Chapter Text
For a week and a half Crowley's completely useless. Not that he was ever a particularly productive member of society, but at least prior to his unexpected rendezvous with an angel he occasionally had a waking thought that didn't centre on blond curls and an arse he only got to enjoy for two and a half seconds.
"...and I'm pretty sure he's like… my soul mate, ya know?"
"Yeah, mate. I know. He's all you talk about these days."
Crowley tips his head and lifts half his lip. "Have we met? Before right now?"
The man flipping through the H's next to him pauses and stares at Crowley like he's got a screw loose.
"What- yes. We've known each other for forever."
The Gwar album Crowley'd been considering slips out of his fingers and hits the bottom of the wooden bin with a thunk. He drags his gaze over the man's pompadour. Eyes the bit of leather peeking out of his sleeve.
"Are you sure?"
The man gapes. Waves a hand in front of himself with more vigour than Crowley's expecting.
"Furfur?"
Crowley stares, incredulous.
"I think I'd remember a Furfur."
"We talk all the time. You gave me a piggyback ride home from the pub last month."
"I think you've got the wrong lad."
Furfur scoffs. Rolls his eyes and flips through to the I's. Plucks The Number of the Beast from the bin and scans the tracklist while he mumbles to himself.
"Could take you to the back room and you'd forget all about Mr Angel, too."
Crowley frowns and looks around at the posters and the bins and the 3d printed record stands.
"We're in the Back Room."
"No, not-" Furfur looks halfway between an aneurysm and committing a murder. "Are you intentionally dense or did he suck your brain out of your dick while he was at it?"
There's a tingle that works its way from the place behind Crowley's belly button all the way down to his knees. He glances at his crotch with a smirk and half expects to see a bulge in the front of his trousers.
"Ya know, I've been wondering the exact same-"
Crowley's interrupted by a bell tinkling. It takes a second for him to realise it's the one suspended above the door. It isn't often that he hears it even though he's in the Small Back Room every other day. Even Maggie looks surprised at her perch behind the counter.
One glance toward the entrance and Crowley's back in Mrs Sandwich's foyer ten days ago. Scratch that. He's not in the foyer. He's bookended by a shelf of cleaning supplies and a man that surprised him in more ways than he can count. He's dry mouthed and jelly-legged and in over his head and more satisfied than he can remember having ever been.
Crowley stamps his feet. Does what some people might call a wiggle. Not ones that wanted to keep all their teeth, mind you. Crowley has an image to maintain, after all.
One look at the luminous man standing just inside the door and Furfur groans.
If Angel hears him, he doesn't let it show. He just tugs at the bottom of the same threadbare waistcoat he was wearing ten days ago and lets a small smile light up his face.
"Mr Crowley. Your reputation precedes you." Angel circles his button with his index finger. "Seems I'm the only one in this neighbourhood that doesn't know you."
Maggie leans on the counter like this is the most exciting thing to have happened all month. Furfur looks like he's about to snap the Iron Maiden record he's still clutching in half.
And Crowley's on the move already.
He snakes through the rows of records. From metal to hip hop to classic rock. Around folk and past jazz until he's face to face with a cherub faced boy he's been daydreaming about since the moment he hightailed it out of that closet.
"Hey, Angel."
"Hey, Anthony. "
"Azira-pa-" Furfur clears his throat and Crowley flinches. Poor sod must have been on his heels the moment he took off across the shop. Attached at the hip like a stray puppy that's been tossed a bone.
Furfur cranes his neck over Crowley's shoulder. Narrows his eyes at the blue paper cup in Angel's hand and the thick black scrawl on the side of it. "Azira-palala-"
Angel doesn't look amused. He glowers at Furfur and growls, "Aziraphale," while he pushes a second, much smaller cup in Crowley's direction. The moment his eyes land back on Crowley that hundred-watt smile lights back up, even with Furfur still leering uncomfortably close.
"You strike me as an espresso man."
Crowley takes the tiny cup with a smirk on his face and something warm taking shape in his belly. "Spot on. Thanks. Aziraphale."
Aziraphale blushes and it's as pretty as it's ever been. "Would you fancy a walk?"
"Depends? Does it end at your place?"
The pink on Aziraphale's cheeks doesn't look about to budge, but when he peeks up through his lashes there's a glimmer of that confidence he used to absolutely wreck Crowley last week.
"Depends on if I still like you at the end of it."
Crowley can feel Furfur's breath on his neck. "We can go back to my place right now. Don't even need to like each other at all."
Aziraphale, the absolute cunt, smiles at Furfur like his brain's gone smooth. Doesn't dignify him with a response at all. Simply crooks his elbow and smirks as Crowley takes his arm, more infatuated than ever. Poor Furfur doesn't get another word in before Aziraphale's sweeping Crowley out of the shop and onto Whickber street.
The moment the door swings closed Crowley leans closer than is strictly necessary. "I've been thinking about you."
"Have you, then?"
Crowley takes a sip of his espresso. Then another. Aziraphale's arm is thick. Firm and soft at the same time. It's hard to concentrate, wound around it as he is, and as silence stretches out between them, a little of his insecurity sneaks out.
"You haven't been thinking about me?"
"Well… I never said that. I believe I’m the one that found you, after all."
Aziraphale puts his palm over Crowley's fingers where they're wrapped around his bicep and Crowley can't help but stare.
Is this wooing? Is he getting wooed? Or maybe he's getting Pretty Womaned? Is there a little black cocktail dress and a night at the opera in store for him? Anything seems possible right now.
Crowley clears his throat and forces his gaze back up to Aziraphale's face.
"Really though…. Where are we headed?"
"Where would you like to go?" Aziraphale's voice is soft and unsure and Crowley's not entirely certain, but it feels like there's a suggestion in his cadence. Something he wants but doesn't know how to ask for.
Fuck, Crowley hopes it's the same thing he wants right now.
"My place is just around the corner."
Aziraphale gives Crowley an up and down. Licks his lips and lets out a hurried breath like he's remembering the taste of him.
"Don't I owe you lunch?" Aziraphale doesn't sound even close to put out.
Crowley grins. "Let's make it dinner."
They step through the door to Crowley's flat five minutes and three flights of stairs later and Crowley immediately sets to tidying what doesn't need tidied. He's spent the last week and a half anxiety scrubbing every inch of the place wondering if he met the love of his life and never even asked his name. At this point he's just shuffling the few tchotchkes he owns from one shelf to another.
"Sorry for the mess." He picks up a pair of boots, moves them a few inches and sets them back down and knows perfectly well there's no mess anywhere but in his head.
Aziraphale doesn't give him another moment to fret. He takes Crowley by the wrist and pulls him in a circle. Catches him by the waist and looks so damn smitten that Crowley forgets his anxiety entirely.
"Hey, Angel."
God, that smile could light up even the darkest of nights. Crowley doesn't have any other choice but to kiss it. Make up for what he missed out on the first time around.
Aziraphale's lips are as plush as he's remembered them. Between his mouth and the gentle way he's holding Crowley by the waist, Crowley's as good as done for. Might as well just shake apart in Aziraphale’s arms right now. He's always been a sucker for something soft. Someone soft.
They part and it's like the smile never left Aziraphale's lips.
"Hey, Anthony."
One bloody kiss and Crowley's heart is already hammering in his chest. He's well aware of what Aziraphale can do to him with just his mouth and a single finger and the prospect of more is bordering on overwhelming. A second kiss and he's properly overwhelmed. Which, by the looks of it, pleases Aziraphale to no end. He brushes a thumb along Crowley's jaw and watches Crowley lean into it.
"Can I take you to bed?"
Aziraphale must be using the confidence right now because all Crowley can do is tremble and nod.
The thumb drags all the way around the brush Crowley’s bottom lip. Aziraphale’s gaze flickers between Crowley’s mouth and his eyes.
"You might have to show me where it's located."
Crowley could laugh. Not much room to hide a bed in a studio flat. The only options in sight are a single closed door and a privacy screen, which he almost knocks over scrambling for the bed behind it.
Crowley throws himself onto his back and starts for the hem of his shirt, but Aziraphale stops him.
"May I?"
"Anything you want, Angel."
It's as true as it was ten days ago and somehow even more embarrassing this time around. He's got a reputation in this neighbourhood, and it doesn't look a damn thing like this. If anyone found out what a withering simp he was for the cute boy with the gentle voice he'd have hell to pay.
One look into those mesmerising eyes, though, and he's having a hard time caring. By the time Aziraphale’s hands are on him he’s ready to shout it from the rooftop.
Crowley's shirt comes off first. Then each shoe. Then both socks at the same time and finally those pretty fingers are working his trousers over his hips and off each ankle.
And then Crowley's laid out on his sheets bare as the day he was born while Aziraphale's bowtie isn't even yet askew.
There's no emotional ten car pile-up this time around when it comes to being undressed. His pants are clean. He's washed. So are the linens. Which means his cock is behaving right from the get-go. Hard enough to cut glass and weeping at the sight of Aziraphale standing over him in all that tan and beige.
Aziraphale's finger takes a circuit around the bottom button of his waistcoat.
"Goodness."
There's a compliment hidden in there that makes Crowley throb. "Ngk," is the only response he can seem to manage, which doesn't seem to bother Aziraphale at all.
Quite the opposite, actually.
Aziraphale’s smile lands on the top of Crowley's foot. Then his ankle. As his lips trail up Crowley's leg, his hands follow. Spreading his knees and then his thighs and then skipping over his cock entirely to take his face in his hands and kiss him again.
Crowley's fingers skirt up Aziraphale's sides and he squirms. Then takes Crowley by the wrist and presses his palm flat against his waist.
"Firm pressure. If you would." He doesn't manage to look Crowley in the eye as he says it, which must mean it's Crowley's turn to be bold.
"Can do firm."
Crowley winks, which he hopes doesn't come off as lame as it immediately feels, and flips Aziraphale onto his back. Is firm with his mouth against Aziraphale's. Firm with his entire body as he presses Aziraphale down into the cheap mattress.
Firm in his conviction that this boy he doesn't even know is the one.
The broad hands on the small of his back pulling him closer only confirms it. It's like they were made to fit exactly there.
The throbbing pulse in Crowley's groin is matched in the bulge pressed against his belly and suddenly all he can think about is the outline he'd been teased with last week. That hint of what he could’ve had if he hadn’t been such a bloody git last week.
It's all he can do not to rip Aziraphale's trousers trying to get them off.
"Careful, these are vintage!"
Crowley growls at the million and one buttons where there should have been a zipper. "I'll buy you new ones."
"I don't want new ones. That's rather the point."
"New old ones, then."
For all his huffing, Aziraphale doesn’t stop Crowley. He does put on a pout, though, that would crumble even the most steadfast of Crowley’s resolve. "They need to be these."
"Ok, ok. I'll be careful."
He is careful. Or at least he tries to be. Hard to do when Aziraphale's found his nipples and is rolling them between his fingers like he knows precisely how Crowley likes it.
Crowley works every button open with a delicate, albeit trembling, touch but gets distracted before he can get Aziraphale's trousers down. Opens his waistcoat and half his shirt then abandons his progress to unknot Aziraphale's bowtie.
"Maybe you can tie my wrists with this next time."
Aziraphale frowns.
"I hardly think so."
"It's only a joke, Angel."
"The shop down the road has much better binds than my bowtie."
Crowley grins. Aziraphale keeps surprising him. He falls a little more every time he does.
"Noted."
Somewhere between setting the bowtie on the bedside table and getting his mouth firmly on the hollow of Aziraphale's throat, Crowley ends up on his back again. The shirt and waistcoat slip free, no thanks to his own doing, and Crowley has been so distracted by the prospect of getting his hands on Aziraphale's cock he hadn't considered how good it would be to be smothered by his bare chest. He wants to bury his face in it and never come up for air again. Might do if Aziraphale didn't take his cock in hand and tease.
"I have been thinking of you this week."
Crowley groans. Arches his back and stares down at Aziraphale's hand wrapped around him.
"Quite a lot actually."
The word Crowley's looking for is oh? but he forgets the moment Aziraphale shifts his hips so he can fit both of them in his grip.
"I don't normally go for rebels. I like rules."
Crowley gets a few choked syllables out and Aziraphale pauses.
"I'm sorry?"
"Brothel." Crowley clears his throat and runs his hand through his hair. "You were at a brothel. And I’m the rebel?”
"Well, I saw you walk in there. I'm not always good at resisting temptation."
"Oh, you're not?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Let me tempt you into putting that inside me, then."
A shimmy works its way through Aziraphale's shoulders that has no right being as cute as it is.
"Temptation accomplished."
It's as if Aziraphale's been in Crowley's flat a million times. He reaches past Crowley’s head to the bedside table and snatches out what he needs without hesitation. In no time at all he's slipping a finger inside Crowley and leaving a bruise on his neck.
"Your cock. Your cock is what I wanted inside me."
"You'll enjoy this. And besides, I prefer a little show first."
Crowley wants to argue but Aziraphale's right. He does enjoy it. It's like Aziraphale has a PhD in his body. He's sure there's a four-hundred-page thesis out there somewhere on just how to get him off. Every quirk of Aziraphale's finger is perfection. Every press of his lips divine.
The strokes Aziraphale gives his cock are loose and infuriating and absolutely exactly what he wants, and he must be putting on one helluva show because Aziraphale's grinding against his thigh like there's no tomorrow and his breath is coming just as quick as Crowley's is.
"Tell me how you feel."
"Fuck, I think I love you."
"Hyperbole, I presume?"
"I dunno, but don't stop."
"Here. On your side."
Crowley doesn't roll so much as let Aziraphale manhandle him into position, arse tucked right up against Aziraphale's crotch and back flush against his chest. It only takes a moment before Aziraphale pushes into him and even with a good fingering he still feels every inch. It's a stretch he hopes he never gets used to, but not for want of trying.
Crowley turns to putty in Aziraphale's arms. Fists his hands in the sheets and groans at every slow push of his cock which only makes Aziraphale's heart pound harder against his spine.
The pleasure mounting in Crowley's belly is growing so fast it's making him feel dizzy. It's so good he can feel it in the palms of his hands. He writhes and whimpers, but Aziraphale holds him fast. Keeps the rhythm of his hips steady until Crowley's about to burst.
Crowley turns over his shoulder to beg and it's clear Aziraphale's drinking up every last bit of it. Getting off on Crowley getting off as much as the physical sensation.
"Don't stop, Angel."
Aziraphale takes Crowley's thigh and squeezes. Hoists his leg out of the way and finally gives him more.
"Fuck! Yes. So good."
Every thrust jolts Crowley’s entire body. Sends ripples over his skin. If Aziraphale didn't have one of those thick arms wrapped around him he'd surely go sliding off the bed.
It’s absolutely divine. Perfection. Crowley’s sure he’s died and gone to heaven.
Aziraphale’s voice is a rasp against his jaw.
"Say it again."
Crowley tries, but he doesn't get the words out before his orgasm comes crashing down on him.
And he'd thought the one at Mrs Sandwich's had been good. If he'd been on his feet this time around, they'd have gone out from under him for sure. The throbbing pulse of Aziraphale's cock inside him as he follows Crowley over the edge makes it that much better. He's lost in the throes of it for so long he's not sure he'll ever come back down. Not with the sounds Aziraphale's making in his ear.
As his toes uncurl and his vision stops swimming, he can't help but wonder if the register's office is open. If maybe he can't lock down the gorgeous soft Angel right now before he changes his mind.
Lucky for the both of them, Aziraphale hasn't entirely lost his mind in the last twenty minutes. He smooths his fingers through Crowley’s hair and plants a kiss on his shoulder.
"Perhaps we should discuss dinner?"
Crowley turns in Aziraphale's arms and lets himself get lost in a pair of color-shifting eyes. "Maybe let's make it breakfast."