Chapter Text
“This is the best part,” Aziraphale whispers. His eyes are fixed on the television where Emma is saying something uncharacteristically sweet to Mr. Knightly, and Crowley’s are fixed on Aziraphale.
“Yeah,” he agrees.
Aziraphale’s hair is still a mess. Two hours of a Jane Austen adaptation may have taken the flush out of his cheeks and allowed his breathing to slow, but his hair is still messy, and Crowley is still missing his socks and couldn’t have shed the ache in his chest if he tried. Not when Aziraphale’s hands were on him, and especially not now. This is the best part, after all.
“Are you still wanting to order dinner?” Aziraphale asks, not looking away from the screen. When he finally does, Crowley has to swallow a moderately-sized boulder. Aziraphale’s eyes. Crowley has written poems about those eyes, like an idiot.
“Sure.” Crowley turns back to the movie and sprawls deeper into the sofa with an air of casualness he absolutely does not feel. “Sushi?” he suggests, despite the way it makes his stomach turn.
Aziraphale gives a quiet, eager hum in response, and Crowley smiles. As much as he hates sushi, he does love Aziraphale.
Aziraphale loves him too, obviously. They’ve been friends for six years, love tends to come with the territory.
It’s— it’s just not romantic love. And that’s fine. Aziraphale asked him to be friends with benefits, emphasis on the friends, and Crowley is fine with that. Completely fine. He’s more than content staying just friends, Aziraphale’s probably the best friend he’s ever had.
Which is why he said yes. He’s just being a good friend. A best friend. A best friend who would never, not in a million years, pass up an opportunity to kiss him. Crowley’s notes app has been hearing about that perfect cupid’s bow for over half a decade, and now he knows what it tastes like. He’ll let Aziraphale have him any way he wants.
And as it turns out, Aziraphale wants to have him in a lot of ways. It’s been an eventful three months. Eventful being an egregious understatement.
Fortunately, it doesn’t take long for the sushi to arrive, and when they finish eating, Aziraphale’s hands are on him again.
Aziraphale’s hands press into his chest, pushing him down onto the sofa, and then they’re kissing, and Crowley is smiling because they’re kissing and every time still feels like the first. Aziraphale's eagerness is still the same.
His touch travels over Crowley’s body like wildfire. But Crowley has never felt touched by Aziraphale, he always feels consumed, the kind of devouring, oxygen-stealing heat that sets you alight in seconds. There’s no part of his body that hasn’t been changed, irrevocably, by that touch.
The flames spread up his chest, to his neck, to his jaw, and oh fuck, Aziraphale is already climbing on top of him, pinning him in place, and Crowley’s whole body is burning as Aziraphale kisses him deeper.
Crowley goes limp. He usually does, it’s incredibly overwhelming. It’s all he can do to wrap his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and try not to hyperventilate.
The rest comes naturally. He thrusts his hips upwards, moaning at the pressure on his cock, and barely relaxes down before he does it again. He’s— he’s helpless, Aziraphale is on top of him. Aziraphale’s breathing picks up as he meets every motion with his own, rolling his hips, making Crowley whimper.
“Please,” Crowley pants. “Fuck me.”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes back, and Jesus Christ, his name in that tone. It still hasn’t gotten old. Crowley has been dreaming about his name in that desperate tone for six years, and now he doesn’t have to wake up with the taste of ash in his mouth. The fire is still burning.
Aziraphale sits up to pull off Crowley’s shirt and then his own, and then they’re kissing again.
“Angel,” Crowley pleads, and he wants more, he always wants more, but Aziraphale just slides his hands over Crowley’s shoulders to his arms and holds his wrists above his head, pinning them to the arm rest. “You bastard,” Crowley laughs, squirming under his grip.
“You are so impatient,” Aziraphale replies, and the smile against Crowley’s lips makes his heart sing.
It’s electric, this feeling. It’s reckless, and stupid, and he probably never should’ve agreed to any of this in the first place, but Crowley has never been careful with his heart. Instead, he stabbed it full of metal shards, let the lightning hit him. He’s died by Aziraphale’s hands far too many times to count over 97 perfect days, but it feels so fucking good, why would he stop?
Why would he stop when Aziraphale is so hard against him, when Aziraphale is kissing his neck, whispering “good boy” as Crowley relents to bloody patience? He wouldn’t.
So he lets Aziraphale hold him down and take his time. Lets him take. Aziraphale’s always been indulgent, dipping his toes into hedonism when he allows himself to, and Crowley knows that if he’s good, Aziraphale will suck him off like chocolate on a strawberry.
It doesn’t take long after that. Crowley’s trousers join his socks on the floor, and Aziraphale settles between his legs, and Crowley’s heart stops for the hundredth time as Aziraphale’s mouth wraps around him.
“Oh, fuck.” He reaches for Aziraphale’s hair, just to feel him there, and he’s real, and they’re friends, they’re friends, but he’s real, and he’s fucking gorgeous.
Crowley won’t say it.
He doesn’t close his eyes, though. He can’t, not when Aziraphale’s cheeks are flushed so beautifully, not when his eyes are shut tight in ecstasy, not when the rhythmic whines escaping him sound like music.
If Crowley closes his eyes, those sounds could be from anyone.
But they’re not. It’s Aziraphale dragging his lips up over Crowley’s cock, wet and hot and fucking devastating, Aziraphale swirling his tongue and pushing back down until Crowley hits the back of his throat, and Aziraphale sliding back up to do it again.
Crowley’s panting now, they both are. Aziraphale’s mouth feels like fire, so hot it’s blue, blue like his eyes, and Crowley is writing poetry in his head as Aziraphale steals a glance, just for a second.
It’s only ever for a second, but it’s enough.
“Angel, please,” and he’s begging for so much, but right now it mostly means let me come, and Aziraphale does.
Aziraphale hollows his cheeks and quickens his pace, and Crowley spills into his mouth like it’s his first breath after being underwater. Gasps like it too. “Fuck,” he groans, throwing his head back onto the cushion.
Aziraphale slows, and catches his breath while he holds Crowley’s hips gently in his hands, guiding him into calm.
“So,” Aziraphale says, smug as anything. He presses his lips to Crowley’s thigh, closing his eyes to the kiss. “How was that?”
Crowley laughs, heart still racing. “Fuck off.” He can just barely feel Aziraphale’s teeth as a smile spreads against his skin. “Get up here.”
That gorgeous smile sinks into his thigh, and Crowley moans, his cock twitching as it softens.
“I rather thought I’d stay here,” Aziraphale says, and his voice is honeyed and soft, but oh, not softer than his tongue, his tongue that’s licking long and slow and torturous between Crowley’s cheeks.
And Crowley’s back to panting. “Angel.”
“Spread your legs.”
Crowley throws one leg over the back of the sofa, and Aziraphale wastes no time before licking into him.
“Ahh,” Crowley moans, and it comes out more high-pitched and desperate than he would’ve liked, but he can’t help it. Aziraphale’s tongue is inside of him, and Aziraphale’s beautiful, silky blond hair is brushing against his fingers and his thighs and his balls, and Aziraphale’s tongue is inside of him.
The sound Aziraphale makes is much lower, his breath hot and heavy against Crowley’s rim, making him squirm.
“Fuck, angel.”
“You’re still so open for me, aren’t you?”
“Fuck,” Crowley whines, how could he not be? Aziraphale fucked him less than three hours ago, face down on the mattress, hands wrapped tightly around his hips, pulling him closer, closer, fucking him harder, faster with every thrust. “Aziraphale, please,” Crowley begs. He rolls his hips forwards, desperately trying to push that eager tongue deeper inside him, but he can’t.
There’s a slow, slow circling of Aziraphale’s tongue before he pulls back, replacing his tongue with teasing fingers, just barely thrusting into him. His mouth moves to lick a wide stripe up his balls, sucking gently, and suddenly it’s too much, oh, fuck.
“Angel,” Crowley whines, writhing beneath him, frantically tugging at his hair. “If you’re not fucking me in the next ten seconds—”
“You’ll what?” Aziraphale asks, and then he bites down on Crowley’s thigh again, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise. The sound Crowley makes at that is definitely a squeak, a pathetic little cry as whatever is left of his sanity unravels.
Aziraphale giggles, the absolute bastard, and the sweet sound makes Crowley’s heart leap up into his throat.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley complains. He tries his best to make it sound like a growl, but his heart is in his mouth now and it’s so big that only a fond and equally pathetic whine escapes around the size of it.
Aziraphale has to rest his forehead on Crowley’s thigh for laughing so hard.
“Get your fucking cock in me right now or I’m leaving,” he threatens, and he really shouldn’t have, because Aziraphale is laughing even harder now and Crowley’s heart is about to escape from behind his teeth.
He has the prettiest laugh. Crowley covers his face with his hands, smiling against the heels of his palms. He’s hopeless.
It’s just so easy with Aziraphale, like they’ve been doing this their whole lives. But they haven’t been, and they won’t be.
Crowley bites down hard on his heart, cutting off the blood flow, making sure it hurts enough to get the point across.
“You truly are the most impatient man I’ve ever met,” Aziraphale says, the smile still in his voice.
“You’re torturing me!” Crowley exclaims, but when he dramatically flings his hands away from his face, any further protests die on his tongue.
Aziraphale has an eyebrow raised as he unbuttons his trousers, and there’s a trace of a smile on his pursed lips, but it’s mostly challenging, it’s mostly would you like to try that again? and fucking hell, why did the universe give Crowley a best friend with the sexual prowess of Aphrodite. It’s just not fair. Crowley’s only a man.
His heart kicks back to life, frustratingly resilient thing that it is, and gets its revenge in the form of tachycardia.
“Or you’re being very nice, angel that you are,” Crowley says, and it’s a bit breathless despite the shit-eating grin he’s attempting.
Aziraphale smiles, and it’s so soft. It’s dangerous. Eyes crinkling, cupid’s bow bending into a lethal position, the whole thing. Crowley can’t look away. Aziraphale does though, he usually does, and when he stands to strip the rest of his clothes off, Crowley is still staring.
Aziraphale’s pants hit the floor, and Jesus fucking Christ, his cock is larger than any fathomable fantasy Crowley could’ve had. That hasn’t gotten old, either.
How fast can a heart beat before it becomes a medical emergency? Crowley’s testing the limits today.
Aziraphale rolls a condom on, and Crowley makes a feeble attempt to slow his breathing. It won’t work, it never works. Aziraphale is about to fuck him like some sort of— like a— He can’t think right now, not when Aziraphale is slicking himself up with lube, stroking his cock to glistening, but it’s— it’s something distinctly unangelic.
And then Aziraphale is kneeling in front of him on the sofa again, and Crowley’s legs are being lifted over his shoulders, and Crowley is panting like a man about to get fucked by the cock of a Greek goddess. That’s what it is. Aziraphale is about to fuck him like—
“Nnggmm, fuck.” Doesn’t matter. Aziraphale’s erection is pressing up against his rim, and Aziraphale’s hands are holding his thighs in place, and Crowley is burning again. “Angel, please.” He’s begging again, too, apparently, but he’s only distantly aware of it with the heat at his entrance, the heat dipping inside him just to pull away, torturing him.
Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice how much he’s aching. He usually doesn’t. Usually, that’s a good thing, but right now it is incredibly frustrating.
Aziraphale is still focused on torturing him. His eyes are fixed on where they’re barely joined, bottom lip between his teeth, and fuck, he’s gorgeous. He’s always been gorgeous, always, but seeing him like this, with his face flushed and his lips swollen and his hair a mess, feels like some sort of gift Crowley never deserved.
“You’re—” beautiful, you look like a dream, and I want you, and I love you so much that I cannot breathe right now, and “You’re killing me,” he says, and that’s basically the same thing.
“Patience, my dear,” Aziraphale replies, but he’s losing patience himself, Crowley can tell. He’s breathless. They’ve had this arrangement for long enough now, Crowley knows that when Aziraphale starts breathing harder, when his grip tightens, Crowley has leverage.
He thrusts his hips forward, and there’s a moan that Crowley will be thinking about for the next 5-7 working days as Aziraphale sinks that much deeper.
It’s hardly even an extra centimetre, but Aziraphale is so hard and hot and fuck, he always feels so good. Even this. It’s hardly anything, but it feels so good, and Crowley is moaning, too. His cock is filling again, and he scrambles for Aziraphale’s hands where they rest on his thighs before quickly pulling them away again, because that would be holding hands. That’s too much, that’s not very friend-like, but he wants to, he wants, he wants, he wants.
“Hold onto me, love,” Aziraphale says, and his voice is low, and fuck, fuck, Crowley absolutely will.
He grabs onto Aziraphale’s hands, and barely has time to contemplate the softness of them and whether or not love was supposed to imply anything before he gasps. Sensation smacks into him like a truck. He might still be fucked open from earlier, but Aziraphale is so big, so thick and hot and so deep inside him so suddenly that Crowley feels the stretch of it anyways.
“Fuck,” Aziraphale moans. He stills, taking a steadying breath.
Crowley whines, helpless and hoping. “Please.” It’s barely a whimper now, and he’s clinging desperately to Aziraphale’s hands, and they’re so big, has Crowley ever held his hands before?
He doesn’t have time to consider, because then Aziraphale starts to move.
It’s a slow fuck, Aziraphale always starts slow, but his cock still rubs against the spot that makes Crowley’s eyes roll back. “Yes, a-ah.” He’s already breathless. He’s already ruined by the steady drag of Aziraphale deep inside of him, and he is deep.
Aziraphale’s eyes are closed, and he must feel it too, because he looks so lost in pleasure he almost seems in pain.
Crowley is so overwhelmed by the sensation that he can only marvel. He can only lie limp, drinking in Aziraphale’s moans with his mouth open wide. “Angel— ah, you feel— fuck, so good—”
“Oh, God.” Aziraphale tilts his head to the ceiling, and he’s still not looking at Crowley, but that’s okay, because he’s shoving in deeper with every thrust now, fucking him harder, faster, and they’re coming undone together even if Aziraphale doesn’t watch. He never does.
Crowley always watches. Maybe he’s waiting for the fire in Aziraphale’s eyes to burn him, because it would, it would burn, but maybe he’s also just looking.
Aziraphale is beautiful like this. Chest heaving, strong arms around Crowley’s thighs, and a soft stomach that he wants to bury his face in, wants to kiss, wants to fall asleep on.
But right now, every stroke pushes it against his cock, and that’s okay, too, more than okay. Every brush with every thrust sends hot sparks through every nerve, and Crowley’s already feeling like he might come again, which is probably impossible, but Aziraphale has made him feel plenty of impossible things.
He releases one of Aziraphale’s hands to wrap it around himself, and oh, it’s lightning. He’s close, he’s definitely already close. He’s trapped in perfect storm with an umbrella made of netting and wilful ignorance, and the overwhelming onslaught of Aziraphale is raining down on him. “Angel,” is all he can say, and it comes out like yours, over and over and over as the grip on his thighs tightens.
Aziraphale’s head falls to his chest with noise that sounds like he’s been punched, eyes squeezed shut. “Perfect, you’re perfect,” he sobs. “Oh, God.”
Crowley’s heart beats impossibly faster as Aziraphale fucks him harder, pounding him into the sofa cushions.
He’s never fucked Crowley this hard, and Crowley is flying, his mind a relentless echo of perfect, you’re perfect as he spills over his fist.
Aziraphale does open his eyes then, not to look at Crowley but at the spend covering his stomach. “Fuck,” he cries, and he looks shattered.
Crowley can only stare up in awe as the aftershocks of his orgasm wash over him. “Come for me, angel.” He’s so spent it’s practically a whisper, but Aziraphale hears him, and Aziraphale comes.
Crowley’s name is on his tongue, and his nails dig into Crowley’s thighs, and the last, devastatingly deep thrust makes them both cry out.
And then Aziraphale stills. The only sound left in the room is their panting breaths, and Crowley's world stops spinning.
“Gosh,” Aziraphale says on a heavy exhale. He rests his cheek on Crowley’s shin, closing his eyes as his breathing slows.
Crowley lets out a weak laugh. “I was going to say something along the lines of ‘you fucking ruined me.’”
Aziraphale pulls out and settles back onto his calves. “Both,” he agrees, flashing a coy little smile as he takes off the condom. He’s so pretty. Aziraphale always gets a certain glow to him after they fuck.
Crowley’s heart gives a pathetic flutter as he smiles back. He lowers his legs down to rest in front of him, bent at the knee, but keeps them spread in case Aziraphale decides to lie on his chest. It hasn’t happened yet, but it might, one day.
But Aziraphale reclines back on the sofa with his arms draped over his face, so Crowley resigns himself to sitting. He always gets a certain delusion to him after they fuck.
He lets out a heavy breath, staring down at the soft edges of Aziraphale’s body, the curves he wants to fit against his own. It’s harder to fill his chest again on the inhale, with the weight that’s settled there.
He does it anyways. “Do you want water?”
“Yes, please,” Aziraphale replies, his voice muffled by his arms.
Crowley smiles. Aziraphale usually needs a minute.
He swings his feet off the sofa to grab his boxers, which somehow ended up halfway across the room, and almost topples over into the coffee table in the process. “Shit,” he laughs, steadying himself on the glass.
“What are you doing?” Aziraphale asks, and the eyebrow raise is practically audible. “Don’t break my table, it’s vintage.”
Crowley snorts, pulling his pants up to his hips. “I can barely stand right now and you’re more concerned about your vintage table?”
When he turns back around, Aziraphale’s arms are resting on his stomach, and the burgundy sofa has tinted his pretty eyes green. “I suppose your joints could also be considered vintage,” he says, pursing his lips to hold back a smile.
Crowley throws a pillow at him. “Shut up.”
“Go and get me water,” Aziraphale says, relenting to a smile as he tosses the pillow back. It misses by half a metre.
Crowley dodges anyways, just to be dramatic. “So demanding,” he says, and he rolls his eyes, but he’s already making his way to the kitchen.
“I am, yes,” Aziraphale calls after him. “Begging seems more your department.”
“You should try it, might get you some ice.”
“Oh, I really don’t think I need to.”
“Fuck off,” Crowley says over his shoulder, and a laugh echoes from behind him.
Navigating Aziraphale’s kitchen takes less than five minutes, and when he returns to the living room with water (no ice, because Aziraphale is ungrateful and a bastard) Aziraphale has already redressed.
Which is— Well, Crowley is still only in boxers. And Aziraphale is looking. Crowley’s ready to drop to his knees at that look, fuck, but he really does need to leave at some point.
He clears his throat. “Your water.”
Aziraphale’s gaze finishes it’s journey up Crowley’s body and lands on his eyes. “Thank you, dear.” He takes the glass (his favourite one, because Aziraphale is an ungrateful bastard but Crowley is hopelessly smitten) and takes a long sip.
Crowley is not staring at his mouth, or his throat as he swallows, or the way his hand is wrapped firmly around the glass, because he needs to leave at some point.
He sits down on the sofa and takes a sip of his own water, wishing it had ice after all. He desperately needs something cold in his system right now.
“It’s getting a bit late.”
Ah. That’ll do it. “Right, yeah.”
Crowley knew it was coming. And he does need to leave. But despite the fact that he needs to, he never wants to.
Despite the fact that they’ll probably see each other tomorrow, despite the fact that he has work in the morning and Bee might actually kill him if he's late again, leaving feels like drowning. Every time.
Aziraphale says ‘it’s getting a bit late,’ and it means ‘I want to sleep alone.’
It means ‘that’s not what this is,’ and it means ‘I don’t want you, not like that.’
But the thing about drowning is that even if you’re a kilometre down, you’ll still try to swim up. You won’t make it, but you’ll want to. It's human nature to fight for oxygen even if it’s out of reach.
And when Crowley rises from the sofa, he can't find the surface. He pulls his shirt over his head, and water spills into his lungs, and with each step into his trousers he’s sinking deeper, deeper, and Aziraphale doesn't want him, and he's drowning.
“Need anything before I go?” Crowley asks, reaches, but Aziraphale shakes his head.
“I’ll probably just go straight to bed.” Aziraphale smiles, barely, and he’s lying, actually, Crowley knows he’ll sit and read for another hour, but that’s okay. He wants Crowley to go, so Crowley will.
Crowley nods, and the current drags him farther down, towards the door. “Text me if anything.”
“I will.”
Aziraphale follows, and they both linger by the doorframe the way they have every night for 97 days.
Crowley wants to kiss him. Every night for 97 days Crowley has wanted to kiss Aziraphale by the doorframe, and every night Aziraphale says “Goodnight, Crowley,” and opens the door instead.
Crowley leaves with the taste of ash in his mouth.