Work Text:
We stood by a pond that winter day,
And the sun was white, as though chidden of God,
And a few leaves lay on the starving sod;
– They had fallen from an ash, and were gray.
Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove
Over tedious riddles of years ago;
And some words played between us to and fro
On which lost the more by our love.
The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing
Alive enough to have strength to die;
And a grin of bitterness swept thereby
Like an ominous bird a-wing….
Since then, keen lessons that love deceives,
And wrings with wrong, have shaped to me
Your face, and the God curst sun, and a tree,
And a pond edged with grayish leaves.
Neutral Tones - Thomas Hardy, 1867
---
“ Fraternizing?” Crowley spits the word out like it’s venom and Aziraphale can’t help wincing in pain at it. He’d opened his mouth and stuck his own foot in it with that one. But panic is not a proper muse, it never has been.
“Whatever you wish to call it—“ the words leave him before he can reign them back “—I do not think there is any point in discussing it further.”
He’s hurt, he’s broken. After everything, after all the times. All the times he’s wanted to move closer and now is no exception. Holy water. Of all the idiotic ideas. So close and so far. Does Crowley really want Aziraphale to face the prospect of a world without him?
“I have lots of people to fraternize with, angel. ” The last is said like an insult, like a dig. Holier-than-thou; a featherbrain with his head in the clouds. Not anyone who’s worth knowing.
“Of course you do,” Aziraphale snaps, turning on his heel so Crowley can’t see his eyes start to water. One step forward and three steps back, just like always.
“I don’t need you.” Crowley’s voice is cold, the coldest Aziraphale has ever heard it. It freezes him in his tracks as he crumples the note in his fist. He turns to face Crowley again.
“The feeling is mutual!” he says, not meaning it in the slightest. “Obviously!”
He throws the paper and it flutters pathetically to the water as he turns to escape, running headlong into a bush, making a spectacle of himself as he sputters leaves. He’s almost out of earshot when he hears Crowley mocking him.
It’s the final nail in his emotions. He rushes back to the bookshop, dodging people on the street, running into a few. He doesn’t much care at this point. Holy water. The means to an end.
Aziraphale fumbles with his keys in the door, dropping them once and then twice, before finally managing to slide the right one into the lock. He slams it behind him, tossing his feathery hat off to the side in a huff. He heaves a heavy sigh and leans his forehead against the glass. It’s warm on his skin in the fading sunlight. His hands press into the rough-hewn wood, hard enough to ground him. He lets it out — lets the tears pour down his face. Lets his fear and regret and cowardice lay paths onto his skin, stain his cravat where they fall.
Always such a coward, always afraid of what he wants.
—
The wood under his fingers is rough and coarse, but he grips it tight nonetheless. Rain falls in fat droplets to the deck of the boat. A chill sinks deep into his bones, into his soul, into his heart. What could the reason be for this? What justification? It’s the first time he has truly doubted.
Someone is there, speaking to him. Saying it’s not his fault, saying things will be ok. The wood splinters under his fingers; fingers that shake with anger, knuckles going whiter. A thin and bony hand covers his and the cold melts away.
“Hey, are you still with me, angel?”
A voice softer than it has a right to be. His grip on the gunwale softens, his fingers spread ever so slightly. Warm fingers find their places between his, heated by hellfire coursing through veins. It should not be a welcome warmth, but it is.
They stay like that for what feels like days.
—
Crowley paces back and forth along the edge of the lake. He hasn’t left the park yet, can’t decide where he wants to go.
Fraternizing .
He walks through a flock of ducks, pays no mind to the feathers as they scatter. After everything they’ve been through, can’t Aziraphale see?
This game they play, going back and forth. Aziraphale gets closer, Crowley pushes just a bit, and then Aziraphale steps away. But he keeps getting closer, like a decaying orbit around a sun, and Crowley is just waiting for the crash.
It’s become dangerous, this thing they’re moving towards. But he can’t run away from it, not even to protect Aziraphale. He has to run through. For both of their sakes.
And all he needs for that is a bit of holy water. It’s not even a big ask, in the grand scheme of things. If hell comes calling, he’d be able to fight back. That’s all he wants.
It digs at him though, the pushing and pulling. He’d thought they were in a good place. He’d thought they had an understanding. The both of them — for each other and with each other. He thought they were on their own side.
Something inside him is drawn tight and ready to snap. Something that has been simmering for way too long. Something that has gone unanswered and ignored.
Crowley has tried to ignore it for so very long, tried to keep at the angel’s pace. But everyone has a breaking point, and he’s reaching his. He needs to know what they are.
He needs to know if they’re anything.
—
This had been the worst day of his existence. Dealing with Caligula, being in this accursed city.
The keyword was ‘had’.
Fluffy blond curls, hazel eyes sparkling with just a hint of tipsiness. Watching his throat work as he tips his head back and swallows another oyster. Feeling something stir within him at the sight. Something old and hungry; something soft and protective.
It’s easy to ignore when their hands brush as they pass the amphora back and forth. It’s easy to blame the wine for how his gaze lingers. Strong and stout legs are crossed where he sits, and It would be so easy to reach out and touch. “Just the wine, angel, went to my head a bit. Better make it a night.”
He resists until he doesn’t. The soft pink flesh of the angel’s thigh is entirely too tempting. And he’s supposed to be the tempting one. The angel doesn’t even know the power he has.
A sharp breath sucked in at the gentlest of touches. If he were sober, he’d pull back, think again. But he isn’t, so he rests his hand there. Soft and supple skin under his palm. He wonders, if he ran his hand higher, would the angel run away? Or would he moan like he does around those oysters.
Their eyes meet, something unspoken passes between them.
“Just the wine, angel, went to my head.”
“It’s alright, my dear.”
That’s new; the endearment. It sends a shock through him. It will never stop sending a shock through him.
—
Aziraphale has always found that a good cup of tea can calm his nerves as sure as anything. Something in the process of it all is grounding. He puts the kettle to boil and wipes the stray tears from his face again.
He shouldn’t care this much. If Crowley wants to destroy himself, it shouldn’t matter. He’d even go so far as to say that it should be a good thing. One less demon for heaven to deal with; it should be something to celebrate.
He takes the kettle off once it boils, pours it over the tea leaves in the pot. A few more tears track their way down his face.
Crowley has never been something to be dealt with, he’s only ever been a companion. A friend. In Aziraphale’s deepest imagination, something more.
But no, Crowley wants a suicide pill. An easy way out for when things get too rough. A quick way to get away. To get away from hell, from heaven…from him. The one person he thought cared…
That’s the part that hurts the most, he thinks. He’s never been good enough, he’s not sure that he ever can be.
Three minutes pass. Aziraphale pours himself a cup and tries not to think about it. He settles into his desk chair with an old familiar book, feeling his anger and fear twist to concern.
The bookshop door slams open.
—
The nerve. The absolute gall. To make such a request of him. Unreasonable, out of the question.
To be fair though, it really is a bit damp.
He’d found a tavern, with good mead and a decent tart de brymlent. He’d rented out a room, shed his armor, and was looking forward to a decent meal. A familiar voice broke him as he descended the stairs.
He’s laughing uproariously, recounting the tale of robbing a carriage to his cohorts. His black armor is discarded, yellow eyes on full display. Yellow eyes trained on him. Yellow eyes meeting hazel and staying there, staying locked.
It’s infuriating, this want that has seeped into him. That keeps him up at night, has him take himself in hand as he imagines his name falling from cursed lips. As he imagines the feel of pale skin and taught muscle.
Angels should not want.
This angel wants too much.
He turns to leave, anger simmering still. He takes to the stairwell — decides he can eat later. He is followed, he knows. Can sense him coming. Has always been able to sense him. Has always felt the flutter in his stomach, since before he can remember not feeling it. The swooping feeling of nerves.
He spins on his heel, grabbing the demon by the tunic, slamming him into the wall behind them.
“Don’t follow me,” He hisses out through gritted teeth.
“Why not?” he is asked from a forked tongue, from a soft face with a crooked grin. A face far closer than it has ever been to his own. Too close.
Too close.
Too much.
He can taste the demon’s breath, feel the heat of his skin through his shirt, the long lines of the demon pinned with his own sturdiness. Can feel the hardness pressed into his thigh. Can see the flush run up pale cheeks.
Too close.
Too much.
He leans in closer, smells smoke in the air. Well, it is what they say, where there’s smoke…
Too close.
Too much.
“Angel,” spoken like a question, like reverence, like he’s someone worth knowing. Mere hair's breadth away. Yellow eyes close in anticipation. Hazel eyes follow.
Too close.
Too much.
Drunken patrons — a man and a woman, climb up the stairs shouting with joy. He jumps back, he lets go.
Too far.
Not enough.
Something unspoken passes between them.
Aziraphale nods, heads to his room, and closes the door.
He does not sleep that night.
—
Crowley stands outside of the bookshop for what feels like hours. Watches Aziraphale through the side window from his position across the street. Watches him putter around, make his tea, wipe his face.
The Heaven does he have to be upset about? If he can just toss Crowley aside just as easily as She did. After everything.
No, he’s not gonna let this fester. It’s been millennia, he deserves to know where he stands.
He storms across the street. The door is unlocked because he expects it to be, closed sign be damned, and he pushes it open a little more forcefully than intended. He winces as the wood slams back to the wall.
Aziraphale jumps in his chair, tea spilling on his coat and on his book. Crowley very nearly apologizes, but he doesn’t.
Aziraphale turns to face him, red eyes and puffy cheeks. “What are you doing here?” His voice is watery and cracked, like a dam waiting to break.
Crowley wants to rush over, apologize and wipe the tears away. He wants to scream, make the angel hate him, make it be deserved. Instead he stands in silence.
“I asked, what are you doing here?” Aziraphale says, more forcefully this time. “Haven’t you done enough for one day?”
“Haven’t I done enough?” Crowley asks, genuinely shocked. “What the Heaven does that mean?”
“If you detest me so much, you’ve no need to come here.” Aziraphale stares him down in the way that reminds Crowley there’s a soldier in there. A soldier who cast those like Crowley out of heaven in the first place. A brush of danger. Crowley has never been one to run from danger, and he sure as Hell isn’t gonna start now. “I can only presume you’re here to grind your point further. There’s no need, you detest me, I get the point loud and clear.”
A string of syllables that could never be mistaken for words fall from Crowley’s mouth. His sunglasses slide down to the bridge of his nose. “I detest you ? You think I detest you ? You’re the one who keeps tossing me out like day-old garbage, Aziraphale, not the other way around!”
Aziraphale stands, snapping his fingers and miracling the tea stains from his coat and his book, glaring at Crowley as he does. There’s steel there, under the softness. Angels like Aziraphale were made as soldiers, made to smite the wickedness off the Earth. There’s a divinity and a strength that simmers in Aziraphale; Crowley does not often get to see it.
Crowley knows though, in this moment and in any moment, he would bask in that holy light and be grateful for the chance to burn. He’d take holy water from divine lips — swallow it down and die happy and blissful with the taste of his angel on his lips.
“I could’ve gotten that,” Crowley says, despite himself, grasping for something to say to keep his heart from racing. To bring things back down to a normal level. To keep Aziraphale from asking him to leave. He doesn’t want to leave, not like this.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Aziraphale says bitterly. “I’d always know it was there, underneath.”
They stand there, just a few yards apart but miles away from each other.
—
Almost a millennia now, since that morning. Since the angel found him and agreed to this Arrangement.
They filter in with the crowds — crowds he brought there — to watch this gloomy play. But the angel loves Hamlet and Shakespeare and all the rest of it; Crowley hopes it’s enough. Hopes that it comes across.
Stay.
I need you.
I want you.
I love you.
He watches, yellow eyes rapt with attention. They follow every quirk of an eyebrow, every twitch of his mouth, every minute motion on his face. Show me a sign. Show me a sign.
I need you.
They watch the play together. So close together, their arms touching, wrist to shoulder the whole time. It’s a firebrand. It sparks a longing in him. This sweet torture, these sweet visions. Be still, heart.
I want you.
He dreams when he sleeps. It had terrified him at first, but it doesn’t now. He dreams of blond cotton fluff hair, of a turned down pout of a smile, of a voice in his ear, dripping praise to him like honey. Telling him he’s good enough, worthy enough, to worship at this altar.
I love you.
He’ll never be good enough to worship here, he knows this. Cursed things tarnish blessed things, and none are more blessed than him. His eternal summer shall not fade, death shall not wander'st in his shade. He’s too lovely. Too temperate.
I love you.
He wants. The demon wants so badly to be blessed, to be privileged. To taste holy skin and sweat and salt. He does not push, he cannot push.
He walks the angel home, he starts to feel bold.
Standing at the angel’s door, he places a gentle kiss to the back of the angel’s hand. Watches the red creep up the pale of his face. Commits the sight to memory. The angel practically glows for a moment. He will never forget that glow.
The angel stammers a goodnight and leaves him standing there, the ghost of a warm hand still haunting his fingers.
—
“I could’ve gotten that.”
He hears Crowley say it, feels the bile rise up in his throat. “I’d much rather you didn’t,” Aziraphale hears himself snap. “I’d always know it was there, underneath.”
And he would. Demonic miracles leave a bit of a spark in their wake. Any time his hands would smooth his coat or turn the pages of his book there would be a little tinge of something, just under the surface. A bit of darkness. Something that would spark on his skin just like the cuffs did in Paris.
He’s wondered sometimes, in his private moments. Wondered if, were he ever lucky enough, he could taste those same sparks on Crowley’s skin.
“So that’s how it is,” Crowley hisses, malice seeping into his words and dripping from his fangs. “Wouldn’t want something so cursed around your things, then? Tarnish your reputation?”
“What?”
“You hate me that much?” Crowley grips his walking cane so hard that it starts to splinter. “After everything we’ve been through and everything I’ve done — we’ve done — I’m still just a detestable thing not fit to exist around you, is that it?”
“What? No!” Aziraphale shouts, feeling the sting at the corner of his eyes. “That’s not it at all, Crowley!”
“Then what is it! Hmm?” Crowley tosses his cane to the side as he paces, starting to come closer but not quite managing. “Why do you do this, push me away every single chance you get?”
“Push you away?”
“Yes! Push me away, every time I get close.”
“Because I have to, Crowley, you know that!”
“That’s why I want the holy water—”
“—So you can have an easy way out! If things get too tough you want to just check out and leave me here alone .”
“Aziraphale—“
“No! I’m not discussing this any further, I will not give you holy water and I will not watch you destroy yourself.”
“Destroy myself?”
“Yes! Destroy yourself! That’s what it will do, even a drop and you’re gone for good and forever! Not just discorporated but gone . Don’t pretend you don’t know it, and I will not give you the means to do that!”
“Why—“
“Because I love you, you idiot!”
—
He’s in too deep. He got comfortable, made himself at home. He hadn’t realized he’d been letting the demon curl up inside his heart and make it home, too.
He watches Crowley across the table, here in this little patisserie. Watches the demon watching him. Chin in his hand, besotted look on his face. Right here in the open. Watches how the demon’s breath hitches when he swallows a bite. Watches how his eyebrow arches.
He wonders when, in his long existence, food became not worth having without the demon around.
He feels something touch his calf lightly. A mistake, surely. He takes another bite. Strawberry. Exactly what he had wanted.
Or is it what he had wanted? Was what he had wanted sitting across the table from him right now?
Another touch. He feels a slow drag against his stockings. The toe of the demon’s shoe. A gentle caress against his calf that makes his breath hitch. It’s not unwelcome, and that terrifies him. He wants this contact. Wants more.
Up.
Thin fingers are wrapped around the stem of a wineglass. He thinks about those fingers too often. Thinks about them dragging slow up his calves, over his thighs. Thinks of them rolling his stockings down, divesting him of his breeches. Roaming his skin, mapping the expanses of it. Touching him in all of the places he shouldn’t want.
Down.
He wants to tangle his own fingers in auburn curls, wants to pull and claim and take anything that’s willingly given. Wants to remake him from the inside out, bring him to the edge and keep him there until they’re both unable to take it anymore.
Up.
The caress goes a bit higher, his blush gets a bit darker. He tries to ignore it. The feel of the touch going up, the swoop in his stomach going down. If they met in the middle he might not survive it.
Down.
A slow rhythm. A deliberate rhythm. A Cheshire grin behind crimson lenses. A suggestive cock of an eyebrow. A slow building panic courses through his veins. This is wrong. It’s too much. It’s always too much.
Up.
His breath hitches — the demon’s face falls.
“My dear,” he stutters out, barely able to form words at this point. This brief contact is entirely overwhelming. It will haunt his dreams for months, if not years.
Dark crimson lenses slide down a thin nose. Hazel eyes meet yellow. The contact is broken. It hurts already. It’s too much. It’s too dangerous. For the both of them. It’s too much.
He’s in love.
He sits across from Crowley in a patisserie in Paris and he realizes with absolute clarity that he is in love.
Aziraphale is in love and he can’t deny it anymore.
—
The words hang in the air, heavy over both of their heads. Aziraphale’s lip quivers, on the verge of tears once again. Crowley plays it back in his head, over and over.
I love you
I love you
Crowley pulls his sunglasses off slowly, lets them clatter to the ground. Aziraphale won’t meet his gaze. He just stands there, wringing his hands together.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says in a voice so low Crowley almost misses it.
“For what?”
“For being out of line.” He can already see Aziraphale bottling it back up, burying it back down. It’s like a panic over crepes and things unsaid. Like a blush rising in the angel’s cheeks from a soft kiss to his hand. Like a near-kiss in a hallway at an inn, chest to chest against a wall, full of mirth and anger. Like a hand on a soft thigh, drunk on atmosphere and wine both. Like fingers entwined on a gunwale as the rain falls down and drowns the Earth.
He doesn’t want Aziraphale to bottle it back up. To lock it back down. He’s heard it now, he needs it. Needs to feel it. Needs to know.
“Aziraphale—“
“Please.” Aziraphale turns to look at him properly, a pleading look on his face. “Please, we can just forget this.”
“But what if I don’t want to,” Crowley says softly, delicately. He doesn’t want Aziraphale to run again. “What if I don’t want to forget it?”
“Do you?” Aziraphale asks, something akin to hope blooming on his face. “Not want to forget it, that is?”
Here is where Crowley’s words fail him.
But his feet, as he strides across the small distance in the bookshop, do not.
His hands, as they tangle in the lapels of Aziraphale’s jacket, do not.
His heart, cursed and damned as it is, does not. It wouldn’t dare falter where Aziraphale is concerned.
He crowds Aziraphale back against a bookshelf and covers the angel’s lips with his own. Finally feeling those soft lips against his, a longing millennia in the making. He knows it now, he can never go back. Smooth manicured hands grip his wrists, slide up his arms, tangle in his hair. His hat is knocked to the floor, and he can’t bring himself to care.
Aziraphale kisses him back, tongue teasing at his lips. There’s no other recourse, there never has been. Crowley opens up for him, tastes the Earl Grey still there on Aziraphale’s tongue. He wants to be consumed, he wants to consume. Aziraphale moans into his mouth and he thinks, with sudden clarity, that he could live off of those moans until long after the sun burns out.
His hands roam down Aziraphale’s lapels, resting on his hips, pulling him closer. Aziraphale gasps into his mouth as he breaks the kiss.
“I love you,” Crowley breathes out before Aziraphale has a chance to say anything else. He’s a vision, hair mussed from where it’s rubbed against the spines of his books. Face flushed, lips red from the fever of their kisses. Crowley cups Aziraphale’s cheek, and the angel leans into the contact, eyes fluttering shut and oh how Crowley wants to kiss every single inch of that angelic face. “I love you, Aziraphale.”
“Then why,” Aziraphale says, tilting his head and kissing Crowley’s palm, sending a spark straight through him. “Why do you want to leave me here alone?”
“I don’t, Aziraphale, I never could.” Crowley pulls Aziraphale close and kisses his forehead. “It’s for protection, to protect us . In case they ever come for us.”
“Us…” Aziraphale breathes like a sigh of relief. Crowley’s thumb traces small circles on his cheek. His eyes are dark and wanting where they meet Crowley’s yellow ones. “I think… I think I like the sound of that.”
Crowley can feel the heat rising in his face as Aziraphale kisses him again. It’s chaste and gentle, a soft press of lips that isn’t demanding; doesn’t beg for more. But it lingers, just a bit longer than necessary. Like an invitation.
“Aziraphale…” he says softly when they break, his eyes opening slowly. Crowley feels like he’s in a dream. Has to be, to be a world where Aziraphale wants him like this.
“My darling…” Aziraphale smiles at him and it lights all the dark recesses of his heart. Fills it to bursting. He moves his hand to the nape of Aziraphale’s neck and pulls him in for a deeper kiss.
Aziraphale starts to work at the buttons of Crowley’s coat while he pulls the pin out of the angel’s cravat. “Call me that again,” Crowley hisses against Aziraphale’s lips as he pulls the cravat loose.
“My darling,” Aziraphale practically moans into Crowley’s mouth as he pushes the coat off his shoulders, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor. “My dearest—“ Aziraphale presses his lips to the hollow of Crowley’s throat “—my treasure—“ kisses a line to his pulse point, dragging his tongue along the way, making Crowley’s breath hitch and his cock twitch in his trousers.
“ Angel ,” He pushes Aziraphale back into the bookcase, grinding against him and swallowing the moan off the angel’s lips. He tangles his hands in Aziraphale’s hair, kissing him deeply and desperately. He ruts against him, feeling an answering hardness in Aziraphale’s own trousers.
His tongue forks when it winds into Aziraphale’s mouth, mapping the space, taking in the taste of him, committing it to memory. As he hurries to get Aziraphale’s coat and vest off, he feels his teeth sharpen to fang points. Aziraphale runs his tongue over one of them, inhaling sharply at the sensation and breaking the kiss.
“Alright, angel?”
“Perfectly…” Aziraphale’s eyes shift back down to Crowley’s mouth, and he doesn’t miss the angel’s pink tongue dart out to wet his lips.
“Don’t think I’ll ever get enough of this…” Crowley says, nuzzling into Aziraphale’s neck, breathing in the scent of him. “…of kissing you.”
“Then don’t.” There’s an edge to Aziraphale’s voice that Crowley hasn’t heard before. The angel’s fingers trace the edge of his trousers where his shirt is tucked in. Slow and methodical, like a request for permission.
“What do you want, Aziraphale?” Crowley growls low as he takes Aziraphale’s earlobe in between his teeth. “Anything in the world, in the universe , it’s yours, just tell me.”
“I want you, Crowley. I’ve wanted you for so long.” It’s said softly, intimately. Words that are only for him, he’s the only one who needs to know them. Crowley grinds into him again and Aziraphale’s hips answer, seeking out a relief of friction of his own.
He tugs at Aziraphale’s shirt, freeing it from his trousers. Crowley bites down on the angel’s neck, smirking into the skin there as Aziraphale’s back arches. Not enough to pierce the skin, just enough to leave a mark. A mark that he was here, that this happened. Two pinprick bruises, barely noticeable in these buttoned up times. But he’ll know that it’s there. He’ll always know he left it there.
Crowley takes his time, kissing and nipping along the muscle of Aziraphale’s neck. Expanses he was sure he’d never get to touch. He’d often thought Aziraphale’s skin would burn him, and in a way it does. He feels himself lit on fire from within with every inch of that holy skin he presses his lips to.
He trails his way down the angel’s throat, across his Adam’s apple. He glances up to see Aziraphale’s eyes before taking the first button of his shirt between his teeth and popping it open with his thin forked tongue.
Crowley works his way down slowly, one button at a time. His hands roam across the soft, pale skin as he drops to his knees. Taking every gasp and every breathy moan and etching out a place for it in his memory.
He’s felt this skin, heard these sounds, tasted this kiss. He’s never going to go back.
“Dearest, wait,” Aziraphale says, hurried and panicked. A soft hand grips Crowley’s chin and tilts his face upwards. This, he thinks, is where he should be. On his knees at Aziraphale’s altar. The only heaven he’ll ever be sent to; the only one he ever wants. “I just, please, I’ve been pushing you away for so long. Crowley…let me take care of you , the way you’ve taken care of me for so long.”
Crowley lurches back to his feet, crashing their lips together. After so long, to hear Aziraphale acknowledge it, to say it, is a relief all it’s own. They make their way to the backroom, Crowley’s own shirt and vest disappearing somewhere along the way. He’s not even sure which of them managed to get rid of it, but he finds he doesn’t much care.
The back of Crowley’s knees hit the sofa as he tangles his hands in Aziraphale’s hair, pulling him in further, slotting their lips together as closely as possible. He wants to consume him, be consumed by him. He wants to do both at once.
Aziraphale makes quick work of Crowley’s trousers and underwear, ridding him of them before pushing him back onto the sofa. Crowley opens his eyes as he falls backwards and he’s more than a bit overcome. Only in his dreams has he ever thought he’d see Aziraphale like this: disheveled and taken apart, breathing heavy and practically naked. He takes in the sight in front of him, wanting to remember every single detail of this, of their first time together.
He rakes his eyes over Aziraphale’s strong shoulders, his soft middle, before they settle on the angel’s erection, straining against —
“Button fronts?” He looks at Aziraphale, cocking an eyebrow. “ Really , angel?”
“They’re stylish!” Aziraphale snaps back as he steps closer to him, letting Crowley’s hands alight on his hips and pull him closer.
“Maybe a decade ago,” Crowley hums as he kisses and nips at the soft skin of Aziraphale’s stomach. “Now they’re just a bunch of buttons. Absolute terror, you are.”
“You love me, though,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley can hear the smirk in his voice. This side of him that only Crowley gets to see, made even more real by the current situation.
“I do, you insufferable bastard angel—” he slides his fingers between the buttons, feeling the warmth of Aziraphale’s skin despite the fabric, “—I love you.” He rips the fabric, popping off the buttons, hearing them hit the floor.
“Was that really —ahh” Aziraphale shouts as Crowley’s hands roam to grab his arse.
“Have you any idea how long I’ve wanted to get my hands on this?” Crowley asks, voice a low rumble. He nuzzles his cheek against Aziraphale’s stomach. “How long I’ve wanted to touch you?”
He pushes Aziraphale’s boxers and trousers down, freeing the angel’s erection. Aziraphale kicks them off and clambers onto the couch, straddling across Crowley’s lap. Aziraphale takes his face in both of his hands, kissing him deeply, rolling his hips into him. Aziraphale’s skin against his is intoxicating on its own, it’s almost unbearable with Aziraphale’s cock rubbing against his.
“Angel,” Crowley gasps out as his hips roll upwards, back arching, wanting more. Aziraphale kisses him deeply as he snaps his fingers. He leans back, a small bottle of mineral oil now in his hand.
“Shh, let me take care of you, darling.” Aziraphale takes off the cap and pours some on his hand. “Let me give you this.”
Crowley tries and fails to suppress a moan as Aziraphale wraps his slick hand around the both of them, setting a slow and tantalizing rhythm with his strokes.
His hands slide up Aziraphale’s back, digging his fingernails into where the base of the angel’s wings would be. Aziraphale cries out but keeps up the pace, and Crowley can feel himself getting closer.
“Crowley, you could never know,” Aziraphale gasps out, “you could never know how much I’ve wanted you, loved you, from afar.”
“You have me, angel, I’m all yours,” Crowley cups Aziraphale’s cheek with one hand, stares into his eyes, full of a love he never let himself believe was there. “Always have been, Aziraphale.”
He watches something flicker across Aziraphale’s face, unable to place it. He can’t focus on much of anything, with this slow drag hurtling him to the precipice of his pleasure.
Aziraphale kisses him deeply, quickening his speed. “I’m close,” he breathes into Crowley’s mouth, breath shallow and ragged.
“Me too, angel,” Crowley says before arching his back and crying out, “I’m gonna…”
“I’ve got you, darling, come for me,” Aziraphale gasps out, chasing his own release. Crowley cries out, spilling into his hand. A couple more drags and Aziraphale follows, shouting Crowley’s name.
Crowley wraps his arms around Aziraphale as they come back down to Earth, holding him as tight as he feels he is allowed. Aziraphale snuggles against his chest, sated and content.
Crowley can’t help but press kisses into his hair, to his forehead, wherever he can reach. He has a moment of panic, waiting for the penny to drop. For Aziraphale to send him on his way, pretend this never happened, just like all the times before. Crowley doesn’t think he’d be capable of that this time.
“For us, Crowley?” Aziraphale nuzzles into his neck as he asks. And that one word, falling from the angel’s lips, Crowley knows that it’s them. Together, in whatever way that they can fit, in whatever form that takes.
Crowley sighs, lets the tension leave his shoulders, relaxes into the embrace. “Yeah, angel, everything I’ve ever done. For us.”
“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale leans up to kiss him again and Crowley knows, no matter what else life can throw at them. Right here in each other’s arms, that’s where they belong.