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Crowley’s almost sure this isn’t what Maggie meant when she said make yourselves at home.
“No one’s minding us.” Aziraphale sounds convincing enough, but then again he’s also leaving a trail of sloppy kisses down the side of Crowley’s neck, so Crowley’s resolve is weak and he could easily be convinced of almost anything. “No one even noticed we’ve gone inside.”
“How come I’m the one who—” Crowley’s breath is cut short when Aziraphale bites and sucks near his pulse point, pinning him harder against the wall with his whole body, pressed together chest to hips. It’s enough to tear a slow whine out of Crowley—a long, guttural moan that borders on pathetic. “Fuck, Aziraphale.”
They haven’t really moved into the bedroom yet, are nowhere near the bed, and judging by how fast things are going—as in, judging by the desperation with which they are clinging to each other’s mouths and clothes—it’s seeming more and more likely that they’ll get off right where they’re standing. And it’s probably fine that way, right? Nothing too disrespectful about doing that.
Not to mention this is the guest bedroom. Crowley’s… almost sure it is. Ninety percent sure. Ninety-five?
“The one who what?” Aziraphale’s hands slipped under his shirt at some point, Crowley hardly noticed when exactly, but now Aziraphale’s rubbing them up and down his sides, touching him like it’s his first time discovering every sharp line of his body, and his question feels more like a taunt than anything else.
“The one who cares about whether or not we should fuck during our friends’ housewarming party, angel.” Crowley says it like it’s obvious, but he’s surprised he manages to get through the entire sentence without a stutter. He’s shocked, even. A big part of it is because he’s still struggling to decide if he even wants to talk about this, or if he’d rather kiss Aziraphale senselessly, until all words and rational thoughts feel like distant, foreign concepts.
Truth is, kissing Aziraphale senselessly is the obvious choice, here.
Nina would get it. Probably.
“Well, we’re certainly warming the house.” Aziraphale tries to hide his stupid grin somewhere in the crook of Crowley’s collarbone, but Crowley feels it in his soul, that smile. That proud, silly, heartwarming smile. “And I do think you knew what you were doing…” Aziraphale sounds half-serious now, all while giving slow, calculated rolls of his hips, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Wearing those scandalous swim shorts around me, parading in front of my chair the way you did. Tempting me.”
Crowley can’t rightfully be expected to wear jeans at a pool party, now can he? He chuckles and shakes his head, profoundly amused, but when he glances down and sees for himself how obscene he looks, the hard outline of his erection obvious under the tiny excuse of waterproof fabric that makes his swim shorts, he can’t find the words to argue.
Even soft, he must’ve been leaving very little to the imagination.
Regardless. For two people who urgently dragged each other inside an empty house and started making out before they’d even made their way up the stairs, Crowley decides there’s been way too much talking so far, and not nearly enough kissing.
He chooses to rectify that by gently grabbing the back of Aziraphale’s head with both hands and pulling him up to eye level. Aziraphale tries to resist, like his lips are refusing to part away from his skin for even the briefest of moments, but when Crowley immediately brings their mouths together, he quickly surrenders and melts into it.
The rest of the world melts around Crowley, too. All of his senses zone in on the feel of Aziraphale’s tongue swirling around his, on his little moans coming out half-choked, on the way every short snap of hips betrays how much he desires him—even on the strong scent of chlorine clinging to his soft, slightly cold skin. It’s a dizzying whirlwind of sensations that leaves Crowley breathless, boneless, as he lets himself be taken.
Everything ceases to matter. There’s the wall, and there’s Aziraphale, and there’s nothing else—nothing until Crowley feels curious fingers dip beneath the waistband of his swim shorts, the tight elastic straining to let them in. Until he feels soft-padded fingertips brushing back and forth over his bare hipbone. Until he feels one thick thumb grazing against his pubic hair.
Until Aziraphale abruptly breaks their kiss and wantonly moans into his mouth.
Crowley experiences a full-body jolt, a thousand simultaneous little spasms that feel like sparks fueling the fire in his loins. His cock reacts and jumps, and he finds himself squeezing his eyes shut, his heart and lungs suddenly feeling twice too big for the size of his ribcage. He can’t ignore his arousal any longer.
He’s so hard and ready, he’s aching.
“Fuck, angel.” A weak moan escapes him when Aziraphale lowers his hand and traces the length of his shaft in a soft caress, humming appreciatively when Crowley’s hips respond with a twitch. “Please.”
Crowley’s quickly unraveling and he blames all the friction and pressure from Aziraphale’s thigh, as well as those flashes of mad lust and urgency he keeps seeing in Aziraphale’s eyes—as long as blames means that he’s immensely fucking grateful for it all. Because, actually, he can’t believe his luck.
“Please what?”
“Please stop being such a bastard.” Crowley gasps, banging his head back against the wall. He sure hopes everyone is still out in the courtyard, unable to overhear him begging. God. Aziraphale always makes such a shameless mess of him. “Playing with me like—like—”
There’s no way he can come up with an effective analogy, not when Aziraphale’s fingers swiftly wrap around his cock and pull it out of his swim shorts, his other hand tugging the constrictive material out of the way and leaving it under his arse, a snug band around his thighs.
“Oh, darling.” Fuck. “I’m done playing.”
Aziraphale punctuates his statement with a long stroke upwards, brushing over Crowley’s slit with his thumb when he gets to the top, gathering the slick there before spreading it on the downstroke, all while keeping Crowley’s lips millimeters away from his own. They share every breath, and when Aziraphale presses the hard bulge of his own cock against Crowley’s thigh, searing hot, they start sharing every moan, passing them back and forth like they’re the only source of oxygen in the room.
Crowley’s completely at Aziraphale’s mercy. He knew it the moment Aziraphale grabbed his hand and dragged him inside the house, but he knows his fate is sealed the very second Aziraphale glances down, licks his lips, then promptly drops to his knees.
Crowley loses it. He’s absolutely done for long before Aziraphale even sticks his tongue out and licks him root to tip, long before he feels the heat of his mouth engulfing him—long before Aziraphale hollows his cheeks and starts sucking.
“God—Oh, Christ—Angel—”
Crowley doesn’t mean to be praying but he has no control over it, and then suddenly he’s left gasping for air, holding on to Aziraphale’s shoulders with trembling hands, resisting the urge to snap his hips forwards and come inside his soft, pretty, warm mouth, down his throat.
“Fuck. Fuck, Aziraphale. I’m—”
It’s something else, looking down and making eye contact when Aziraphale looks so properly wrecked, his plump lips stretched so delicately around his cock, his hand holding him at the base so tenderly. It’s wild to see, especially when Aziraphale starts bobbing his head, slowly picking up the pace, making sure to keep his tongue flat and firm on the underside of him, and God, now Aziraphale’s drooling a little, his eyes watering, his eyelashes fluttering when he takes him down to the root, and God—
“Angel, angel—”
Crowley doesn’t remember when exactly he started calling Aziraphale angel. It must’ve been some time around their fourth date, when holding each other’s hands started feeling like the most natural thing, and baby or honey felt too impersonal to use. It must’ve been around the same time he realised that being with Aziraphale was the best thing to ever happen in his life. It must’ve been then.
Something weird happens with reality when Crowley feels the telltale signs of a mind-blowing orgasm flowing through him—his abs clenching, his eyes rolling back inside his head, the intensity of his pleasure too much to bear in silence. He hears himself moaning until his voice cracks and gives out, and it’s almost like reality takes a break from the rest of the universe. Like time itself briefly seems to stop. Yet, it’s not like pressing pause on a video player. It’s rather like experiencing the short, intense moment of silence between seeing a nuclear flash and feeling the sonic boom of its shockwave.
“Oh, fuck—”
Boom.
Crowley bites down on his fist, hoping to muffle the wretched sounds pouring out of him, but the way Aziraphale keeps him in his mouth as he works him through the last of his release makes it all hopeless. By the time Aziraphale slowly, gently, delicately licks him clean, as if savouring the salt off his skin, Crowley fears he might actually collapse to the floor. He’s been reduced to a weak, moaning, whimpering remnant of the man he was before.
In the end he doesn’t collapse, but he does let himself slowly slide down the wall until his bum hits the floor, stretching his legs on either side of Aziraphale, his wet cock softening against his bare thigh. Still trying to catch his breath, and still trying to force his eyes to remain open, he blindly reaches out to grab Aziraphale by the shoulders and pull him closer.
Aziraphale falters forwards on all fours, his open palm hitting the wall behind Crowley’s head for support, and he gasps in surprise when Crowley’s mouth crashes into his without further delay. It’s the sort of kiss that could be described as swallowing each other’s faces, driven by basic instinct and pure need, but that would be more accurately described as drinking each other in.
And that’s exactly what Crowley’s doing—drinking Aziraphale in when he tastes himself on his lips, when he opens his mouth wider and lets Aziraphale take the lead. He loses himself in it for a moment, like his brain’s being wiped clean, ignoring the ache in his lower back from the uncomfortable position, and soon enough the only thing that matters is the desire—the urge—to see Aziraphale come undone before him.
“You wanna come, angel?” Crowley asks, his voice coming out more gravelly than he expects it to, and perhaps it’s a stupid question, but he asks it all the same. It’s worth it if only to hear the way Aziraphale poorly stifles back a moan. “Then show me how desperate you are for it.”
Crowley can thank his orgasm for clearing his head somewhat. It gives him the brain power to tease instead of being teased, and to smirk a bit devilishly when Aziraphale reacts to his words like he’s just been punched in the gut.
His expression goes from shock to arousal to pure determination, to clear purpose, when he fiddles with the laces of his own swimwear and shoves a hand inside. Crowley grins, proud and happy, angling his head to pepper kisses along Aziraphale’s soft jawline, to nibble and bite a little. He gets strangely possessive in times like these, wanting to grope and mark Aziraphale everywhere he can reach.
He watches in awe when Aziraphale starts stroking himself, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, still using the wall for support, his head hanging low as every other breath comes out a moan. It’s possibly the hottest thing Crowley’s ever seen, and that’s saying a lot. Truth is, they’ve been together for over ten years and are still as crazy for each other as when they started dating, if not arguably even more. At least crazy enough to ditch all of their friends in the middle of the afternoon and find a private spot to fulfill the irresistible, uncontrollable urge to fuck.
“I wanted to—oh, god—wanted to have you right there on the lawn chair, darling,” Aziraphale starts rambling, and now Crowley knows he must be close. Aziraphale always gets like this whenever he’s about to lose it, all thoughts let loose. “You irresistible—sinful—”
“Don’t you blame your impure thoughts on me,” Crowley drawls, knowing full well that he’s a hundred percent to blame. Aziraphale was right, earlier. He definitely knew what he was doing, walking by Aziraphale’s chair as many times as he did, feeling the intensity of his gaze as it devoured him head-to-toe. Now, his lower back might be screaming at him in agony, but Crowley’s exactly where he wants to be. Aziraphale’s about to come all over him, and it’s going to be fucking fantastic. The stuff of dreams, really. “You’re always gagging for it.”
“Crowley—!”
Crowley surprises even himself with his own word-choice, but he doesn’t regret saying it when Aziraphale’s body immediately goes rigid. A few quick strokes, Crowley’s name giving way to a treacherous moan, and Aziraphale suddenly comes—short, hot streaks landing on Crowley’s torso, his head thrown back, his legs shaking, the bustle of their friends all gathered in the courtyard forgotten long, long ago.
“Fuck, angel.”
That's all Crowley manages to say before Aziraphale is collapsing back against him, kissing him so hard it’s almost like he’s trying to thank him, alternating between sucking on his tongue and on his bottom lip, seemingly unbothered by the mess of his release smearing between them. A kiss so mindblowing that it makes Crowley’s brain shut down, his mouth moving on instinct, his hands seeking the soft, warm skin of Aziraphale’s sides, his belly, his thighs.
They only start to slow down when Crowley’s little grunts of pleasure unfortunately start morphing into ones of discomfort, and then they carefully pull apart. Crowley helps Aziraphale move off his lap and sit next to him, back against the wall. Then, he grabs Aziraphale’s hand and holds it over his thigh, greedy for more physical contact.
“I wonder if anyone’s looking for us by now,” Crowley says after he finally catches his breath, although his legs still feel pretty much useless. “Don’t think we were too obvious, were we?”
“Us? Obvious?” Aziraphale rests his head against Crowley's shoulder, smiling so hard it’s noticeable in the tone of his voice. “No, no, I shouldn’t think so.”
“Mmh. Let’s hope you’re right, angel.”
“Of course I’m right, darling.”
Crowley does not have time to take a single step into the courtyard, Aziraphale walking in front of him, before all heads turn their way and chaos shortly ensues. It turns out, they’d been way more obvious than they’d thought. Instead of quietly sneaking back into the party, as they’d hoped to do, they are met with a cacophonic mix of whistles, sex noises, and… oh, what the fuck, is someone actually barking?
“Oh, Good Lord.” Aziraphale has the audacity to be shocked and embarrassed, turning around to hide his face—or, perhaps more accurately, his blush—against Crowley’s chest.
Crowley would normally give him shit for it, and he’d have a great time doing it, but instead he decides to be nice and wrap his arms around him, holding him close, shielding him from their friends’ feral catcalls.
“Shut up, the lot of you!” Crowley shouts at the crowd, but the stupid grin stuck on his lips must make it difficult to take him seriously. “You’re all just jealous!”
The only response Crowley gets is… Oh, great. More barking.
“Bastards.”