“Quite a treat you make, my dear,” Aziraphale whispers into Crowley’s ear as he presses close to his back. Crowley scrabbles for purchase on the desk, papers and inkwells flying in random directions. Aziraphale pays no mind, nose nuzzling into the long hair at the nape of his neck.
“N-not sure I follow, an— angel!” Crowley cries out as Aziraphale rolls his hips against him, bulge obvious even with their trousers between them. The thought of Aziraphale taking him like this — with a pure and animalistic need, bent over a piece of furniture with no preamble but his own desires — stirs something deep within Crowley that he tries very hard to ignore. But there’s no ignoring this.
“Don’t be coy now, darling,” Aziraphale growls through his teeth as he bites down on Crowley’s earlobe and pulls. “Taking me to the A & B, you know what the gents get up to there. And to that lovely cinematographic show, at the Scala of all places. Your hand was so tempting there in the dark…” Aziraphale whispers as he slides his fingers between Crowley’s, pinning his hand to the desk. “…was all I could do to keep from reaching for it. For these elegant fingers.”
Crowley whines low in his throat, at the words and the sensations. The mahogany of the desk top is sharp and painful against his stomach, but Aziraphale’s weight is welcome and grounding against his back. When Aziraphale reaches up and pops open the button of his polyester collar, Crowley is unable to suppress a moan.
“Already, darling? I’ve barely touched you yet. Perhaps I’m moving too quickly. Maybe I should slow down.” He punctuates the words with kisses to Crowley’s spine through the fabric of his shirt, and each one burns in his wake. Not with the destruction of holy water, nothing of Aziraphale could ever hurt him, but with the knowledge that Aziraphale’s lips have been there, that he’s left a mark in his own way.
“Please, no, don’t stop… I — gah! — angel, please,” Crowley stammers as Aziraphale’s hands find his hips, work the shirt out of the waistband of his bell-bottom trousers. He pushes back against the angel, heels of his boots clicking where his legs shake. Aziraphale’s hand works its way under his shirt, calloused fingers and short nails scratching through his chest hair. Crowley had been wearing it thicker lately on a whim. Style of the times, as it were; if this is the reception he gets, he might just keep it.
“Oh, Crowley, if you knew how long I’ve wanted you, how long I’ve held back… His voice is heavy with need, his hands are firm where they press into him. Insistent. Possessive. So different from that neon-lit street just a few short years ago, when the weight of confession was too much to bear and Aziraphale had left him sitting there with a thermos of Holy Water and a heart full of hope. “I don’t want to hold back anymore.”
“So don’t,” Crowley manages to say around a strangled breath.
“I don’t intend to,” Aziraphale says matter-of-factly, and sinks his teeth into Crowley’s shoulder, hand coasting lower to the snake’s head belt buckle. “A bit vain, are we, darling?” he whispers against Crowley’s neck, the low rumble of the words making Crowley shiver.
“Not vain when you’re the original.” Crowley tries to sound cool and fails miserably, the hitch in his breath giving everything away. Aziraphale just hums against his skin as he flicks the buckle open, not even bothering to pull the belt through the loops before moving on to the button and fly of his trousers.
“You were so gorgeous back then, did you know? Sleek black scales, piercing yellow eyes. Felt like you were staring into my soul when you slithered up that wall and into my life.” Aziraphale sighs as he pushes Crowley’s trousers and pants down to his ankles. Every touch of his fingers, gentle and yet unyielding, as they make their way up his calves and thighs is electric. It’s barely a whisper of a touch and yet heavier than Crowley could ever have imagined. When he reaches Crowley’s hips he grips them tight, thumbs circling at the curve of his back, insistent and full of promise. “Look at me, Crowley.”
Crowley’s arms shake with the effort of holding himself up, but he can never resist a request from his angel. He turns his head and his lips are immediately captured in a deep and searing kiss, pressing him forward against the desk with the intensity of it. The angle is wrong, and would be painful, had he a human spine. But for this — for Aziraphale’s lips on his and the taste of Aziraphale’s kiss, and Aziraphale’s grip on his hips, and Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale — it’s perfect and there isn’t a thing he would change.
Aziraphale licks into his mouth, sloppy with want and the need to be closer. The angel nips at his lips, runs his tongue along Crowley’s teeth, makes Crowley’s knees want to buckle. “The thing on your face is ridiculous,” Aziraphale whispers against his lips. “But only inasmuch as it hides more of your precious face from me. Doesn’t complement those beautiful cheekbones at all, but if you like it, then I like it, too.”
Crowley whines as Aziraphale kisses him again. The onslaught is too much, the praise and compliments. Aziraphale has always been long-winded and Crowley should have guessed he’d be long-winded now as well. Aziraphale’s hands leave his hips, grip the slight curve of his arse and squeeze as Crowley cries out to the emptiness of the room.
“Such a beautiful picture you make like this; I’ve thought so many times of taking you here. Or in the backroom. Or even in that blasted car of yours.” Aziraphale presses kisses to his neck and his spine, kneading his arse and gripping it tight. Crowley is hard enough that it’s verging on painful, cock bobbing obscenely against the desk, dripping precome onto the rug.
“Aziraphale, please, I need… I need…”
“What do you need, my darling? It’s yours, all you have to do is ask.”
“Fuck me, Aziraphale, please, need you,” Crowley babbles. He tries to back against Aziraphale’s hands, but they hold him too steadfast in their grip. There’s a pleased hum against his neck, the kind of hum that usually follows a particularly delectable angel food cake or an excellent glass of French red. The pleased hum of an angel getting exactly what he wants.
“I was hoping you would say that,” Aziraphale coos — coos! Like a bloody dove! — into his ear as one hand skates along the silk of his shirt, up to his throat and higher. “Do me a favor, dear,” Aziraphale says as he taps two fingers against Crowley’s lips, “This will go a lot smoother if you help me out.”
Crowley wraps his lips around Aziraphale’s fingers, taking them deep into his mouth, swirling his tongue around them. He’s lost in the moment, drunk on proximity and on a piece of Aziraphale inside of him. His skin is soft — tastes of ozone and just a bit of a spark of Heaven. Crowley wonders what his cock would taste like, sitting heavy on his tongue. He holds the thought as he sucks Aziraphale’s fingers, listening to the angel’s labored breathing behind him.
“Gorgeous thing,” Aziraphale says as he runs his thumb along Crowley’s moustache, “How I’d love to see your lips wrapped around other things, but not yet, I think.” He pulls his fingers out of Crowley’s mouth with a wet pop and Crowley wants to cry, wants to beg for them back. He doesn’t have time to think of that, not with Aziraphale’s fingers teasing lightly over his hole, one of them pushing ever so slightly. Crowley feels the air punch out of his lungs as Aziraphale’s finger slides in, stretching his rim and working him open. “That tongue of yours, my darling, it’s sinful how wicked it is. I could think of so many things to do with it.”
“‘Ziraphale, angel,” Crowley gasps on shaky breaths, unable to form any other words. He claws at the desk even as he grinds back, trying to push Aziraphale’s finger in deeper.
Aziraphale just tuts at him. “Greedy thing, aren’t you? But I must admit…” Aziraphale trails off as he brings a second finger to join the first, punching a whine from Crowley’s throat. “I’m quite greedy for you as well.”
The stretch is intense. All Crowley can do is keep moving as Aziraphale scissors his fingers, opening him slowly and perfectly. A particularly hard thrust has Aziraphale pushing against his prostate and he rolls his hips down, chasing that pleasure again. He has the fleeting notion he could come from this alone, the thought of this alone, much less the fact that it’s actually happening here and now.
“So beautiful and so nice in your own ways — no, no protests to it, you are — to me, at least. What is it they say about the languages of love? Acts of service, I do seem to remember, is one of them. And you’re so good at it, my darling.” Aziraphale speaks words of praise to him softly, breaking something open inside of him, making warmth pool in his stomach and an ache burn in his heart.
“Angel, please, ‘m ready, need you.” Crowley is a babbling mess and he knows it, but he can’t bring himself to care. He smiles a Cheshire Cat grin, feeling the solid weight of Aziraphale’s chest against his back. It’s euphoric already, the closeness, the lips, the teeth, the skin — all of it. And it’s in this moment, when he’s at this emotional high, that he feels the blunt head of Aziraphale’s cock press against his hole.
“I’m going to go slow, my only, don’t want to hurt you,” Aziraphale says as he strokes a reverent touch down Crowley’s ribs, scales catching on the silk of his shirt where they’ve manifested, little sparks of electricity.
“You’re not gonna break me,” Crowley sighs out, rolling his hips back, trying to make Aziraphale go faster.
“Oh, you misunderstand. I intend to thoroughly ruin you for anyone else,” Aziraphale growls in his ear as he pushes in, and Crowley’s thoughts narrow down to the one singularity that is Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale. “I want you to scream my name to the rafters until your throat is sore, my dear boy, but I’d hate for this to have to end early.”
Crowley lets out a strangled cry as Aziraphale breaches him. Whatever he had thought, whatever he had fantasized about on lonely nights spent on his own, could never compare to the real thing.
Aziraphale’s cock is thick. He sinks in slow, giving Crowley time to adjust to every inch after maddening inch. The stretch is delicious and painful, but in a way that just makes him want more. Moments transform into what feels like hours before Aziraphale finally presses in to the hilt, filling him entirely, pressing against his prostate in a way that makes him writhe and slither, every atom of his being lighting up with just one word and just one want — more.
“As you wish, dear boy,” Aziraphale says as he nuzzles Crowley’s hair. Crowley hadn’t realized he’d voiced the word out loud. Aziraphale pulls back out, slow, almost to the tip, before sinking in faster than before.
“More, more, more! ” Crowley babbles, now fully aware of doing so. Aziraphale still moves slow, but every thrust is slightly faster than the last. A punishing pace that Crowley knows will leave him sore tomorrow. He welcomes it, the evidence that will follow him for days; reminding him that this was not a dream.
“You take me so well, love,” Aziraphale sighs happily,.“Always thought you would, that we would be made to fit each other like this.”
“Angel, please, I can’t, I need…” Crowley’s arms threaten to buckle, but he won’t let them. His cock bobs helplessly, flushed red and untouched. He’s so close to coming, so close to letting go, but he can’t.
“What is it, darling? Anything at all, let me be good to you.” Aziraphale’s words are punctuated by his thrusts, each one hitting just right, just where he needs it to.
“T-touch me, please, angel, need you, Aziraphale,” Crowley gasps out, hoping for relief and nearly sobbing when the angel wraps his hand around his cock, pumping in time with his hips. Tears start to track from Crowley’s eyes at the relief of it all as he moans and thrusts into Aziraphale’s hand.
“That’s it, dearest, let me hear you, I’ve always wanted to. Beautiful creature, love of my life, let go for me.”
The whispered command sends him tumbling over the edge. He shouts Aziraphale’s name as he spills out over his hand, vision whiting out at the edges as his orgasm wrecks through him. His arms finally give out, dropping him to the desk as Aziraphale strokes and fucks him through it.
Aziraphale quickens his pace, chasing his own release. All Crowley can do is mutter Aziraphale’s name and ‘please’ and ‘I love you’ and ‘don’t stop.’ He rolls his hips back, meeting Aziraphale’s thrusts until the angel’s rhythm stutters and he pushes in one last time, spilling deep inside of Crowley and groaning as he does.
They stay there a moment, pressed together in the comedown. Aziraphale strokes Crowley’s hair, tells him how good he was, how perfect. Crowley soaks the praise up like a sponge, greedy and grateful all at the same time. He wants to cry when Aziraphale slips out, but Aziraphale just scoops him up into his arms. It’s like he weighs nothing; Aziraphale could split him apart with a thought, but he’s never felt more safe or more content.
Aziraphale carries him up the stairs, to a flat that Crowley didn’t know existed. Lays him down on soft cotton sheets and holds him close. They trade soft whispers in the dark, promises and confessions and yes, kisses, too. Too wrapped up in each other to worry, too ecstatic at long-wanted love to break away from each other.
And Crowley, for the first time in six thousand years, allows himself to be loved and cherished.
And if you asked Aziraphale, he would tell you that’s exactly what Crowley has always deserved.