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Part 1 of Naked in Malibu
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Good Omens After Dark Official, Playing dice with the multiverse
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2024-08-27
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Naked in Malibu

Summary:

Crowley is an A-list actor who has just arrived at his home in Malibu unannounced after production on his space opera unexpectedly shut down. He's excited to relax alone in his space and let it all hang out.

Aziraphale Eastgate, an interior designer, has never met his famous client. But he has a code to the house and he just needs to pop by for a few hours to make some sketches.

They're both about to get more than they bargained for.

Notes:

Special thanks as always to my betas and cheerleaders: Cowie_Podfics (Gidget_UK), ghostytothefire, Outrageous_Ring, Aziraphales_first_editions, seekingjoy, and tvshowsufferer. We had a lot of laughs this time around!

(See the end of the work for other works inspired by this one.)

Work Text:

Nothing, nothing beats the soft drag of bare skin over luxury cotton sheets.

Crowley stretched expansively, then relaxed, burrowing into the covers surrounding him. Fuck, it felt good to be home. He had just spent the past two months on location in the Mojave Desert, the dunes and cacti doubling for the remote planet where Arden Anglethorn, space cowboy (played by Crowley), was set to foil the dastardly plot of the evil Captain Atomhunter. But then a massive equipment failure had shut down production for the week, and rather than asking Anathema to book him a trip home, Crowley had decided to hop in his vintage Corvette, taking the highways home with the top down through the cool summer night. He had arrived at about two in the morning and collapsed immediately, so glad to be away from trailers and hotel beds and craft service food. As he drifted off to sleep, he promised himself that he would call Anathema in the morning to let her know where he was.

Well, it was morning now, but Crowley wasn’t quite ready to break his solitude and speak to anyone else. Crowley was a people person, and an extrovert, but even he had his limits, and after all the hustle and bustle of a film set, the quiet of his Malibu home was a blessing.

It would be nice to have some coffee, though.

Groaning, Crowley rolled out of bed, his bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. He stood, rolling his shoulders to work out the kinks in his tired muscles. He would have to ask Anathema to book his usual massage therapist. At forty-four, he just wasn’t bouncing back the way he had in his twenties, and the stunts on this set had been intense. Oh well, something to worry about later.

He set off down the hallway, not bothering to grab his robe, as he knew he was completely alone, the floor to ceiling windows in his living room mirrored on the outside, free to be himself without any constraints. Before heading into the kitchen, he paused at those windows, the Pacific Ocean laid out below him, twinkling in the morning sun. He stretched, reaching up on his tiptoes, relishing the slight burn all through his arms and legs, then brought his hands down with a sigh, resting his weight on one leg, his hip pushed out to the side.

A sudden squeak behind him made him turn his head sharply.

“Oh, good lord!”


Growing up, Aziraphale Eastgate had always wanted to be an artist.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Like so many little boys, he had first been raised thinking he wanted to be a firefighter. But then, to his mother’s delight and his father’s chagrin, he had wanted to be a figure skater. And then a fashion designer. And then, briefly, a mermaid (his brothers had had an excellent time explaining why THAT would never happen, and Aziraphale had cried for hours). As he got older, and read everything that was approved for him (and everything that wasn’t), filling his head with poems and myths and characters, Aziraphale found there was no limit to his creativity or his imagination, scribbling stories in a notebook with sketches alongside them, absurd and fanciful and heartbreaking and true.

When he went away to college, no one was surprised that he changed his major three times before the end of his freshman year. What was surprising, though, was what had happened to him the first time he stepped into an art history survey class, only to find yet another imaginative world spreading out before him. Bernini’s gleaming marble, lovingly modeled to resemble any texture. Caravaggio’s dramatic beams of light. Turner’s command of the brush. O’Keeffe’s masses and voids. It was love at first sight, a love that carried him through a bachelor’s degree and a Masters and on into the doctoral program.

But then the time for his comprehensive exams came, and instead of digging into the hundreds of books and articles on his major syllabus, he found himself drifting. Sketching rooms with his fingertip against the blue sky. Walking through fabric stores, letting his palms drift along rows of silks and brocades. Poring over the interior design spreads in Architectural Digest and noting how a particular room could have looked so much better if the couch were repositioned three feet to the left, or if the drapes had been a deeper blue.

Good thing he had family money to fall back on, a substantial legacy from his grandmother, and connections too. Because when he finally found his calling amidst furniture and fabrics, paint swatches and flooring samples, old master drawings and outsider art, he had the resources he needed to turn his passion for interiors, his love of fine things, his eye for color and detail, into a successful business. One that eventually began to attract a very high-end clientele.

Which was how he found himself in Anthony Crowley’s Malibu mansion one random Wednesday morning in the middle of June. Crowley’s assistant, Anathema Device, had called Aziraphale about plans to remodel the recently purchased property, and they had met several times, discussing Crowley’s likes and dislikes and his vision for the space. Aziraphale didn’t much care for Crowley’s recent work, all spy thrillers and space operas. But in his early twenties, Crowley had starred in a low-budget coming of age film about two young men growing up in Appalachia in the shadow of the Cold War, and the kiss they shared before the tragic ending was the hottest thing teenage Aziraphale had ever seen. At the time, all the celebrity mags had talked about how brave it was for a straight actor to take such a daring onscreen role, but Aziraphale always had his suspicions.

On this particular day, Anathema had been unavailable to escort Aziraphale to the house to make some sketches and take photos, but she had given him the code for the front door so that he could get in on his own. Crowley was out of town, anyway, on location on some noisy film Aziraphale would probably never see. They were hoping to have a comprehensive series of plans ready for him to review when he got back, so that they could begin the work when he left for his next shoot.

Which was why Aziraphale nearly passed out when he looked up from the sketch in his lap to see Anthony Crowley standing before him, looking out over the ocean and stretching.

Stark naked.

“Oh, good lord,” Aziraphale couldn’t help gasping, feeling as if his heart might burst.

Aziraphale had been running his business for seven years now, and he had had a number of celebrity clients. He had learned that sometimes, a star who seemed incandescent on screen was shy and awkward in person, someone you wouldn’t look at twice if you saw them at the grocery store. But there were others who almost glowed when they walked into a room, drawing every eye with their good looks and charisma and charm.

By this standard, Crowley was a supernova.

He was long and lean, probably a few inches taller than Aziraphale, with strong, slender limbs and a smattering of russet hair across his finely muscled torso. Praxitelean, Aziraphale thought, picturing the work of those Greek sculptors at the end of the Classical period who exchanged the compact body proportions of Polykleitos for sensuous S-curves and willowy limbs. Give Crowley a bundle of grapes and he could be Hermes teasing the infant Dionysus. Or more accurately, Hermes about to smite Aziraphale into oblivion. Crowley was advancing on him, his eyes blazing, his hands clenched into fists, stark and lovely and terrifying and —

Oh, fuck. He had a truly enormous cock. Despite his mortification, Aziraphale’s mouth watered.

“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?” Crowley thundered. “AND WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE???


Crowley had heard of this before — actors coming home to find a stalker in their house. Ligur had once spent an hour playing checkers with a young girl while carefully easing his phone out of his pocket under the table to signal for help. And Luke had managed to act like such an insufferable, entitled asshole that his stalker had simply left in disgust. The person currently scrambling off Crowley’s sofa to crouch in the corner didn’t look like he would hurt a fly: a sweet-faced confection of a man with a shock of candyfloss hair and a perfectly kissable upturned nose, nearly trembling out of his blue argyle sweater vest. But Squeaky Fromme hadn’t looked like much either. You couldn’t be too careful.

Thank God Anathema had insisted on lining up his awards on the console table behind the loveseat. He considered grabbing the Golden Globe: good heft, and they were worthless anyway, but he went for the Emmy instead. Pointy. Intimidating.

Had anyone ever clubbed anyone to death with an Oscar? Frances McDormand seemed like she might be able to pull it off, and she had three of them. Maybe she would lend him one.

The confection was speaking. “Please — please —”

Crowley brandished the Emmy in front of him like a lightsaber. “This better be fucking good.”

“I’m sorry — I’m so sorry — Anathema said you were on location and wouldn’t be here — she gave me the code and —”

“Anathema?” Crowley tightened his grip. “Stay there and don’t move a muscle. Alexa? Call Anathema mobile.”

“Calling Anathema mobile,” said a cool female voice, and a moment later the voice of Crowley’s assistant was emanating from the tall black speaker in the corner of the room.

“Crowley, where are you? I just heard that the shoot was canceled for the rest of the week and they said you’d left —”

“Anathema?” Crowley cut in, keeping his voice steady. “Did you give the human embodiment of a cream puff the code to my house?”

“The human em — oh, that’s Aziraphale. He’s your interior designer. Did he surprise you?”

“You could say that.” Crowley laughed drily, and Aziraphale blushed scarlet, staring at the ceiling. Now that Crowley knew he wasn’t about to die, he could appreciate that the man really was quite cute.

“Oh Crowley, please don’t be mean to him! He comes highly recommended and he’s lovely. I don’t want you to scare him away.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“And don’t fuck him either! I know he’s exactly your type but he’s not there to —”

“You’re on speaker, Anathema, and he’s right here with me.”

“Oh, fuck.” There was an awkward pause. “Hi, Aziraphale! Disregard the last thing I said.”

“Already forgotten.” Aziraphale’s voice was a breathless gasp, and he looked like he was about to fall through the floor.

“Terrific. Well, you boys have fun. Professional fun. You’re going to love his ideas, Crowley! He’ll have that house looking like you in no time.”

When she was gone, Crowley and Aziraphale stood in silence for a moment, sizing each other up. Well, Crowley was sizing Aziraphale up. Aziraphale appeared to be attempting to count every single rounded stone studded into the wall that stretched along the far side of the room. But Crowley could see him sneaking glances up and down Crowley’s body, taking him in, and he grinned wolfishly. What a tasty little morsel Anathema had sent him! He could just picture Aziraphale spread out on his bed, all that soft pink skin bared in the afternoon sun, a line of purple bruises up the inside of one plump thigh —

He was getting ahead of himself. Charm, that’s what they needed first. And coffee.

Crowley lowered the Emmy. “I’m going to go — put some clothes on.”

“I think that would be best,” Aziraphale said to the ceiling.

“And when I get back, you can show me your ideas for the place, and then —” Crowley paused long enough that Aziraphale flicked worried seafoam eyes toward his face. “Then we can decide what we feel like doing.”

With a wink, he turned and walked out of the room, putting a bit of swing in his hips. He could feel Aziraphale’s eyes on his ass all the way down the hall.


Aziraphale sat on the couch with his tablet, trying to pull himself together. Before Crowley came in, when he thought he was alone, he had been merrily sketching concepts for the room, adding in details that he thought would please his client. Now he could barely hold the stylus, the few lines he had added to the sketch ineffectual squiggles. He sighed and hit the back button to erase them. Maybe he could organize some wall and flooring swatches instead, and get back to sketching when his hand stopped shaking.

He could hear Crowley clanking around in the kitchen, probably making breakfast. Aziraphale would never forget how he had looked when he first turned around, all elegant tranquility shattered, replaced by white-hot fury, his freckled skin flushed, muscles flexing as he strode across the room, his mouthwatering cock —

No, best not to think of that. He was already having a hard enough time keeping from passing out without all his blood rushing to his —

“I wasn’t sure if you were thirsty or not. I made coffee, but for some reason you look like a tea guy, so I made that too.” Crowley swanned into the room and set a tray down on the low table in front of the couch. “There are muffins too. Not fresh ones, I’m afraid, since I didn’t tell anyone I was coming back last night. They stock the freezer with different kinds for me, though.”

Aziraphale looked up to thank him, to say that yes indeed, he did prefer tea, but the words died in his throat.

Crowley had “gotten dressed” in only the broadest interpretation of the word. He was wearing a forest green silk robe embroidered all over with intricate black and silver snakes, the rich hue just the right shade to set off his bright red quiff and golden eyes. It was generously cut, brushing the floor as he walked, the hem and trailing bell sleeves trimmed with black fur. And oh — he had left it open in the front, and underneath he was wearing nothing but a pair of skimpy black briefs. Up close, Aziraphale could make out every dip and ridge of his washboard stomach, the freckles across his chest, the flex of his lean thighs, the outline of —

Aziraphale exhaled noisily and leaned forward to dump two sugar cubes into his tea. He was going to have to pull himself together and be professional, even if Anathema’s words were turning over and over into his head as if they had been branded on the very surface of his brain. Crowley’s type — how could he be Crowley’s type? If Crowley was a Greek sculpture, Aziraphale was decidedly, well, Rubenesque. And while Crowley had ten years on Aziraphale in age, Aziraphale still felt older, or at least less exciting, more stuck in his ways. And yet, here was Crowley sliding in next to him on the couch, tucking one foot underneath him so that he could turn and face Aziraphale fully, coffee cup in hand, muffin plate resting on his bony knee. His honey eyes were soft, his mouth teasing as he raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale.

“So,” he drawled. “I hear you have some sketches to show me.”

“Yes, quite.” Aziraphale put his mug back down on the table and picked up his tablet. Best not to trust his barely-functioning fingers with more than one task. “Anathema showed me pictures of your last home, and goodness, you do love your doom and gloom! And I appreciate that, but I think in this case we need to work with the beachiness of the house and the general vibe of Malibu. You, uh, clearly love the view from the windows, so let’s start with that and make the space feel like you. Here’s what I was thinking —”

Aziraphale went on, walking Crowley through the designs that he had been developing over the last few weeks. Crowley seemed fully engaged, asking plenty of questions, laughing at Aziraphale’s wan attempts at humor, warming the room with his easy charm. When they got to Crowley’s art collection, and Aziraphale’s plans to fit the best pieces into the space, Aziraphale could feel his anxiety fully ebbing away. Crowley had excellent if eclectic taste, and the Thornton Dial drawings, the colorful glass sculptures by Dale Chihuly, and the large-scale Mr. Brainwash canvas that Crowley had bought as a joke were all showstoppers that would fit the vibe beautifully. But when he got to a sculpture of two angels fighting that didn’t look like fighting at all, Aziraphale paused, his eyebrow lifted.

“Seems a little on the nose, doesn’t it?” he asked, keeping his tone light.

Crowley smirked. “I was thinking we should put it right next to the front door. That way, any innocent slices of angel food cake who wander into my house unannounced will know exactly what they’re getting themselves into.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Aziraphale murmured, lowering his lashes as the blush heated his cheeks. When he chanced a glance upward, he could see Crowley eyeing him hungrily. “We’ll put aside what to do with that particular sculpture for now. Moving on, I was thinking this group of Howard Finsters would look wonderful in the study —”

Crowley settled a little deeper into the cushions, snaking his arm around the back of the couch, and Aziraphale shivered involuntarily. Any moment now, he was going to wake up and find out this was all a dream — wasn’t he?


Aziraphale was saying something, but Crowley was having a hard time maintaining his focus. It wasn’t that Aziraphale was boring. In fact, it was quite the opposite: Crowley had never thought he could spend so long discussing drapes and furniture and flooring and still be this engaged. Aziraphale had impeccable taste, and he was whip-smart, funnier than he probably realized he was, and bitchy when he wanted to be. He was putting on an innocent act, too, all blushes and sighs and lowered lashes, but Crowley knew that Aziraphale was drinking him in, dragging his eyes along Crowley’s exposed thigh whenever he thought Crowley wasn’t looking. And when Crowley wiggled a little closer to him on the couch, or let his fingertips brush against Aziraphale’s shoulder, as he was doing right now, Aziraphale’s breath hitched, a break in the stream of consciousness about patterns and textures. The words that tripped out of his pretty pink lips rose and fell with a musical lilt, and Crowley wanted to meet them at their source, crushing Aziraphale against the couch and giving them both what they wanted.

“Where are you from?” he blurted out, cutting into a diatribe about custom furniture. “I mean, originally. We’ve been sitting here talking for an hour now and I can’t place your accent.”

Aziraphale flushed prettily. “Well, I was born in Washington, DC, and I’ve spent the majority of my life in the US. But my parents were British diplomats, so we went back and forth to England a number of times in my youth, and I’ve traveled to a lot of countries with them too. It’s certainly affected my speech, and also the things I enjoy.”

Crowley slapped him on the knee. “I knew there was something different about you! You’re far too pretty and posh to be a bog-standard American male.”

Aziraphale tittered. “Well, I don’t know about that! But what about you — where did you grow up before you became Superstar Anthony Crowley?”

Crowley laughed. Oh, this angel was a bit of a bastard, and Crowley was here for it. “Seattle, mostly. Your standard actor trajectory: I was the class clown, and then they put me in school plays, and then I started auditioning for small roles down here before I landed my first pilot. Did some indie work, and then some of the bigger action franchises came courting. Now I’m just the right age to switch to Prestigious Streaming Dramas for Adults. Awards stuff, hopefully.”

“Oh, I’ve followed your career,” Aziraphale said softly.

“Is that so? Big fan, are you?” Crowley couldn’t help himself. He didn’t become an A-lister by having a small ego.

“Well, I admit I haven’t seen some of your more recent work. But your earlier work, yes, very much so.”

“What’s wrong with my recent stuff? Not highbrow enough for the likes of you?” Crowley was enjoying watching him squirm.

“It’s not —” Aziraphale really was in danger of vibrating right out of his skin this time. “Well, if you must know, I trained as an art historian before I started doing this, and watching great works of art and architecture blow up over and over is not exactly relaxing for me! Too much —” And here he made a series of odd hand gestures and the least convincing explosion sounds Crowley had ever heard. Seriously, how had he made it to adulthood without someone eating him?

“Okay, okay,” Crowley laughed. “You don’t like explosions. What else?”

“CGI. Guns. Blood —” Aziraphale wrinkled his nose, and Crowley wondered if they could get married that afternoon. “And — but this is so petty —”

Crowley leaned forward. “Well, now you have to tell me.”

“Okay, if you must —” Aziraphale huffed, rolling his eyes. “It’s Leonardo, darling, not ‘Da Vinci.’ No expert calls him that, and it’s like fingernails on a chalkboard to us. It’s not an actual last name, it would be like me calling you ‘From Seattle.’ And the Mona Lisa isn’t painted on canvas, it’s on panel, so you absolutely cannot cut it out of the frame and then stuff it down the front of your trousers.”

Crowley nudged Aziraphale’s knee. “Sounds to me like you’ve seen more of my recent films than you’re letting on.”

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale said archly, his nose in the air. Then he turned to meet Crowley’s gaze, and they both dissolved into giggles.

When they had both collected themselves, Crowley broke the silence. “There are actually more practical effects than you think.”

“Pardon?”

“Practical effects, you know? Real props and stunts and stuff. I think you’d really love it, all that creativity, the materials, the things that people make, the way that we pull some of those scenes off. You’d actually make a great set designer. I should bring you to a shoot sometime so that you can see.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I’d like that.”

They were facing each other on the couch now, knees almost touching, the air shimmering between them. This close, Crowley could count every one of Aziraphale’s pale eyelashes, could catalog every shift of hue in his extraordinary eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but Aziraphale got there first.

“There’s one film of yours that I’ve probably seen dozens of times, so much so that I could quote it from beginning to end. Shenandoah? With you and Luke Morganstern. I was a teenage boy growing up in a very patriarchal family and you showed me that there was another way to be — another way I knew I wanted to be. I have to thank you for that. When you kissed him — well, it fueled a lot of fantasies for me.” Aziraphale was blushing, but he held Crowley’s gaze.

“The reality of it wasn’t too bad either. Luke and I — we were a thing for a while, but it didn’t last.” Crowley chuckled. “Two egos that big should never be in the same relationship. He’s a good friend, but not what I’m looking for in a partner.”

“What are you looking for?” Aziraphale’s voice quavered a little.

“I’ll trade a question for a question.” Crowley inched forward, their faces nearly touching. “What do you think your teenage self would say if he saw you right now?”

Aziraphale sighed, his gaze dropping toward Crowley’s mouth, and Crowley could feel hot breath on his lips. “I think he would die on the spot.”

“Well, let’s hope you’re made of sterner stuff,” Crowley murmured, and kissed him.


Aziraphale had to be dreaming.

That was the only logical explanation. Otherwise, he would have to believe that Crowley, gorgeous, clever Crowley, the Anthony Crowley who had held first place in his teenage spank bank for so many years, had kissed him full on the lips. That Aziraphale had moaned and kissed him back, and that Crowley had then slipped a velvety tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth, stroking and probing, soft and smooth. That Aziraphale had surged forward, twisting his fingers into Crowley’s perfectly tousled hair and kissing him senseless. That Crowley had wrapped two long-fingered hands around Aziraphale's hips and tugged until he was straddling Crowley’s lap. That Aziraphale was still there now, rolling his hips in a smooth rhythm as they kissed, feeling Crowley’s massive cock poking at the seat of his corduroys, the man’s fingers digging into his ass and encouraging him along.

Aziraphale opened his eyes.

Oh shit, it was real.

Crowley was spread out beneath him, looking completely wrecked, still wearing that ridiculous silk dressing gown, the material cool and inviting under Aziraphale’s palms as he gripped Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley’s hands were roving, clutching Aziraphale’s ass, grasping his waist, feeling along his arms, and then finally tugging at his navy polka dot bowtie, easing the knot free and thumbing open the top two buttons of Aziraphale’s Oxford shirt. When he was done, Crowley caught the ends of the bowtie and dragged Aziraphale down so that he could suck bruises into his neck.

How are you so sexy?” Crowley growled into his ear. “How are you making bowties sexy? How are you making argyle sexy? I feel like I have a librarian fetish that I just discovered today and I’m going to come in my pants just looking at you.”

“Ah — aahhh —” Aziraphale gasped as Crowley hit a particularly sensitive spot. “Just — just make sure to turn in your books on time and — mmm — never dog-ear the pages.”

Fuck.” The swear was almost reverent. Crowley snatched at the hem of Aziraphale’s sweater vest, tugging it up and over his head and no doubt making a mess of Aziraphale’s curls as he did so. He then turned to the shirt, untucking the shirttails from the waistband of Aziraphale’s trousers, seeking bare skin but finding —

Crowley froze, and Aziraphale flushed scarlet.

“Angel.” Crowley made a soft tutting sound with his mouth, his eyes dancing. “Angel, what have we here?”

Aziraphale bit his lip and sat back on his heels as Crowley reached for his buttons, slipping them free one by one as if Aziraphale were a present, until the shirt was completely loose and he could spread it wide, drinking Aziraphale in with a hunger that made him weak in the knees.

“Look at you, you’re gorgeous.”

Underneath the crisp white shirt, Aziraphale was wearing a pale blue satin camisole edged in scalloped lace, a tiny ribbon rose gathered at the very center of his chest. Crowley ran a reverent finger down the midline of his torso, the slippery material bunching slightly in his wake.

“You wore this just for you?” Crowley murmured. “Not planning on anyone else seeing it?”

Aziraphale nodded at the ceiling. “It just — it feels so lovely. And it makes me feel — oh, as if I have a secret. Something special that’s there just because I like it.”

“Is there more?” There was a feral note in Crowley’s voice.

Yes,” Aziraphale whispered.

“Okay, that’s it. Hold on tight.” Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley’s shoulders, then let out a squeak of surprise as Crowley stood straight up, holding Aziraphale in his arms.

“Where are we going?” Aziraphale asked, reeling at Crowley’s hidden strength.

“To the bedroom where I can unwrap you properly. You are much, much too precious to fuck on the living room couch.” He let Aziraphale’s feet slip to the floor. “You’re walking, though. I just wanted to impress you. Hope it worked.”

“It did,” Aziraphale murmured as he pulled Crowley into a kiss. Keeping their mouths pressed together, they began to stumble down the hall.


“Fucking fuck.”

It was all Crowley could think of to say as he gazed down at the vision laid out on his bedspread, offering up prayers to whatever deity or devil had pushed this sexy, adorable, maddening cherub of a man into his life.

It had been a clumsy trip down the hallway, both of them mad with want, stumbling over their feet as they stole kisses from each other’s lips, tugging hair and nibbling at each other’s throats. About halfway down the hall, Crowley had lost his head entirely and crowded Aziraphale against the wall, at first face to face in a desperate clinch as Crowley slipped the white cotton shirt off Aziraphale’s shoulders. But then Crowley turned him to face the wall, crowding him up against the smooth plaster, biting down on a broad shoulder laced with the barely-there strap of the flimsy satin camisole, grinding up against Aziraphale’s ass, lifting him up on tiptoe with each forceful thrust. It was a wonder that it didn’t end there, and very well might have done if Aziraphale hadn’t cried out a warning that he was too close, finally bringing Crowley back to his senses enough to shove them both through the bedroom door.

He had lost his silk robe (a custom gift from his favorite designer Eric Kane after years of working together) somewhere in the mad rush to crowd Aziraphale onto the bed, to tear off his trousers and find out what he had on underneath. And now he had done exactly that, and he had to pause to collect himself, taking in every detail as Aziraphale peered up at him with heavy-lidded eyes.

In addition to the camisole, Aziraphale was wearing a matching lace garter belt clipped into a pair of sheer white stockings, edged in ruffles around the tops of his thighs. His thick cock was straining to escape from the satin briefs, leaving a patch of precome that soaked through the material. His chest was dusted over with a generous thatch of dark blond hair, his skin all cream and roses and already beginning to show the marks from Crowley’s lips and teeth. Groaning, Crowley picked up one of Aziraphale’s stocking-clad legs, bracing the foot against his shoulder and mouthing a kiss against the inside of his ankle.

“What should I do with you?” Crowley murmured, kissing a path up the inside of Aziraphale’s calf. “How do you like to be fucked?” He ran his nose along Aziraphale’s inner thigh, resting his cheek on the bare skin between the stocking and the garter belt. “Should I stay right here and suck your pretty cock until you’re begging to come?” He breathed over Aziraphale’s twitching cock, and then dived, biting down on the rosy thigh.

“Nnnn —” Aziraphale whined, bucking against Crowley’s mouth and reaching down to fist at his hair, pulling him upward. Crowley grinned and followed his lead, leaving a line of love bites over the swell of his tummy as he went. When he reached Aziraphale’s mouth, he leaned down for a messy kiss, settling between his plush thighs and relishing the hot drag of their clothed cocks as they rutted together.

Crowley nuzzled against Aziraphale’s ear. “What will it be, then? Should I make you ride me? Or do I lay you on out the pillows and fuck you sweet and slow like the princess you so clearly are?”

Aziraphale’s thick fingers gripped the back of Crowley’s head, and Crowley shivered at the touch. “Whatever you do, put your back into it. I may look soft, but I’m not some delicate flower, and I want you desperately.”

“Adorable, smart, and bossy,” Crowley growled. “All right then, princess, come on.”

He sat back on his heels and dragged the satin briefs down Aziraphale’s legs, freeing his cock but leaving the rest of his lovely outfit in place. “Kneel at the end of the bed and hold on to the footboard. I want you to watch while I fuck you.”

As he slipped off his own briefs, Crowley watched in the large mirror over the bureau as Aziraphale scrambled into place. Kneeling behind him, he caught Aziraphale’s eye, noting the sheer mirth on his face. “What?”

“This is just like how we met,” Aziraphale giggled, and Crowley rolled his eyes.

“So fucking clever.” And without further preamble, Crowley sank down on his heels, pulling Aziraphale’s luscious ass towards him. Parting the cheeks to find Aziraphale’s pink hole, he bent his head to flick his tongue against the lovely pucker.


Was it possible to die from too much sex?

Aziraphale was beside himself, gripping the footboard of the bed, his thighs quivering as Crowley, Anthony fucking Crowley, laved at his entrance, sending shockwaves of pleasure up his spine and directly into his dripping cock. How the hell had he gotten here? He could see himself in the large mirror across the room, curls sticking every which way, bruises standing out on his skin, flush creeping over his cheeks and down his chest. The camisole was slipping off one shoulder and hiked up over his belly where Crowley had kissed him, and one of the clips on his stockings had already come undone. Aziraphale had to admit that he liked it, liked all of it, how mussed and fucked out he looked, and the way Crowley clearly relished his body. It was impossible not to feel sexy with an absolute Adonis kneeling between your thighs.

He squeezed his eyes shut, the punched-out cries bursting from his lips beyond his control. The visual was just too much, too powerfully erotic, and Aziraphale had been walking on a razor’s edge ever since Crowley had advanced on him that morning, completely bare. He focused his attention instead on pure sensation, on the insistent pressure of Crowley’s tongue, on his lover’s wet grunts as he made Aziraphale see stars, on the saliva dripping down his inner thighs and soaking the tops of his stockings. It was only through sheer will that Aziraphale held off from his peak, grinding his teeth and gripping the footboard so hard that he expected it to crumble into dust under his fingertips.

“Crowley —” he wavered. “Oh — oh darling, it’s too good, I won’t last — your cock — I need —”

With one last devastating suck, Crowley pulled off Aziraphale and wiped his mouth before crowding in close, hooking his chin over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You’re too fucking much, Angel,” he moaned, digging his fingers into Aziraphale’s soft tummy. “How the fuck are you real?”

“I could ask you the same thing, darling,” Aziraphale panted, reaching back to push Crowley’s hair off his forehead. “Now, would you please —” And he shoved his hips back against Crowley’s cock.

“Patience, my vanilla cream tart,” Crowley teased appreciatively.

“Not quite so vanilla, I think you’ll find.”

“Mm, I definitely want to hear more about that topic.” Crowley reached down beside him for a condom and the small bottle of lube. When they were both prepared, he budged up against Aziraphale’s entrance with the blunt head of his cock. “But for now, let’s see if we can make you forget how words work.”

And he pushed all the way in, taking Aziraphale in one fluid motion.

CROW — awaugh — oooh — eeeeh —” Aziraphale gasped.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Crowley smirked. He met Aziraphale’s gaze in the mirror, wrapping an arm around his chest. “All right?”

Aziraphale nodded enthusiastically. “Go ahead.”

And go ahead Crowley did, each thrust deep and true, knowing exactly how to touch Aziraphale, how to light him up from within. It was as if he and Crowley were already soulmates, as if they had done this thousands and thousands of times in every possible universe instead of simply meeting for the first time today. Aziraphale gazed into the mirror, meeting his own lust-drunk eyes, then fixing on the face over his shoulder, scarcely believing that this was happening. Crowley was nearly a stranger, and yet he felt like a friend, a lover, someone dear that Aziraphale had looked up to and respected when he was a lost teenager. And now here he was, fulfilling Aziraphale’s every fantasy, making each nerve ending in his body sizzle and sparkle until Aziraphale almost expected to see himself manifesting an otherworldly glow.

And the most incredible part was that Crowley really seemed to see Aziraphale, to want his mind and his body, to cherish and appreciate him. Sure, Crowley had an ego that was visible from space. But he was also kind and funny, quick-witted and engaging, and he really seemed to enjoy it when Aziraphale challenged him. In fact, he’d made his interest in Aziraphale abundantly clear, had flirted and prodded and hung on his every word. Was it really possible that they might have something? Could this chance encounter turn into something more?

That was a thought for another time. What mattered now was this one perfect moment of bliss, the nucleus around which all things turned. Aziraphale was a ragged ball of sexual energy, shuddering and tingling and clenching, the pounding of Crowley’s cock in and out of his hole his new heartbeat. His climax was so close that he could taste it, built up over an entire morning of teasing and the best seeing-to that he’d had in years, just waiting for him to let go. He reached for his cock, but Crowley batted his hand away.

Mine,” he panted. “Take — take care of you —” He began to pump Aziraphale’s cock, timing his strokes with the rolling of his hips, and it was all Aziraphale could do to grip onto the edge of the bed, to watch the bliss unfolding on his face in the mirror, and to keep hold of his terrestrial form as his world shattered apart.

“Crowley, I’m so close — oh god, it’s so good — I’m so ready —”

“Come for me, Angel, I’m here — I have you — I’m almost —”

With a shuddering wail, Aziraphale came over Crowley’s fist, harder than he had ever come in his life, a great diffusion of pent-up energy that nearly shattered his cells, leaving him gasping and clenching. Behind him, Crowley cried out and wrapped his free arm tight around Aziraphale’s torso, thrusting in deep as the pulsing waves overtook him, shock followed by aftershock. Aziraphale collapsed back into Crowley’s lap, resting his head against a bony shoulder, wanting to keep him close as long as he could. Crowley kissed his forehead, crinkles of affection in the corner of his eyes.

Thinking over the day and the whole absurd situation, Aziraphale started to giggle.

“What?” Crowley asked, a little wary.

“Bet you’re glad you didn’t brain me with that Emmy!”

“You think you’re so fucking cute, don’t you.” Crowley ran a finger down the side of his face. “Next time I’m going to come over to your house and surprise you while you’re naked, and you can see how fast you can come up with a plan.”

Aziraphale guffawed. “Is that supposed to be a threat, darling? Because I do believe I’d simply bend over the nearest surface and let you have me.”

“I think I like the sound of that,” Crowley purred, and tumbled Aziraphale down onto the bed.


Some time later, they were curled up together on the bed, both completely bare, the thin coverlet pulled up around them. Crowley had enticed Aziraphale into the shower, and Aziraphale had marveled at the sheer size of it before trying every single faucet and dial. The process of getting clean had involved a great deal of kissing and groping and very little attention to scrubbing or lathering, but they had managed it finally. Now, Aziraphale was reclining against the headboard and Crowley was curled up on his chest, both of them drifting on waves of contentment, neither of them saying much. At that moment, there wasn’t much that needed to be said.

Suddenly, Crowley’s phone vibrated, skittering across the bedside table.

“Ugh, that’s probably Anathema,” Crowley groaned. “If I don’t pick up, she’ll just come over and barge right in on us.”

“Go on, then.” Aziraphale reached over and handed Crowley the phone.

“Good afternoon, Witch Goddess, light of my life and keeper of my calendar. What can I do for you?” Crowley purred into the phone.

“Oh god, you already fucked him.” Anathema’s voice was a little muffled, as if she had buried her face in her hands.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Silently, Crowley mouthed a path along Aziraphale’s chest, stopping to tease a pink nipple with his tongue. Aziraphale clapped his hand over his mouth, but not before a tiny giggle escaped his lips.

“Oh god, you’re not actively fucking him, are you? Because if you are — Aziraphale, baby, if you can hear me, you should get out of there! You are much too good to be putting up with his shit.”

Crowley could feel the grin spreading across his face. “If I were actively fucking him, you would absolutely know, because this salted caramel sundae you sent me definitely screams like a —”

“NOPE! No, stop right there!” Anathema cried. “I work for you, and I like him too much to want to know how that sentence ends.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Look, if you’re going to keep up with this, just a few things to think about,” Anathema sighed. “First of all, remember that you decided that you weren’t coming out officially, but that instead you just wanted to say lots of horny things about men on talk shows and leave people guessing. If you’re seen out with him, it might bring heat down on the both of you, and Aziraphale needs to consider whether he wants to give up his anonymity like that.”

Crowley sobered a little. “Okay, we’ll talk about it.”

“And don’t forget that you hired Aziraphale to do a job for you,” Anathema chided. “You two just opened up a big can of worms, and you have to figure out what it’s going to mean.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“And for god’s sake, remember that the paps might be interested in what you’re up to now that production is shut down, so keep it inside. If you’re papped while fucking him on a pool lounger and you end up on the front page of TMZ, don’t come crying to me.”

“Noted.” Crowley pressed a kiss into the side of Aziraphale’s throat. “Oh Nat, one more thing before you go —”

“Yes? I’m still here.”

“Could you order us some Indian food from that place I like? Because he’s going to need to keep his strength up.”

“You — you’re —” Anathema sputtered. “Anthony Crowley, I want a raise.” And she hung up.

Crowley tossed the phone down on the bed and looked up at Aziraphale. His ocean-tossed eyes were thoughtful. “You heard all that?” Crowley asked.

“I did,” Aziraphale replied. “And my dear Crowley —” he pursed his lips. “I just wanted to say that — I’ve had a wonderful time today. I realize that your life is very different from mine, and I understand that this might have been a bit of fun for you. If that’s so, I’m happy to take this experience and keep it as one of the loveliest moments of my life, and I won’t ask anything else from you or trouble you. But if it was more to you — I would love to explore that and see where it goes, whatever that might mean for you.”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley scrambled into a sitting position so that he could look Aziraphale full in the eyes. “I think I can safely say that you are one of the sweetest, most interesting people I have met in a long time, not to mention that I think that might have been the best sex of my life, so yes, I want to explore this with you. But you heard what Anathema said, and you need to know what you’re getting into. I can be kind of an asshole —”

“I work with celebrities, darling. You’re nothing I can’t handle.” Aziraphale slid down the headboard a little, kissing Crowley on the shoulder as he went.

“I’m technically not out? Although if people think I’m straight, they really need to pay better attention.”

Aziraphale snuggled under Crowley’s arm, flicking his eyes upward. “There’s never been a closet that could hold me, even when I didn’t want people to know. If you and I start going out together —”

“Then I’ll be proud as fuck that everyone knows I’m the one who gets to have you.” Crowley brushed Aziraphale’s cheek, then drew him up into a kiss. “Fuck, do whatever you want with the renovations. Your ideas all sounded amazing and I trust you. Just make sure you design the perfect bedroom for me to hole up with you and fuck you silly.”

Aziraphale began to slide down Crowley’s chest, leaving kisses in his wake. “I’ll make it my first priority.”

Crowley sighed and settled back into the pillows, hissing a little as Aziraphale nibbled at the inside of his hip.

“I just — I know I can be a lot. I’m probably going to say the wrong thing and shower you with too many gifts and fuck everything up. But fuck — I just want to do right by you.”

“We’ll figure it out, darling,” Aziraphale murmured. “I’d want to, with you.”

They would, wouldn’t they? It had only been a few hours, but as Crowley shut his eyes to let Aziraphale take care of him, he just knew that somehow, he had come home.

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