hand over the bulge in his black boxers. Aziraphale knows he's crossing several important lines, when he keeps the curtain open watching Crowley tug his boxers down, the heavy shape of his cock bobbing free against his stomach. His own erection is thick and hard in his trousers, while his mind reels over what he's doing, the breadth of the awful trespassing he can't seem to stop.
Crowley rolls his boxers down until he's kicking them away and down the bed, and Aziraphale has the strange, desperate need to step into that bedroom, to hear that rustle of clothes being doffed and sheets being pushed and pulled and bunched, he wants to listen to Crowley's surely slightly off-rhythm breath, how he's probably sighing a quiet moan with the way his mouth falls open.
Aziraphale tries to coax his legs into pushing him up and taking him away, but Crowley's a vision. Long thighs eased open that are a beautiful frame for the tight pull of his balls, his slender cock and the shadowed place between his arsecheeks. He's a sexual, impossibly exquisite picture, with his wine-dark hair tipped on the pillows, body an enticing invitation in its naked state. Aziraphale can't do anything but watch, burning with the desire to touch and kiss and rake fingers over all the skin he could reach. To bite and suck and leave bruises, good lord, he doesn't recognize himself at all.
He's leaking, precome staining his pants by now, face heated and skin damp with sweat with the effort to not pull his cock out and fist himself right then. Not at any point of his relationship with Gabriel, not even in his best moments, had sex felt as incandescent as this, pure lust and blazing desire that consumes, that backs him over, leaving no thought in place. There's no shame, not a single ounce of sexual modesty in Crowley, only eagerness, and Aziraphale can see it in how open he is, how clearly he enjoys himself so freely, it makes Aziraphale ache.
Aziraphale lets out a pitiful whimper that only Jane Austen can hear, sitting there on his bedside table, while he sees Crowley curl a hand around the stiff, flushed length of his cock, while his other hand reaches blindly for a drawer, pulls a thing out of it. It takes him a second to process it.
It's a dildo. A skin-colored dildo, long and thick enough that Crowley has some trouble closing his thin fingers around the base where a sac is moulded in silicone.
"God. Oh, god."
His own voice is a scratch of helpless desire, a shudder of desperation. In front of him, Crowley has produced a bottle of lube, using a generous drizzle over the obscene curve of the dildo, before slicking his own palm. Aziraphale has to sit and watch, breath uneven, at how Crowley slides his hand between his buttocks finding the small whorl of his arsehole, fingering himself open with an ease and confidence that speaks of a common occurrence, of something done often. The idea burns a hole of want in Aziraphale's stomach, wondering how many times Crowley's fucked himself with his dildo when Aziraphale hasn't seen it, while he slept a few meters away.
Crowley's cock sways, spits precome on his stomach when he guides the large, thick head of the dildo to his rim, pulling a buttock open that offers Aziraphale a wonderful, delicious view of the wetness of his entrance, of how the dildo pushes in, parting his arse in an obscene spread, impaling him.
Aziraphale whines, unable to resist any longer. He presses his hand through the cloth of his trousers to his throbbing cock thinking perhaps his need will abate itself that way. It's useless, he knows it's useless before starting. His own legs twitch, his chest heaving with shaky breaths, body prickling with the need to push himself closer to Crowley, breathe the smell of sex off his skin, kiss the curve of his teasing mouth.
There's nothing lazy or slow in how Crowley fucks himself open with the dildo, a fringe of red hair over his face, and lips parted in what Aziraphale's sure is a moan, looking so beautifully wrecked by pleasure it adds to the deliciousness of it. He takes the dildo inch by inch with a slow, wet slide, hips rolling as if to adjust to the breach until he buries the toy in until the faux balls rest tight against his arse.
Aziraphale had never imagined he could've felt jealous of a thing, of an object, but he finds himself wanting to pull out the dildo and fix his own cock there. Push inside Crowley's slippery hole and relish the heat of him, the tight grip. Wrench his legs open just for him, tug wonderful noises out of Crowley.
The distance stings, cuts like glass, the frustration and desperation of knowing he's only getting to enjoy this experience by stealing it, makes Aziraphale want to scream into his own room.
On the spread of his sheets, Crowley's body shakes, thighs swaying while he thrusts that thick length inside him, biting his own lip. He moves the toy deep and rough, which ramps up Aziraphale's pent-up need, to the point he unbuttons his trousers, thumbs at the ruined line of his seam, watching Crowley's pert arse split on that fake cock. Crowley seems to be ignoring his own erection entirely, and Aziraphale wonders why, wishes he could wrap a hand around the slick shaft, suck the dripping head down while watching him take that cock in his arse.
"Please, please Crowley."
He doesn't even know what he's begging for, mindless on lust alone. Aziraphale doesn't know what to do, how to move, afraid that if he leans on his armchair, he'll end up spilling in a mess inside his pants. Then Crowley shoves the toy in, drives it fully inside, pressing on the sac, and Aziraphale thinks he's about to lose his mind, stop breathing altogether.
There's come . Fake come spilling out of that fucked-open rim, gushing out around the silicone until Crowley pulls it out and Aziraphale can see the wet mess of Crowley's arsehole, that white, creamy liquid trickling out onto the bedsheets. Filthy and beautifully erotic.
Aziraphale moans ragged. He won't be able to sleep tonight if he doesn't find some sort of release. There's a dozen images in his mind right now, chief among them to spill his come all over Crowley's body, inside his arse, his mouth, fill him all over. It's unfamiliar and deviously intoxicating.
At some point Aziraphale has stood up, he doesn't know when, and he's standing next to his window, holding the frame with blanched knuckles, chest bowing with the effort of keep breathing. His cock aches, pulses slick, and when he's sliding his hand down to relieve some of the pressure, Crowley flicks wide amber eyes his way. Pins him in place with a stare that pierces Aziraphale through.
Crowley's face holds amusement painted on a smirk, and it's then Aziraphale realises he never turned off the lamp on his bedside table. It's when it dawns on him that Crowley was able to see him as clearly as he had. The blood drains from his face, heart pumping madly.
He's caught red handed, and there's a second of despairing before he tells himself there's no manner to escape from this. Crowley saw him. To the last incriminating bit of his arousal.
Eyes dark, curls damp from sweat and trousers half undone around an obscene tented front, clinging to his window as if he wanted to leap from it.
The cold dread of being discovered in such a position, bands leaden around his stomach while Aziraphale sees Crowley reach for his drawer again, reaching for something that seems like a sheet of paper in which he scribbles something, before holding it up.
Facing Aziraphale.
It reads,
FLAT 305
DOOR'S OPEN
Aziraphale's heart burns fever-bright.
Is this actually happening? Is Crowley waiting for him?
Lord , he is, and judging by the sly smile and the relaxed pose, anger isn't the fuel. Aziraphale could stay in his own flat and ignore the call but his feet are already moving, frustration and fear and desperate want pushing up beneath his loafers, giving a bounce to his step.
He tosses a cardigan over and leaves his building in a rush. His cock is now only half hard, but the image of a fucked-out Crowley waiting for him in that bed that's criminally huge is still close enough it shrouds his senses. When he steps into Crowley's building, his heart hammers in the roof of his mouth, and when he finally stands in front of 305, pushes the door open, Aziraphale can feel the floor creaking under him. Heart collapsing.
He steps into that flat he's stared at for a long time, and hears,
"It’s about time. Took you long enough."
It's a sultry, amused rush of vocals coming from the bedroom, and Aziraphale stumbles there on shaky legs. It feels strange to be inside this space he's admired and looked at from three metres away, plus walls. To be treading it now, breathing in the air held here.
"Hey there. Enjoy the show?"
Crowley is still smiling, still bare, flushed, cock hard, legs spread open letting Aziraphale see the ruined mess of his inner thighs and stretched, pink hole.
Aziraphale tries to answer, but his voice is barely a thread of sound. "What- Should I-"
He wants to know what to do, has to know why Crowley has called him here. If he's waiting for a dressing down, for endless teasing, or if perhaps Crowley might allow him to touch him, allow him-
Crowley grins, grabs the lube. "After the frankly disastrous performance earlier, you definitely should make it up to me."
"Pardon?"
"I think that you should fuck me right the fuck now, Aziraphale."
The permission cuts any tethers Aziraphale might have been holding on to, and he falls forward, crowding Crowley against his bed, kneeling between those long, pale legs.
The kiss from earlier that night buzzes oAziraphale's lips, desire stirred by the situation and he's pushing fingers in Crowley's cool hair, kissing him against his pillows.
"Did you plan this?" He manages to ask, voice sand-rough in between bites, and Crowley's wicked tongue is sliding over his lips. "Did you-"
"No, you left me fucking horny tonight," Crowley answers. He kisses Aziraphale, rough, wet, and heated, hips straining and rubbing against Aziraphale's hard cock. "But then I saw you in your room looking at me, with that look you reserve only for your midnight treats. Saw you wanting me just as much as I want you."
He's pulling Aziraphale's shirt off, slick fingers dragging in lines over the curve of Aziraphale's stomach, his waist. The sensation is delicious, makes Aziraphale greedy. He pulls his own trousers down until his cock hangs free, red and leaking.
He can barely believe this is actually happening after the weeks agonising over Crowley, over crossing boundaries that he's now leaping over. With permission, though. Always with permission. He strokes hands up the gentle roll of Crowley's ribs, mouths at the slope of his neck, thumbs at those small nipples leaving them flushed and hard.
"How could I not want you?" Aziraphale shivers out, finding the dip of Crowley's waist, holding there, and pushing his lips against all of Crowley he reaches. Neck, jaw, shoulders.
Crowley tilts his hips, making Aziraphale's cock drag wet between his buttocks. "C'mon, get inside me."
It sounds irresistibly bossy.
Aziraphale pulls away from Crowley's skin, only to see himself fit the head of his cock against that ruined hole, biting his lip to stifle a whimper.
"Watch," Crowley says then, beautiful and entirely dishevelled, lifting himself on his elbows, and spreading his legs wider. "You wanted to watch, didn't you? Then watch what you do to me."
Aziraphale's never wanted anything like he wants Crowley right this moment.
"Is it alright? Like this?" Aziraphale has the fortitude to ask, watching Crowley, nude, say, "Fuck, yeah," before he curves into him, sinking fingers in the meat of a thigh, shamelessly collecting the wetness from the toy with the head of his cock and nudging it in.
Crowley's long body arches, mouth dropping in an O, tensing the barest amount when Aziraphale slides inside that tight, slick heat, feeling the squeezing rolls of Crowley's body, adjusting to that first push.
"Fuck, you feel better than any toy."
Aziraphale has never been talked to like this in bed, has never been praised, indecently coveted and coaxed to indulge. It's all so very new: Crowley's whining indrawn breaths, the way he flexes his legs letting them catch on Aziraphale's hips, how he trembles from desire alone.
Crowley keens, hisses a sighing moan, and Aziraphale can’t resist holding him closer, sliding an arm around his waist, pulling him in like a yearning moon with a tide.
"I want you," he moans, "God, I want you."
He moves, thrusting in with rolling drives, shoving deep inside Crowley, groans spilling unsteadily from his mouth. Even if he wanted to, Aziraphale doesn't think he would be able to stop. It feels good enough to force him to think of anything that isn't how Crowley clenches tight around him, how he feels in each grinding, pressing surge.
Crowley cants his hips, guides Aziraphale to fold his legs up to his chest. "Oh, fuck, yeah, just like that. Deeper. Deeper ."
He's terribly vocal. Doesn't keep himself from sharing everything he wants, which is deliciously frustrating. It has Aziraphale whimpering with each lewd word, every filthy scenario that Crowley tips into his mind for a future, a tomorrow. His cock is a hot throb of need, dripping precome with each slide, with each intimate push that allows them closer.
"Did you imagine this? Watching me take that dildo?" The sound of Aziraphale's thrusts grows loud in a filthy squelch under Crowley's voice. "Did you imagine it was you?"
Crowley hooks his ankles behind Aziraphale's calves, pulling him deeper. "Ah. Crowley ."
"Tell me, Aziraphale."
It's a demand paired with a clench of that tight arse around Aziraphale's cock, with a moan spilled directly into his ear.
"I did." Breathing hard, Aziraphale slides his hands along those warm thighs, curving around those shapely buttocks guiding the way he takes him. "Wanton thing. I watched you and almost lost my mind thinking this would never be possible."
Aziraphale looks up and can't stop himself from kissing Crowley again, watching the dark, thick fan of his lashes up close, stark against red cheeks, and just the edge of green hidden in the flecks of those golden eyes.
Secrets that would never have been his from across the building. Aziraphale drinks in all of Crowley's sounds, and the scent of the room, the feel of those sheets and the sight of Crowley's body splayed beneath him, files it all in his brain to never forget it.
The pleasure builds, immediate and sharp, blood ringing in Aziraphale's ears and he curls a hand between their bodies, around the swaying slap of Crowley's cock, wanting to make him come on his hand, feel his rim clutch maddeningly and exquisitely around him.
Crowley comes, trembling and whining, and Aziraphale can feel it all around him. Every quiver and shake, every tellingly greedy clutch of muscles around his cock, pulling him deeper, until Aziraphale's spilling hot inside him, in between the last lax ripples of Crowley's orgasm.
Their breaths uncurl in the space, loud, while Aziraphale doesn't know what to do now, all of him fastened to the comforting softness of Crowley.
It's Crowley who breaks the silence. "Why did you run away?"
Aziraphale supposes it's a fair question. He adjusts his position, slipping soft and wet out of Crowley. "Isn't it obvious? I- I didn't want to deceive you." He lets his head drop in the hot space between Crowley's neck and shoulder, breathes the scent of sex and Crowley's shampoo. Mint and sandalwood.
"What?" There's a soft splutter coming from Crowley. "Deceive me how? What on Earth are you talking about Aziraphale?"
Why can't Crowley understand?
"Of making you believe the only times I had seen you were outside your flat," Aziraphale tries to explain. "When I've been… I've been enjoying the sight of you for weeks." His forehead presses hot against the curve of Crowley's shoulder. "Crowley, I'm so very sorry."
There's a peal of silver-bright laugh. "Oh, sweetheart," Crowley says. Aziraphale pulls back an inch just to see in astonished surprise the mocking smile tugging Crowley's lips up.
"What?"
"Look. See right there?" Crowley nods to his window. "What do you see?"
Aziraphale frowns. "Drapes?"
"Black-out fucking curtains"
"I- I don't understand."
"Oh, love, I didn't think you'd be so dense. Why would I spend money on that sort of curtains if I'm not going to use them?"
Aziraphale shakes his head. "Because?"
"Because when the view changes from an old lady with cats to a fucking gorgeous man who carries three boxes in one hand without breaking a sweat, then you gotta be pretty stupid to block that sight."
Aziraphale's jaw unhinges. "What?" He blinks, and a sliver of a sentence filters into the puzzle of their conversation. "Wait. How did you know about my midnight treats?"
Crowley's grin is Cheshire cat-like. "How do you think?"
"Did you plan to tell me?"
"Why do you think I asked you out?" He pushes closer to Aziraphale, chests pressing until Aziraphale can swear he can feel the beat of their hearts hammering against each other. "I can tell you all about it if you stay the night."
With his pulse racing, Aziraphale hazards, "Only the night?"
"And the morning after, and all the days after that," Crowley says, kisses him, carding fingers into his hair, then smirks. "You've bewitched me, body and soul and-"
Remembering Pride and Prejudice on his bedside table, Aziraphale groans. "Oh lord, you really can see into my flat, can't you?"
"Yep, which means I can also tell you, you can really gain some space if you buy some shelves instead of cramming everything on that desk you have."
Aziraphale laughs, not remembering when he's felt so at ease with someone else. "Cheeky thing. Already criticising me?"
"Suggestions, that's all."
Crowley kisses him slowly, while Aziraphale savours the chasing pressure of those red lips on his, and smiles. "Will you still buy me lunch, as you promised?"
The unsteadiness of the past draws ever farther away, and Aziraphale revels in the freedom of it. In doing all that he wants.
Crowley strokes his cheek, "Oh, sweetheart," tucks his face into Aziraphale's neck. "Always."