Chapter Text
“Do you want to sit in my lap?”
Time screeched to a halt.
“Yes,” Aziraphale said, going still.
Crowley grinned. “Do you want to go back to my flat first?”
And time went wild.
It came in flashes: Crowley walking him backwards through the cloakroom of The Ritz with a fist in his hair, tongue in Aziraphale’s mouth, crashing him into a row of expensive coats while stricken attendants fluttered and wrung their hands—what seemed like a heartbeat later, careening along in the Bentley with the giddy lights of London’s nightlife whipping past outside, Aziraphale’s breath coming in stutters as Crowley grasped his thigh, his hand moving slowly upwards, an incremental ascent—and then they were tumbling through the dark silence of Crowley’s hallway, Crowley’s mouth hot on his neck, Aziraphale’s skin blazing, mind shorting out with reckless need.
He could feel it in the fierce efficiency of Crowley’s movements - stripping Aziraphale roughly of coat, waistcoat; pulling loose his bow tie but leaving it hanging down his tugged-open shirt collar - that Crowley’s impatience had been simmering under similar conditions to his own.
He tried to tell him as much—“Crowley, I’ve wanted—I can’t begin to express my—” but Crowley flung himself down into his ornate gold chair and pulled Aziraphale into his lap, and the rest of the sentence was lost once more.
***
“To the world.”
Their glasses had touched, with a soft clear chime that rang into Aziraphale’s ears and made him feel like anything was possible.
Anything.
He had met Crowley’s eye and the chime had faded into the deep resonance of his own pulse thumping in his ears. Speeding up, the longer Crowley gazed back at him.
Aziraphale had been distantly aware that he ought to look away if he didn’t want his hidden feelings to be emblazoned across his face - but did it matter, any more? They were free. They were here. Masters of their own choices at last.
Behind Crowley, the cut-glass accents and glittering chandeliers of The Ritz had faded away. The crisp sip of champagne on Aziraphale’s tongue had melted into nothing. Time had started to go a bit crazy in his head—bunching up, stretching out. Eternity had hovered in front of them, but right now there was only Crowley.
Anything.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley had murmured, and Aziraphale had been so keenly focused on him that he’d heard it with dreamlike clarity, “what on earth are you thinking about?”
Your mouth. Your hands. What your eyes must look like behind those glasses right now.
“Just that—it’s a peculiar feeling, isn’t it? That at long last, we’re finally…” Together. He’d shied away at the last moment. “…alone?”
“Alone together,” Crowley had shot back, holding him accountable for that pause, and Aziraphale had blushed fiercely, the pounding pulse in his ears growing louder, the shadows behind Crowley darker. Caught.
“Yes,” he’d said, hearing his voice catch too.
“Angel,” Crowley had said, pushing his chair out slightly, sliding a hand down his own thigh towards his knee, drawing Aziraphale’s gaze irrepressibly along those tight black jeans. “What are you really thinking?”
Reflexively, Aziraphale had wet his lips. Words failed him. He’d heard his voice as if coming from far away: “Er… that is…” He’d plucked in desperation at a recent thought, jerking his gaze back to Crowley’s face. “That we’re masters of our own choices at last,” he’d said, and put a little flourish of triumph into it at the last moment.
Crowley had just smirked at him. “Masters.”
Aziraphale’s face had heated again. It sounded so dirty when Crowley said it. He’d lifted his chin in token defiance. “Don’t you feel like anything is possible right now?”
The smirk had curved like a scimitar. “Increasingly.”
Crowley’s hand had smoothed back up his own thigh, long fingers spanning the breath of it, thumb nestling into a tight crease of denim that curved down between his legs, next to the bulge that Aziraphale had been steadfastly refusing to focus on.
His mouth had been dry. He’d taken another generous sip of champagne, so sensitised he could taste the bursting of every individual bubble.
“Well I do too,” Aziraphale had said, and now he’d found some words they seemed to come far too easily, a trickle becoming a flood. “And it’s wonderful, isn’t it - we’re free at last! We could go anywhere, or stay right here - we could have pudding - look - they’re serving a watermelon and raspberry leaf confit—aren’t you glad to live in a world where someone has invented a watermelon and raspberry leaf confit? It’s simply—“
“Do you want to sit in my lap?”
Time had screeched to a halt. “Yes,” Aziraphale had said, going still, and Crowley had grinned.
“Do you want to go back to my flat first?”
***
The flat, the heat; the ludicrous throne Crowley was dragging him down onto. Reality seemed to lurch around them, Aziraphale’s world narrowing down to the filthy grind against Crowley’s crotch as Crowley kissed him, devoured him, hard fingers dimpling his hips, urging him to move. Aziraphale unfocused completely, getting lost in the sheer wonder of that sensation—and the next thing knew he was sliding to his knees, helping Crowley unbutton himself with hasty fingers, leaning in eagerly for the hot stunning joy of finding Crowley’s cock with his mouth.
This, he could do. Take him with enthusiasm; moan around him as Crowley’s hips tilted up and his hands tightened in Aziraphale’s hair. This hot, salt-slick, jaw-punishing worship was something he had thought about, dreamed of—but he’d barely become accustomed to the weight and slide of Crowley’s cock in his mouth before Crowley was tugging him upright again, steering him around, pressing him firmly up against the wall instead.
“Going too fast for you?” Crowley murmured, and his voice held a harder edge than teasing but it made Aziraphale laugh.
“Just fast enough,” he managed, closing his eyes as Crowley kicked his legs apart and pressed heated and heavy down the length of his back.
“I can’t stop,” Crowley said, and he was breathing hard as well, sliding his mouth along the back of Aziraphale’s neck, biting his earlobe. “I’ve wanted you for half an eternity, I can’t hold back another second.”
“Don’t hold back,” was all Aziraphale could say, planting his hands against the blessed stability of the wall and pushing back into Crowley’s hands. Crowley pushed his trousers down just enough to bare his arse, and Aziraphale hissed, sublimely helpless as time sped up even more.
He was panting, sweating, reeling, every second a fresh shock of excitement. Details crossed over and converged, building to a peak inside him: Crowley’s hands running over him, Crowley’s jeans against the back of Aziraphale’s thighs, nudging them apart with the bare rub of his cock right there; one hand coming back with gel, fingering him, brusquely now, any tenderness abandoned.
Aziraphale was arching back at him in senseless urgency, already so far gone that the closure of Crowley’s hand around his cock only subtly added to the cocktail of sensations in which he was drowning; and then Crowley’s cock pushed into his arse, and Aziraphale moaned with the jagged shock of being filled. His body jerked helplessly, cresting into orgasm before he even knew what was happening. He tried in vain to fight it, to wrench back from the pleasurable abyss he was tumbling into, but it was too late: his cock was pulsing wet in Crowley’s hand, his muscles clenching as Crowley stroked him hard, whispering in his ear.
Aziraphale gave a final groan, the world ringing around him like the chime of champagne glasses against each other. He felt the pressure inside him intensify as Crowley shoved deeper, brushed his lips over Aziraphale’s ear.
“That was quick.” He sounded amused.
Still breathing hard, still swirling in euphoria, Aziraphale gave a soft laugh. He rested his sweaty forehead against the wall and tried not to sound disappointed. “Ha, yes—Sorry.”
“Don’t be. You got to feel amazing and I get to feel smug.”
“Hey,” Aziraphale protested, his outrage splintering into breathlessness as Crowley started shifting his hips again.
“You do, though,” Crowley murmured, with another deep, deliberate slide that sent a shower of sparks through Aziraphale’s sated body. “Feel amazing, that is.”
Aziraphale made an attempt to rouse himself, but his body was feeble with recent pleasure, knees threatening to give way. “But I can—wait a moment—let me catch my breath,” he said, valiantly searching for the requisite power to restore that urgency to his body, that driving heat. “Just give me a moment, and I can go again.”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“I like you like this,” Crowley said, with a slow roll of his hips that had Aziraphale gasping afresh, clutching uselessly at the wall.
“Oh, Crowley—”
Crowley made a pleased sound, pulling slowly out, then even more slowly sliding back in, and Aziraphale heard himself make a series of guttural noises he could barely recognise as himself.
Crowley’s lips were still at his ear. “I could do this for a long time.”
Aziraphale swallowed. Crowley was so deep inside him, moving so slowly, long easy pulses of his hips that Aziraphale felt powerless to resist.
“Getting you used to it.”
“Yes.”
“Or maybe I’ll stop altogether,” Crowley said thoughtfully, and Aziraphale shook his head hard, pushing his hips back, because even though he’d already come he needed to feel this as well.
“Don’t stop,” he begged. “I want to—to feel you come inside me.”
Crowley gave a soft growl at that, moving faster, pinning him against the wall with one hand and anchoring his hip with the other.
The increased pace made Aziraphale’s already weakened knees buckle, but Crowley’s hands were holding him with sufficient force that he couldn’t fall. Aziraphale melted into it instead, into the hazy depravity of being taken like this, however Crowley wanted, his body jolting in mindless acceptance.
He was almost purring by the time Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale’s neck, nuzzling him, his voice coming soft and frantic—“oh, Angel, yes”—as he drove into him, grinding unsteadily, squeezing Aziraphale’s hips as he came deep inside.
The stillness that came after - heightened only by the drumming of Crowley’s heartbeat against Aziraphale’s back, and then the little cut-off sound he made as he pulled slowly away - had all the qualities of a dream.
Aziraphale felt wrung out, glowing. Part of him kept expecting to wake up alone in a confused tangle of damp bedclothes.
They staggered together, shedding the rest of their clothes haphazardly as they stumbled into Crowley’s bedroom, which was huge and dimly illuminated, dominated by the glossy plateau of a truly vast bed. It felt more like a set for a photoshoot than somewhere actually inhabited.
“This is—” Aziraphale started, and his two remaining synapses fired just in time to prevent him from saying —nice. He turned to Crowley instead, and became immediately overwhelmed by all his newly revealed skin. “Oh! You’re so…”
Words failed him. Crowley looked delicious. The vision of him, tall and close—bare shoulders and chest and arms, right there—left Aziraphale speechless. He couldn’t stop staring at all that creamy skin, scattered with tawny freckles, the angles of his throat and collarbones, those long limbs…
Crowley seemed to be waiting for him to finish his sentence, eyebrows slightly lifted.
“You’re so…” Aziraphale repeated distractedly, gaze sliding up to Crowley’s face and then darting, without his volition, back down. “…um.”
Crowley stopped waiting. He closed the scant distance between them, and kissed Aziraphale again.
Oh thank—Someone, Aziraphale thought, sinking gratefully against him. No need for words when Crowley’s mouth was right there, opening against his own. It was an unsteady sort of a kiss, with Crowley walking him slowly backwards and Aziraphale trying to neither giggle nor fall over. The press of skin against skin felt like a luxury to be savoured, and Crowley’s lips were soft now, playful. Aziraphale curved his arms around Crowley’s neck and almost swayed with how good that felt. How… nice?
The dreamlike quality intensified with a vengeance as they wended the last few paces towards the bed together—Crowley half-steering him, half-clinging to him—with Aziraphale too disorientated to spare more than a glance to the various oversized bedside plants and odd little objets d'art that Crowley had apparently seen fit to collect.
As soon as they clambered onto the bed, Aziraphale felt as if a thousand years had caught up with him at once. His mind was overwrought, his body unreliable. He stretched out gratefully amongst the cool, dark sheets, already warming around him. He was dimly aware of Crowley sliding in alongside and folding an arm around him from behind.
And then Aziraphale slept—for the first time in recent memory—like a stone tumbling into a black pool and indefinitely sinking.