Work Text:
Aziraphale looks down at the screen of his mobile, the blur of human speech and movement around him in the cavernous exhibitors’ hall a mundane and distant backdrop to the extraordinary conversation at his fingertips.
Are you coming for me now?
Please.
yes.
He can feel himself shimmering at pulse points. Mostly beneath clothes, but still something he should probably visit a washroom to tidy up. And his body is pulled tight, humming with the need for Crowley. He can picture Crowley on his sofa, now: limbs post-coitally akimbo, shirt undone, jeans shoved down over narrow hips, fingertips at rest just there where he reaches down to hold Aziraphale, hard, against him as he reaches climax. As if Aziraphale would ever pull away. It's still a breathtaking intimacy that now he knows what Crowley looks like after orgasm: flushed and languid, even his hair a deeper shade of amber, eyes sleepy and satisfied. That Aziraphale has caused that sort of joy with words alone ... well.
He sits very still and considers his own outwardly-tidy form. He's wearing one of his favorite tartan suits with the matching waistcoat; he had let Crowley tie the purple bowtie. A.Z. Fell has appearances to keep up in certain circles, after all. And the more layers he puts on the more Crowley has to teasingly remove at the end of the day.
He might be outwardly tidy but Aziraphale feels anything but tidy inside. He hadn't thought about that long-ago first orgasm since that night in July as he had first pulled Crowley out of the plush armchair, onto the sitting room floor, into his arms and thought: this.
Thiswas what he had imagined, and been unable to imagine, on that night so many years ago.
That first orgasm had shuddered out of him in a confused muddle of sensation. Not even quite what he now thought of as pleasure. It had been longing and loneliness. Reaching for pleasure, perhaps, but feeling it scatter the closer he got to it, until he was exhausted and empty of anything except the distant thrum that always reminded him that Crowley was here, on this planet, somewhere, and would eventually return to him.
He pulls out his pocket watch as a collector whose clothes speak of wealth pauses to inspect one of his folios. The bookshop had added this particular volume to the boxes he set aside for the event so he assumes someone here is the correct buyer. He doesn't think this human, though. Something about the nose. He has another hour before it's fashionably early to depart. Hopefully whomever needs the book will find him before then. Sushi and kisses are, after all, waiting for him in Soho.