Chapter Text
"Did you enjoy yourself?"
Aziraphale can't help but laugh over the booklet he'd been given on the way out. Crowley always asks him that, even though this is the fifth time they've gone out together
"Immensely," he confirms, to Crowley's obvious pleasure. "I especially enjoyed the way he used the empty yellow spaces to symbolise sadness, it was so well done." Aziraphale smiles when the other man holds the door for him as they exit the small gallery that's currently showing a few pieces by Crowley's friend, Erik. "The detailed eyes in the moth wings too - and the stretched-out horizon was, I believe, a brilliant representation of how unreachable happiness can sometimes feel."
Crowley makes an indecipherable noise in his throat. "It was definitely very yellow," he agrees. "Thought blue was supposed to be the symbolically sad colour," He's fallen into step beside Aziraphale like he's been there for years, his long hands shoved into his pockets, his whole body tilted in towards him. Aziraphale has no idea how he manages to walk like that without falling over. But he can't help but find it hopelessly endearing. As if Crowley is half caught in an orbit around him.
"I think the mood of every painting depends on its own palette," Aziraphale offers, or at least that's how he thinks it's supposed to work. "And the subject matter. I think you're using both to try and evoke an emotional response in the viewer."
Crowley's nose scrunches briefly. "Well if there's no consensus on this how am I supposed to know which paintings are sad?"
Aziraphale knows perfectly well that he's being teased, it's obvious in the smile that opens when he looks at him, every inch of it mischievous. But it's also in the way he rocks slightly into him, like he's waiting for Aziraphale to bluster so he can lean over and kiss him.
He wouldn't be averse to that. He hopes that's equally as obvious. Crowley doesn't have to try very hard to get his attention.
"Well I suppose you'll just have to keep me around to let you know." He says with a laugh. As if Crowley's company hasn't been the highlight of every museum, garden and gallery they've visited in the last month. Aziraphale had always felt out of place on his own, but sharing these experiences with Crowley is perhaps the most fun he's ever had.
"I suppose I will," Crowley agrees. Though the words are quiet, and far more serious than Aziraphale had intended his light-hearted comment to be. "Erik loves you by the way. I have no idea what the fuck he's going on about half the time. I think he was actively weeping when you left."
Aziraphale had been so afraid that Crowley's friend wouldn't like him, for a variety of what he considered to be fairly obvious reasons. But Erik had been a ball of enthusiasm and warmth, all but vibrating to show off his work. His pieces were so interesting to look at, with their thick curves of bright paint next to pale empty spaces, and animals that weren't quite animals if you looked closely enough. He'd only come into the city for a few days, and Aziraphale hadn't expected Crowley to be so eager to introduce them. But it's easy to see why he's so fond of the young artist.
Though Crowley is exaggerating horribly, as usual. "That's not true and you know it."
"Weeping," Crowley repeats. "Because he knows how rude and impatient I can be with my friends, so now he's probably convinced he'll never see you again."
The suggestion in that leaves Aziraphale drawing one long hand out from a pocket that's far too tight for it and squeezing it. Though Crowley simply uses that as an excuse to tug him closer, expensive black leather pressed to his twenty year old tan jacket.
"Erik was very nice," Aziraphale tells him. "I enjoyed meeting him, and you're not half as rude or impatient as you think you are."
Crowley pulls a face. "To be honest half is still quite a lot."
Aziraphale nudges him with an elbow - and this time he does get a lean and a kiss, pressed rather recklessly to the curve of his ear.
"I'm not even joking any more. He likes you, probably more than he likes me. You appreciated his weird skull art. The most he gets from me is an 'oof, mate, that's pretty spooky looking.' He's going to ask after you every time I see him now. I hope you have room in your flat to hang seascapes that make you want to question your own mortality."
Aziraphale pretends to consider it for a moment. "I have always wanted to feel a sense of impending doom as I make my way through breakfast."
"Breakfast is the most existential meal of the day," Crowley confirms, much to Aziraphale's amusement.
"Do you think?"
"Obviously. Where did I go during the night? Am I still me? Did I wake up where I went to sleep? For me the answer to that last one is sometimes a mystery, for you it might be different."
Aziraphale can't help the smile he turns on him, he's noticed how Crowley seems a bit more comfortable with his night-time wanderings since they...turned their arrangement into something mutual and affectionate. He'd even given permission for Aziraphale to wake him, if he was up and feeling lonely. Though he hasn't quite felt brave enough yet.
"Well then, perhaps I should get to work moving a few bookshelves to make wall space for my new paintings."
Crowley's face does something terribly amusing, some combination of pout and accusation.
"No," he says. "I've changed my mind. You were my friend first. I'm not letting him lure you away with his paintings of fish with human skulls. Next thing I know you'll be having conversations about art, or literature, or sharing recipes from the seventeen hundreds."
"Does he have recipes from the seventeen-hundreds?" Aziraphale asks, a spark of genuine interest to his amusement. "Because I would find that fascinating. I have a collection you know."
Crowley lifts a hand to his chest in the perfect display of mock wounding. "Abandoned for Mrs Shelton's famous tripe and pigeon pie," he says mournfully.
Aziraphale laughs. "This is entirely your fault for making the conversation about books," he points out. Because Crowley really should know better by now. "You know they're my weakness."
"You are the bookish sort, very bookish, very clever, I like that about you." There's a smile that doesn't so much soften the words as turn them liquid and fond, to Aziraphale's delight. It tempts him into letting their hands tangle. The warmth of his fingers threading through Crowley's cold ones.
"I'm not so clever as all that. There are significant gaps in my knowledge as you well know." The conversation about dolphins had rather cemented that fact for all time. They've talked for hours and Aziraphale knows that Crowley is far smarter than he gives himself credit for. "You have books as well," he reminds him. "I've seen them."
"I only use my books to trap myself in the flat at night," Crowley protests.
"That's a lie you have several astronomy and science books that look very well-thumbed."
"That just proves that I thumb them." Crowley's smiling while he says it, ridiculous contrary man that he is, and Aziraphale is deeply fond of him - perhaps more than that if he's being honest. Though it feels far too soon for something so big.
Crowley lets him unlock the outer door, then trails in after him. "You hardly ever sleep. You own an antique shop full of bewildering old things. You've read every book ever written."
"One of those is a lie," Aziraphale says sensibly, only to find himself tugged into the lift and kissed while it makes its way up to the fourth floor.
He's embarrassingly red when the doors finally open - thankfully to an empty hallway - and let them out. They're far too old to kiss against the wall between their two flats, but they do it anyway. It's getting harder and harder to leave Crowley for the night. Aziraphale is craving further intimacy - though perhaps he shouldn't use that word when his desires are so vivid and so greedy. Something more physical, more sexual, may be a better fit. He is craving the stretch of Crowley's body against his own, the quiet sounds he'd make into Aziraphale's mouth, the slow rhythm of their pleasure.
He isn't sure if Crowley is waiting for him to say something. There's no question or reluctance about his own desire, and Crowley always seems pained to separate for the night too.
"Spend the night with me." Aziraphale finds himself saying, in a fit of bravery.
Crowley, who'd been about to speak, exhales roughly. "Aziraphale -"
The thought of an impending rejection has him hurrying out more words before Crowley can finish.
"I understand if you don't want to, but I wanted to leave it out there that I wouldn't be averse to the two of us -"
"I want to," Crowley admits, leaving the rest of Aziraphale's desperate ramble to fall away. He finds himself being kissed, slower this time. Their bodies seem to fit together so naturally, curves into concaves, angles into soft spaces. Aziraphale finds that it's almost too easy to hold him, to loop an arm around his slender waist, fingers dipping under his jacket to spread where the material is thin.
"I would love that," Crowley says roughly. "I would love to stay with you, in your bed, you have no idea how much." He presses their foreheads together. "But you should know that I don't tend to sleep very well in strange places." There's a smile, a small apologetic thing. "It makes me restless, more than usual, if you can imagine."
"I don't think my flat is all that strange to you any more." Aziraphale has found Crowley in every part of his home, softened and content to shuffle and wander and touch his things. "At least that's what you keep telling my fridge."
"I do not," Crowley protests, half horrified and half amused.
Aziraphale nods. "But you're always very polite if that's what you're worried about."
Crowley pulls a hand down his face. "Yes, that was exactly it, thank you for the reassurance."
Aziraphale kisses the curve of his jaw and fumbles backwards to unlock the door behind him, bumps it open and steps back into the darkness of his flat. Then he holds a hand out.
Crowley hisses air through his teeth, but he lifts his own hand and takes it, lets himself be gently tugged inside, pushing the door shut behind him.
-
Crowley has an angel pressed up against the back of his front door, and Aziraphale is laughing his way through kisses while he feels for the light switch.
"I'm sorry, am I being distracting?" Crowley mumbles between presses of mouth. "This is your fault you know, smiling at me, being absolutely irresistible."
"You've been resisting very well so far." That sounds enough like a complaint to amuse him.
"That's a lie. I was being a gentleman," Crowley explains. "I didn't want to -" He didn't want to come on too strong, or make Aziraphale think that was all he was interested in. He hadn't wanted to fuck this up. There'd been no promises that they were going to do anything other than spend the night together. He doesn't know what Aziraphale likes, what he wants. He doesn't want to assume. He doesn't want to get it wrong. This is important to him. This is so fucking important to him.
"You've been a perfect gentleman." Aziraphale kisses him so deeply Crowley forgets how to breathe. "And now I would very much like to take your clothes off and see what you look like naked in my bed, unless you have any objections?"
Crowley makes a noise which barely sounds human.
"No, no objections, that sounds - fuck, please tell me I get to see what you look like too?" The image of Aziraphale's bowtie and waistcoat and shirt and trousers on the bedroom floor is a good one. His strong thighs, big shoulders, soft stomach and chest, all spread out and Crowley's to touch as much as he likes. To be able to put his hands and his mouth on him, to press himself down against him - or, where those thighs are concerned, maybe wrap them around his waist, or throw them over his shoulders. God, that might be going too fast though.
Aziraphale is smiling up at him. "Oh, I think I might let you have a peek."
There are hands on his belt, on his jeans, sliding in where his hips are jutting and naked to spread fingertips across the skin. A tease of everything to come that has Crowley sucking in a breath and biting out a curse.
"Aziraphale." His voice already sounds like a wreck. His own stupid, clumsy hands lifting to push the angel's waistcoat off, and then tug at the buttons of his shirt - which is a harder task than usual because Aziraphale keeps kissing him, keeps touching him. Crowley has most of an erection already and he'd like to make this last longer than two minutes if at all possible. He catches Aziraphale's wrists - because the other man's hands seem intent on sliding inside the front of his uncomfortably tight jeans and jerking him to completion right here.
Fuck, he might let him. Stupid, stupid man that he is.
"If you touch my cock at this point we're not going to make it to the bedroom." It sounds more like a plea than a warning.
Aziraphale leans against his chest and laughs. "I'll pretend that doesn't sound appealing." The echo of the same thought he'd had himself leaves Crowley laughing and squeezing the beautiful half-undressed man that he's slowly losing his mind to.
They do manage to make it to the bedroom, and Crowley discovers that Aziraphale's bed is big and indulgent, and surprisingly firm looking. Having such a nice bed when you've had insomnia for years seems a special sort of cruelty. But he supposes if you're going to spend nights not sleeping somewhere then you could do a lot worse.
Crowley gets pushed gently onto it, to appreciate it better. He kicks the covers down while Aziraphale lets his shirt fall free and works on the old-fashioned catch of his trousers. He's such a beautiful mix of soft and solid, all wide shoulders, strong arms and heavy thighs, paired with a soft chest and stomach. Every inch of him is perfect. Crowley gives a hiss of approval while he tugs his own socks off.
"You're being a massive tease being so far away, come over here so I can touch you."
"I'm two feet away," Aziraphale says, with some amusement. "You have perfectly functioning arms." But he obediently comes close enough for Crowley to catch hold of him, slipping his fingers in the back of his boxer shorts and finding the plushest arse he'd ever gotten his hands on.
"I want my mouth on every inch of you," Crowley tells him. Then proves it by stretching upwards and laying wet kisses to the soft underside of Aziraphale's chest. It gets him such a sweet noise of appreciation he's not sure he's going to stop.
No, definitely not going to stop, not any time soon anyway.
"The feeling is mutual." Aziraphale's fingers thread in his hair and then tug until Crowley tips his head back, mouth still open, the taste of Aziraphale on his tongue and a groan in his throat. "You always look like you want to be kissed. I've been trying - and failing - to resist you since the moment I met you. You're an absolute temptation." The angel's underwear is tenting outwards, the shape of it thick and beautiful, leaving a wet patch on the material.
"I always want you to kiss me," Crowley admits. His fingers tuck into the waistband, drawing them slowly down, easing the elastic over the head of Aziraphale's cock. It's a lovely thing, solid and thick with a pink head stretching the skin out. Fluid is already gathering, a smear of it across the tip makes him swallow thickly.
"You have a beautiful cock," Crowley tells him in a rough voice, because it's true.
"Why thank you." Aziraphale sounds so adorably embarrassed. Crowley has to pull him down, has to lay him laughing in the pillows and kiss him. One cheeky tug of strong hands and they're both as naked as each other, to Aziraphale's appreciation and delight. So shamelessly erect that there's no way to hide it, no way to avoid jabbing and thrusting against each other. They tumble together and kiss, unable to resist a grasp at each other's erection, or a stroke of warm hands on bare skin. Crowley has to grab himself twice when Aziraphale won't stop touching. Which seems a deeply unfair complaint, because Crowley wants his own hands everywhere, wants his mouth anywhere.
God, the man is so beautiful.
"Let me," Crowley breathes against the peak of Aziraphale's nipple, closing his mouth to give a wet, indulgent pull on it, which gets him a gasping moan. "Let me." He slips down, kisses the amused shake of his angel's stomach, spreading those beautiful big thighs to get between. "Let me."
Aziraphale's hands push into his hair and Crowley opens his mouth around the sticky head of his cock, licks at the flushed warmth of it, the soft skin, and the sensitive curving ridge, before taking half of him in, sucking with a groan of desperate eagerness.
"Crowley." Aziraphale's thighs jerk and Crowley's hand reaches out to grab one, the other wrapped around the base of Aziraphale's cock, fingers squeezing as he works him in short greedy movements. "Crowley, I can't last if you - dear God - you have to slow down or you're going to make me come." It sounds so filthy in Aziraphale's voice. Crowley groans around him but lets his grip loosen, mouth drawing back slowly to give the head some much-deserved attention.
An indulgent series of sucks leaves a drop of fluid on his tongue - which is such a visceral indication of arousal that he can't help gripping a buttock and encouraging Aziraphale to move, to give nudging pushes into his mouth that are so viscerally arousing Crowley has to get him as deep as he can, until his throat squeezes down on the shape of him.
The hand in Crowley's hair twitches, fingers curling, as if it would dearly like to close tight and push him down again. Which sounds like a fantastic idea - to leave his polite, bookish lover so desperate to come in his mouth that he'd get a little rough with him. Crowley is not half as polite, letting Aziraphale gently thrust into his mouth as he bobs and tugs with his hand. His own cock is throbbing and desperate where it hangs between his thighs. Occasionally brushing the bed, little spikes of sensation rippling through him. He ends up moaning with his mouth full.
"Crowley, I can't, I'm -"
The hand closes in his hair, giving a short warning tug - before Aziraphale is groaning pleasure, a wet pulse of come lands on Crowley tongue, then another, the taste of it filling his mouth in short spills as he slowly works him through it, squeezing up to the head as he licks it clean.
Aziraphale is rasping out a soft apology for the hurried warning, or for not lasting half as long as he'd wanted to. Adorable man that he is. He trembles and shakes and stares down at him with eyes blown-out and adoring.
Crowley thinks he may love him more than a little.
He slithers up to kiss him, the generous warmth of Aziraphale's body so inviting beneath his own that he has to hold him, has to squeeze him, even though his own need is heavy and desperate. The kiss goes on through the last breathless moans of bliss, and Aziraphale doesn't seem concerned about the taste of himself in Crowley's mouth. He can feel himself rutting gently against the plushness of Aziraphale's pelvis, his cock leaving sticky lines on the skin.
"Use me," Aziraphale says, his post-orgasm voice soft and rough in a way that leaves Crowley cursing and pressing in tight. There's a gentle tug to his buttock, urging the roll and thrust of his hips into something rhythmic.
The thought of coming across Aziraphale's soft damp cock and rounded stomach, leaving a mess in that snow pale hair, is suddenly the only thing Crowley can imagine wanting.
"Oh fuck, yes, angel."
Aziraphale shivers out a sound, his spent cock twitching - and then he's stretching upwards towards the drawer of the bedside cabinet, his hand knocking objects aside for a moment, before he's passing lubricant down the bed.
"If you want to we could..." he offers, with what Crowley suspects is more nerves than enthusiasm. "Though it's been rather a long time."
"This is good," Crowley reassures him, kissing his collarbone, his warm throat and then the soft redness of his mouth. "This is perfect."
He levers back up to his knees for a moment to coat the stiff heat of himself with one slippery hand, before pressing down into Aziraphale's body again. Aziraphale gives a little 'oh' of delight and reaches one hand up to grip the headboard while the other clings to Crowley's waist. Crowley's left panting on every rocking push of his slippery over-sensitive cock. The ache goes deep before the need crawls upwards, pulling a whine out of his throat. Aziraphale tips his head down to see where Crowley's hips work against him, and he looks absolutely thrilled by the thought of Crowley coming all over him -
- which, fuck, he does. His head drops just in time to watch wet lines of come stripe Aziraphale's stomach and his pale pubic hair. He's left groaning and sliding through it, making a mess between them as the raw pleasure of orgasm leaves him clinging tight. An 'angel' makes its way free, and Aziraphale digs his fingers into Crowley's hips, the obvious sign of how much he likes it taking Crowley by surprise.
They end up sprawled together, faces close, there's an attempt at a kiss, but mostly they just breathe and laugh. Their hands are still gripping each other as their bodies cool.
"I would really like to do that again," Crowley says quietly. "With you. Maybe longer than ten minutes next time."
Aziraphale still manages to look shy while covered in Crowley's come, which is a vision he's not going to be forgetting any time soon. But it turns out there are wet wipes next to his bed too. Because of course there are. The angel even makes cleaning up adorable, the soft nakedness of him moving in the bed feels like a gift Crowley doesn't deserve. The width of Aziraphale's thighs is so appealing he immediately wants his hands on them again.
They compromise, tangling their way up together with one of Aziraphale's legs thrown over his own. Crowley's not sure he's ever coming out from under it. It's been years since intimacy had felt this easy.
"Are you going to sleep?" he asks.
"I don't know," Aziraphale says, in a way that feels honest. "Probably not. But I'd still like it if you stayed here with me."
Crowley didn't know how much he'd wanted to hear Aziraphale say it. "I'd like that too. I'll need to go get something to wear though. I can't sleep naked, for obvious reasons."
"You could always borrow something of mine," Aziraphale offers. The curve of his smile is amused, as if he expects Crowley to refuse - but the thought of wandering around in something soft and worn that smells of Aziraphale is - it's definitely something.
"Yeah? I'd like that," he admits. Which gets him a long squeeze and a press of mouth to the shape of his tattoo. "You should be prepared for me to get up though, I'm not sure where I'll go from here. Could be anywhere to be honest."
"I'll come and find you," Aziraphale promises. "Anywhere you go."