Chapter Text
Monday, 20 March
At Tadfield University, in Oxfordshire, west of London, it’s the first day of spring.
The sun is warm. The breeze is fresh and cool. Songbirds philander in the budding oaks, and daffodils drip like watercolours into the footpaths.
But second-year PhD student Aziraphale Fell is not outdoors admiring the spectacle; he’s in the library, swamped by literary analysis and a foul mood.
On this lovely Wednesday morning, the reference section ought to be deserted. And yet the demon is here. Again. Tall and lean, dressed all in black, he sauntered in about an hour ago, the serpentine scrawl of his hips writing entire catalogues of erotica. A number of students – and staff, how dare they - shamelessly eyed him as he made his way across the room, draped himself lazily onto a chair, and pulled a textbook and a sleek black mobile telephone from his bag.
Now, he simply loiters, looking far too unoccupied to be taking up space at a work table -
(or in Aziraphale’s head)
- never mind that the library is practically empty today. He’s positively distracting, nimble fingers worrying at the open pages of his book while the other hand thumbs at his mobile. In fact, the man can’t seem to keep still, long limbs fidgeting with nervous energy.
That’s why Aziraphale’s eyes keep flitting over to him. It’s certainly not any sort of attraction. Aziraphale is interested in substance, not scarlet hair swept back in a messy bun. Not a long pale neck. Not sharp cheekbones. And he would certainly never look twice at anyone with the audacity to wear sunglasses indoors, even if they were perched on the bridge of an appealingly crooked nose.
Not that the stranger would be interested in Aziraphale. They couldn’t be more opposite in appearance or demeanour. Aziraphale knows himself: anachronistically dressed in his tan waistcoat and tartan bow tie, his white-blond curls blown to fluff by the wind on the walk over. Particular about his clothing, his manners, and his partners – or lack thereof. Soft about the middle. Certainly not the sort to interest an intimidating, flashy, tempting –
Is the man watching him?
Aziraphale quickly looks down, biting his lip, and checks his pocket watch. Thank goodness; it’s nearly time to pack up and meet his friend Anathema for lunch. He can leave a bit early and walk the long way round – anything to escape from him.
He makes careful notes of the volumes he’s borrowed from the reference section, then reshelves them self-consciously –
(Stop it! He’s not watching you. He’s not even thinking about you!)
After stowing his notebook and accoutrements in his leather satchel, he rushes down two flights of stairs, out the library’s revolving doors, and into the spring day, sighing out his relief.
The sun feels delightful on Aziraphale’s skin, and he’s grateful for a full half-hour of quiet in which to stroll across campus before lunch. He needs it, to prepare for the whirlwind that is Anathema. He loves her dearly; she’s his closest friend, but she can be a bit much. Brought up in America, she has little regard for personal space or personal questions, and he can expect to be grilled over their meal.
But, he admits, it’s good to be so thoroughly loved. Accepted for exactly who he is. Especially by one so fascinating as Anathema. She’s a year into her thesis on witchcraft in British and Western European literature, having already been steeped in its full history in the Americas by her (rather eccentric) family.
They met nearly two years ago at the departmental postgraduate orientation, when she boldly approached him in the main lecture hall, hand thrust out to shake. “Hi. I’m Anathema. Device. I’m an occultist,” she declared in her perfectly articulated American accent. Her deep brown eyes were comically large behind her round glasses, but her smile was warm and genuine.
Bemused but unfailingly polite, he took her hand. “Aziraphale Fell. Lovely to meet you, my dear. Would you like to sit?” He indicated the empty auditorium chair beside him, and folded the seat down with a creak of springs.
Gathering up her long skirts, she lowered herself into the narrow space and turned to gaze at him – grinning in a way that was quite friendly and yet a bit threatening. “I can tell from your aura that we’re going to be friends,” she announced.
“Oh? Is that – is that so?” Aziraphale replied, his bemusement only growing.
“Yes, it is.” She confirmed. “You’re separated from your family, just like I am. Though not by distance, I think. It’s something else…” Eyebrows pulled together, she tilted her elegant head to the side, as though she were chewing on a complex maths equation or scanning for a distant signal.
She must have pinned it down, because she brightened abruptly, pointing at his chest with her index finger. “And you’re a free spirit, unconcerned with the opinions of others. I admire that.”
“Dear girl,” Aziraphale replied, “I doubt you needed to see my ‘aura’ for that observation. One only need look at my clothing–”
“Oh no,” Anathema interrupted. “It’s not your clothes, or your speech – wow, your whole aesthetic is paused in the 19th Century, isn’t it? It is your aura. Steel blue with flashes of green. It shifts – like your eyes do.
“The green says you’re a guardian at heart. Not in a bully way, like a watchdog,” she clarified quickly, wrinkling her nose. “More like – a mother hen. You know how they hide their chicks under their wings? You’re protective of the people you care about. You want what’s best for them, even at your own expense. Even if it hurts,” she said curiously, her eyes softening for a moment before she moved on.
“And the blue… hmmm. You try to be cool-headed and logical. But the blue is a little cloudy, and that tells me you lack confidence. You might even be a little bit afraid. Of yourself?” Her red lips pursed in a frown. “Of something, anyway...”
She had that listening, calculating look again. Aziraphale, realising he may not want to hear her next observation, interrupted her thoughts. “And what colour indicates my natural scepticism?” he countered with a smile.
She ignored his question. “Want to go for a drink after this?” she asked with a wolfish grin, making him laugh aloud.
He surprised himself when he agreed.
Looking back, he doubts Ana has ever been surprised about anything.
Now, strolling up to The Nightingale Café with five minutes to spare, he sees Anathema’s bicycle leaning against a nearby post, and the woman herself already claiming an outdoor bistro table and two menus. When she spies him, she leaps up – “Az! So good to see you!” – and hugs him tightly in a swirl of purple skirts and a hint of vetiver and patchouli.
“And you, dear girl,” he replies as they take their seats. “I missed you. How was America?”
“Fine. Good to see my mom, of course, but it was a mistake to visit California during spring break. I’m glad to be back where people are civilized.” She rolls her expressive eyes.
A server appears with a tray. “Pot of Earl Grey, one cup, for the gent. Glass of water, no ice, for the lady. And two glasses of sauv blanc. Get you anythin’ else?” He balances on the balls of his feet, eagerly watching Anathema. Aziraphale ignores him. Men are always watching Anathema.
“Not just yet, thank you.” Anathema answers, firm and businesslike. “We’ll take a few minutes to look at the menu.”
Aziraphale eyes her warily. “You ordered wine? At lunch? What are you plotting?”
“Absolutely nothing,” she says, the picture of innocence, handing him a menu. “Now here, figure out what you want to eat before he comes back.”
She waits, sipping her wine, until Aziraphale decides on a smoked salmon wrap with spring greens. Then she launches her attack.
“So. Did you see your demon today?” she asks with a devious grin.
“Anathema Device. You can not keep calling him that.”
“It’s pretty clear he’s tempting you, Az,” she says. “I mean – you think about him alllll the time. And you did have that sexy dream about him.”
“Hush, you! Have you no sense of propriety?” He glances around them, thankful the other tables are empty. “I can’t believe I told you about that. I’m never telling you anything, ever again.”
“Yeah, okay.” She sips her wine with a placid smile. “So… did you see him?”
The glare he gives her would dissolve the average human into a puddle of burning goo. She merely raises a perfectly manicured brow. “I take it that’s a ‘yes.’”
“How did you know?” he deadpans. “And don’t say it’s my–”
“Your aura,” she finishes with him. “The green is all muddy. You’re resentful, and a bit – jealous, maybe? That’s weird. Why are you jealous?”
“I’m not, Ana! I’m–”
“May I take your lunch orders?” The server has appeared out of nowhere, and waits attentively with a pad and pen.
Disgruntled, Aziraphale waves for Anathema to order. He takes a large gulp of wine as she requests her salad and his wrap. Once the server has retreated with their menus, he whispers his retort.
“I’m not jealous, I’m–”
“Frustrated. That’s what’s muddling your aura. The orange mixes with the green and makes it all brownish,” she explains, as though a lesson in colour theory will legitimise talk of auras. “I’m betting it’s sexual frustration,” she says, far too loudly.
Aziraphale nearly spits out his mouthful of wine. “Excuse me. What?”
“Az, you’re 23 years old, healthy, and attractive. You like men. Why aren’t you having sex?”
Aziraphale sighs. “Ana, as you well know, ‘23 years old’ is part of the problem. I’m 23 years old and I have no experience. Who wants to date someone like that?”
“I’m not talking about dating, Az. I’m talking about fucking! Get yourself out there, kiss some people, screw around. Get some experience. Have some fun, for God’s sake.”
“No offence, my dear Anathema, but I’m not like you. My virginity is something… it’s something I…”
“You know virginity is just a social construct, right?” she asks. “Designed by men to place value on women’s bodies and their chastity? I mean, the whole idea is based on penetration: before penetration you’re pure and desirable, and afterward you’re – what? Ruined? That’s bullshit. Not all sex is penetrative anyway! I lost my virginity with a girl and I can assure you, there was no penetration involved.”
The server has brought a tray with their food, but stands awkwardly a few feet shy of their table, frozen in the face of Anathema’s passion.
“And there’s just as much pressure on men,” she continues, gesturing angrily at Aziraphale and the server too, who looks down at himself uncomfortably. “You’re expected to be experienced and aggressive, while we women are supposed to be passive and innocent. And any variance from the norm is seen as undesirable. Well, ‘fuck that’ is what I have to say.”
She darts a glance at the server. “You can serve our food now; thanks,” she tells him with a toothy smile. He blinks at her, serves their plates quickly, and scurries away.
Aziraphale chuckles. “I think he might prefer his women passive and innocent,” he remarks, cutting into his wrap with a knife and fork.
“He can kick rocks,” Anathema says around a mouthful of salad. “Anyway, my point is, sex isn’t about penetration. There is no ‘virginity.’ Go get yourself felt up. Rub your body all over some hot dude until you make a mess–”
“Really, Ana?” Aziraphale gestures at the creamy dill sauce leaking from his salmon wrap.
“You should sign up for this app I use,” she says, shovelling another forkful of greens into her mouth.
“Absolutely not.”
“Drink some more wine, then,” she says, “and listen. Lustr is perfect. It shows you who’s in the area, their photo and bio, and exactly what they’re looking for. Your first few times, you don’t swipe on someone who wants anal. Swipe someone who just wants to fool around. And then – you know – work your way up.”
Aziraphale chews his lunch carefully, considering the thought. He swallows. “I don’t know,” he argues, shaking his head. “I hardly think a dating app is appropriate for–”
“Dating? No, hon. If you want a date, call a matchmaker. Lustr has ‘lust’ in its name for a reason – it’s for hook-ups. You said you wanted experience... this is how you can get some. If you know what I mean,” she adds with a wink.
Aziraphale ponders her words as he finishes his lunch and sips his wine. It just might be possible. If he creates a profile that presents his appearance accurately, with any luck, he’ll only attract men who appreciate – or at least tolerate – his unfortunate body type. He need not share too much of his true self; no one will be around long enough to discover his quirks. And if he’s honest regarding his lack of experience, no one will be surprised at his awkwardness. Perhaps some partners may even find it charming.
The more he thinks about it, the more perfect it sounds – all except the thought of actual intimacy with a virtual stranger. But surely, when the moment is right, his mind and body will cooperate with his intentions...?
“All right, Ana. I’ll consider it,” he tells her.
“Great!” she says, reaching for her handbag, “I’ll take some photos for your profile–”
He holds up a hand. “Just a moment, dear. I said I’d consider it.”
“Sure, Az. Sure,” she nods, eyes wide and hopeful. “But your eyes look gorgeous in this light. Just let me take a couple pics, pleeease, and you can save them to your phone? For later! And maaaybe I could help you make a temporary profile – you don’t have to sign up until you’re sure…”
“Fine,” he relents, rolling his eyes. “What should I do?”
With a happy squeal, she reaches into her patchwork bag and fishes for her phone. Swipes it open and points the camera at him. “OK, just sit there. Be comfortable,” she tells him.
“Of course I’m not comfortable, you witch! I don’t like having my photo taken,” he laughs.
“That’s perfect!” she says. “Just smile like that: like you love-slash-hate me.” Her phone makes a few ‘shutter’ sounds, and she begins to sing tunelessly. “I exaaasperate youuu, and youu adore meee…” She pushes the lens at him, snapping more photos while he grins helplessly and averts his eyes.
“Damn, I’m good,” she says, back to business. “Alright, let’s get a couple of your body. And your hands. Pull your chair away from the table. That’s it… Lean forward, elbows on your knees. Now clasp your hands together – yes. Just like that.”
“But – Ana – my stomach–” he protests, looking down at the way his waistcoat stretches across his belly.
“It’s your body, Az. It’s you. People love your body type. Better people than Gabriel,” she adds with a sour look. “Now, be still. Don’t worry about your face; I’m just getting your hands.”
She snaps a few shots from different angles, then passes her phone to Aziraphale. Cautiously, he swipes through the images. He’s – pleasantly surprised. The head shots are quite flattering. His hair is lit up by the sun, his eyes shine a rich blue-green. She’s captured his smile perfectly; the joy he feels when he’s with her, the way his eyes crinkle when he’s truly happy.
And the shots of his hands… “Ana – thank you,” he tells her, looking up from the screen into her earnest face. “I – never quite saw myself this way before.”
“Told you, Az. People love your body type. Anyone who says differently is a douche. Or – sorry – a ‘wanker.’”
He hands her phone back with a snort. “That word sounds utterly ridiculous in your American mouth.”
“I know,” she says. “It’s part of my charm. Now –” she swipes her phone open again, thumbs flying across the screen, “looking at the Lustr app. I’ll set you up with a free demo account, and get your profile started. You don’t have to activate it until you’re ready.
“I’ll text you the photos in a minute, and your user ID and password. It’s my birthday,” she whispers conspiratorially. “You can log in later and mess around with it. Let me know what you think. You can browse other people’s profiles and swipe left on anyone you hate, but you won’t be able to swipe right and match with anyone until you activate your account. If you need help doing that, just give me a call.”
She clicks her phone off and slides it back into the depths of her bag. “I set you up to match men between the ages of 20 and 30. Sound alright?” She tosses back the last of her wine, like a heathen. “Whatever. We can change it later, if you want.”
Aziraphale feels as though he’s been hit by a very lovely American train.
But… but… he reminds himself – nothing is set in stone. He can download the app tonight. He can decide for himself whether to move forward. He won’t be steamrolled by the juggernaut that is Anathema Device.
This is his life, and his body, and his choice.
Crowley is chopping fresh vegetables for an easy pasta primavera when Newt’s text buzzes through: he’s nearly home from work. Perfect timing. He tosses the vegetables in a pan to sauté with garlic and butter, and dumps some linguine in boiling water.
It’s quite a domestic arrangement they have, and Crowley’s grateful every day for his “big brother,” who dragged him off the streets of London when he was 17, helped him find a job and study for his A-levels, found him scholarships that allowed him to get into university. Who, even now, works an accounting job to provide a flat for them both while Crowley finishes his bachelor's and his research. Crowley does his part, cooking, cleaning, repairing Newt’s rustbucket of a car – but he’ll owe Newt an unpayable debt for the rest of his miserable life.
He grins as he hears Newt swing the front door open. “Dinner’s on in ten!” he yells. “Don’t be late.”
A few minutes later, Newt shuffles into the kitchen stripped down to a threadbare tee, joggers, and mismatched socks. “I’m gonna grab a beer. Want one?” He pulls open the fridge.
“Nah. Gotta study later,” Crowley answers, stirring the pasta. “But thanks. Rough day?”
“Mmmm. Janice wanted me to transfer the Barton account data into the computer again. I told her it wasn’t a good idea, but…”
Crowley cringes in sympathy. He knows Newt and technology don’t get along. “So, what happened? ‘S everything lost?”
“I’ve learned enough by now to back everything up. Janice’s computer is fried, but that’s her problem,” Newt laughs. “See if she asks me for a favour again!”
Draining the pasta and serving up the plates, Crowley says, “Y’know you can always ask me–”
“Yeah, man, I know. But I can’t have my little brother coming in to babysit me at work, can I?” He smiles crookedly. “Come on, let’s eat. It smells good.”
They eat at their little kitchen table, slurping up noodles with the lights low so Crowley can remove his sunglasses. Apart from Crowley’s doctors, no one gets to see his eyes except Newt, who’s already seen them a thousand times over the last 6 years; already knows the whole fucked up story.
Companionable silence reigns until Newt asks, “So did you see the Library Angel today?”
“Yup.” Crowley doesn’t want to talk about it.
“And… did you finally talk to him?”
“Nope.”
“And… how long have we been talking about this? Since before the holidays?”
“Yup,” Crowley says again. “Since 16th December.”
“That long ago?” Newt asks, surprised. “Remind me how it started?”
Crowley didn’t normally visit the library; most of the scientific journals relevant to his research were posted online. But on this particular day, he needed data going back to the first decade of apple production on campus. His research advisor had suggested the library’s reference desk, so there he was.
The reference librarian - (who'd introduced herself as "Tracy, love,") - was dressed in an outlandish array of scarves and silks, and painted in garish makeup, but it seemed to suit her – and she definitely knew her way around the library. “Just wait here, dearie,” she told him, patting his arm, and set off into the stacks to find the volume he was looking for.
While he waited, another patron strolled up to the reference desk – a real-life angel. God, he was lovely. Dressed all in shades of beige and blue, with thick thighs and a nice round arse, good strong shoulders, and a fluffy cloud of white-blond hair. Crowley caught him glancing over, once, and got a glimpse of his cherubic face – cheeks rosy from the cold outside, an adorable upturned nose, the most gorgeous blue eyes.
“Hey,” Crowley said. Cool.
The angel quickly looked down at his hands, where he held a wrapped package tied with a bow. He bit his lip, then lifted his head with a little smile, looking over at Crowley shyly. “Hello,” he replied, then averted his eyes again.
Could he tell Crowley was staring from behind his sunglasses? Surely not. Anyway, the librarian was coming back.
But when she saw the angel, she gave a little gasp. “Aziraphale Fell! Good to see you!” Ignoring Crowley completely except to drop his book onto the counter beside him, she wrapped her colourful arms around the angel – Aziraphale. He hugged her back warmly, lifting her off the floor just a bit.
Crowley hadn’t been held like that in ages. Stealthily, he slid his book off the counter and slunk away to a nearby table where he could sit unobserved.
“Tracy,” Aziraphale said, “I just popped in to tell you Happy Christmas before you close for the holidays. I brought you this.” Even his voice was lovely. “They’re your favourite chocolates.”
She squealed – completely inappropriately for a library, in Crowley’s opinion – and gushed, “Oh, I couldn’t possibly!”
“Of course you can, dear lady! You’ve helped me ever so much with my research this semester. It’s the least I can do.”
“Well. If you insist,” she said with a laugh. “Won’t you share one with me?”
“All right,” Aziraphale told her. He folded his topcoat across the counter and wiggled his shoulders happily while Tracy circled behind the desk and opened the box. She gave him a white paper napkin, then lifted the lid to let him choose – he deftly selected what looked to be a cherry cordial.
And then. And then. He popped the confection into his mouth.
“Mmmphhh, oh, it’s good.” he moaned.
Crowley had never heard such a pornographic sound in polite company. It was absolutely filthy.
While Aziraphale, oblivious, patted his lips with the napkin, Crowley was wondering whether he might see the Library Angel again.
After the holidays, Crowley began to stop by the reference section on occasion, hoping against hope that Aziraphale would be there.
Within two weeks, Crowley had seen him.
By Valentine’s Day, he had a schedule. Crowley would visit the library every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday after his 8 a.m. Quantitative Analytics. Aziraphale wasn’t always there, but sometimes… sometimes he was.
It was utterly pathetic. He’d seen Aziraphale patiently tutoring an undergraduate who needed help editing a paper. Kind, humble, encouraging. He’d overheard him lovingly teasing Tracy about her eccentric husband, Shadwell, who sometimes barged into the library to take her to lunch.
He’d seen the angel sick, sniffling and coughing, wrapped in a tartan scarf and sipping hot tea from a thermos. He’d seen him bitching aloud at a textbook whose conclusions irked him, arguing with the author under his breath even as he took copious notes.
He’d even witnessed him turning down a date – a pretty undergrad had approached him in early March and complimented his bow tie. They’d chatted a while, and she’d asked him for a coffee. He’d thanked her profusely – “I’m most flattered, and you’re absolutely lovely, but I like men, you see.” They’d both blushed, and he’d stood up to give her a quick hug before she went on her way. Crowley might have imagined it, but he thought Aziraphale’s eyes flickered over to him, before he hurriedly sat back down.
Crowley, with his striking hair, his lean frame, his dark glasses, was used to attracting attention. He wasn’t vain about it; it was simply a fact of life, like his odd way of walking. And, more and more often, Crowley had caught Aziraphale noticing him. But never with interest or attraction; only with exasperation.
Crowley didn’t know what he’d done to vex the man, but he did know it was time to give up this charade. He was never going to work up the courage to make a move.
Crowley didn’t – he couldn’t – know Aziraphale, not really. But he’d seen and heard enough to know that the angel was good.
Too good for him.
“I think I’m done, Newt,” Crowley says with a heavy sigh. “He deserves better than someone with a past like mine.”
“Anthony J. Crowley,” Newt says sternly. “I’m not your dad. But I am your brother. And I won’t hear you talk about yourself like that ever again. Most people would die before they got through the shit you’ve overcome. You should be proud. And anyone – anyone – should be proud to be with you.”
Crowley has never heard Newt speak that way before. “I – um, yeah. Thanks.” He looks away, blinking back tears.
Newt straightens his horn-rimmed glasses and shrugs awkwardly. “Erm. Don’t mention it.”
Aziraphale is reading in bed, warm under the covers in his tartan pyjamas, when his phone buzzes on the bedside table. A text from Anathema.
Anathema’s text catches him off guard, and in a moment of weakness, Aziraphale types the truth. He hits send before he can second-guess himself.
Sighing, Aziraphale carefully marks his page in The Scandalous Diary of Lady Baddicombe, placing it face-down on the duvet. After navigating unskillfully to the app store and setting Lustr to download, he shuffles to the kitchen in his slippers to make a generous cup of cocoa.
Five minutes later, steaming cocoa in hand, he settles back into bed. The icon – LUSTr™ – in bold and glistening red, glares from his phone screen. He hates it already.
He reopens his messaging app, scrolling up to find the username and password Ana created for him. When he sees her text, he debates whether to reply or to strangle her through the phone.
Aziraphale logs in and investigates his profile, scrolling past his photos with a sense of dread to the short bio Ana wrote for him. He expects the worst. Even so, the words “23yo proper THICC Boi looking to cash in his V Card” leave him slack jawed with indignation – which instantly gives way to a loud burst into laughter at Anathema’s ludicrous but admittedly accurate description.
Other than signing me up for Lustr despite my protestations? I’m not exactly sure.
He restrains himself from sending the snarky reply, and instead returns to the app, scrolling through a series of men ages 20-30 in a 15-mile radius. Tadfield being a college town, there are plenty to choose from.
The nearest contender, 0.3 miles away, is... is that actually the man’s user ID? Apparently so.
“Suck_This_🍆” is 21 years old, in Tadfield. His profile photo features some sort of automobile, but it’s his to-the-point bio that really stands out. “Looking 4 a chub cub to Swallow. Me. Down. No twinks.”
Well. Aziraphale follows Ana’s instructions to ‘swipe left’ should he wish to discard any potential sexual partner. “And good riddance,” he mutters to himself.
Next up is “KenDrICK*69,” age 27, 0.4 miles away. He’s a lovely dark-skinned man with soulful eyes and full, kissable lips. His bio is full of references to the gym and local club scene, but the final sentence is intriguing: “Click for more pics if you like the B.B.C.” Aziraphale, who loves a good BBC period drama or documentary, clicks eagerly, and nearly spits out a mouthful of cocoa when he’s presented with several close-up images of the man’s quite impressive erect phallus — along with the caption “This Big Black Cock is all yours.”
“Oh no,” Aziraphale whispers, again swiping left. Perhaps he’s not cut out for this.
“_-^Billy^-_” isn’t Aziraphale’s usual type, but he has a kind smile. The text of his bio is promising… until it isn’t. “I’m a shy homebody, age 29, looking for good conversation and maybe more. I bottom or top, whatever you’re preference. No kids, but my ferrets are my world. I life with my mum, so 11pm curfew unless your ok with sleeping over.”
“Absolutely not.” Aziraphale might tolerate pets and family, but he draws the line at poor grammar. With a shudder, he swipes left yet again.
The next contender is “just.J,” age 23, 1.2 miles away. His face isn’t visible in the profile photo, but the image is compelling nonetheless. It’s clearly a selfie, taken as the man lies on an unmade bed; Aziraphale can see his arm, carved with ropy muscle, stretched toward the camera, angling the lens downward toward his torso. Aziraphale unconsciously licks his lips, eyeing the delicate collarbones, the narrow chest sprinkled with bright auburn hair, the puckered pink nipples. Between the faint shadows of his ribs, the dip of his abdomen is a study in vulnerability and temptation. And oh, the deep vee of his hipbones –
(the iliac furrow, Aziraphale’s meticulous brain supplies)
– begging to be traced with fingers, or a tongue. Beneath his navel, more auburn hair darkens his flat belly before it disappears under the waistband of his black joggers.
Aziraphale can’t help but think of the red-haired stranger at the library. Is this what he would look like, without his tight black armour?
Between Aziraphale’s thighs, a dark flare of arousal kindles to life. “Good Lord,” he whispers.
Aziraphale knows when he’s defeated. He scrolls, wanting more.
The man's bio is as lean as his frame: “I like a man who can hold his own and hold me down. No penetration of *any* kind. That includes oral. If that’s not your cup of tea, don’t waste my time.”
No penetration at all, even…? Aziraphale touches his mouth, remembering how hesitant he was - when Gabriel asked him to –
But no, he doesn’t want to think about that.
Aziraphale has only viewed a few profiles so far, but already he has the sense that just.J’s sexual limits are unusual, likely even odd. And yet, they're exactly what he’s looking for at this stage in his journey.
Combined with the captivating photo, it’s enough to make Aziraphale’s heart pound with nervous excitement. He clicks through to see if any more images are posted – perhaps he’ll see just.J’s face?
To his disappointment, Aziraphale finds only one line of text: “No penetration of *any* kind. Period.”
“Of course. I wasn’t even thinking about penetration, darling,” Aziraphale whispers at his phone. He scrolls again, looking for more, and finds only riddles.
Height:
Weight:
Hair: yup
Eyes: nope
Body type: tall n scrawny
Position:
Presentation: flex
HIV status: neg
Relationship status: wouldn’t be here if i weren’t single
Interests: rose, blanche, dorothy, sophia, flora, art
Aziraphale is stymied by the lack of helpful information, but he finds himself smiling nonetheless. There’s something of a challenge here; something intriguing. His thumb twitches above the screen as he mimics a right swipe – the first step to a match, if he were to actually activate his profile, and if just.J were to also swipe right on him. But he can't - not yet.
He notices a star logo at the top right of his screen, which he suspects is a way to bookmark just.J’s profile for later. Yes, that's exactly what he wants. When he thumbs the little icon, a popup appears: “Are You Sure?”
Annoyed, Aziraphale scoffs. “Yes, I’m sure, that’s why I clicked the button, you foolish thing.” He presses the “YES” box firmly with his index finger, and the star glimmers bright white before transforming into a heart in Lustr’s trademark red.
“Thank you,” Aziraphale says aloud. “Electronics these days, always second-guessing people.”
Satisfied he’s found one profile with potential, Aziraphale promises himself he’ll look at just one more candidate before he turns in for the night. He scrolls to his next prospective match, and his heart stops. Gabriel – “Gift-of-Gab” – is apparently back in town: only 2.1 miles away. His handsome face and too-white teeth seem to taunt Aziraphale from the screen.
“Looking to have some fun after a disappointing relationship. Strong, social, and successful, I love to network and work out. Are you the Bottom to my Top? If you’re fit, flexible, and up for anything, you might be!”
Nauseated – that’s what Aziraphale is. Gabriel’s bio reads like a sleazy advert, but Aziraphale can’t help being shamed by it nonetheless. He was the disappointing relationship. He was the partner who failed to be “fit” and “up for anything.”
He was a failure.
With a deep sigh, he switches to the messaging app and shoots off a quick text.
Crowley had finished the dishes, studied for a molecular genetics midterm, and spent half an hour restlessly flipping channels before he decided on reruns of Golden Girls – his comfort show. But tonight, even curled up under a fuzzy blanket with four strong, independent American women for company, he still can’t seem to shake his nervous energy.
He knows what he needs – what he’s needed for a month at least – a good fuck.
He hasn’t had a genuine fuck in years, of course, but his body is content enough with a sure hand or a strong body to press him into a wall or a mattress and get him off. It’s near impossible to find someone who’s willing to put up with his strict boundaries – sometimes he has to drive all the way to London – but tonight, it might be worth it.
He drags his phone out of his pocket and thumbs it on, then opens the Lustr app. One eyebrow rises when he sees a notification – someone new has signed up in his area. He snorts at the username. “TapDatAz,” age 23, is only 1.2 miles away. With a name like that, the chap won’t have any trouble getting lucky. Curious, he clicks to see the newcomer’s profile.
No. No no no. It’s the Library Angel, Aziraphale, his white-blond hair lit up by the sun like a halo, his kind blue eyes bright with laughter, looking fond and bashful and happy. What the fuck is he doing on Lustr?
Crowley scrolls to his bio – maybe it’s not what he thinks. Heart pounding, gut hollow and sick, he reads the text aloud in a horrified whisper: “23-year-old proper THICC Boi looking to cash in his V Card?”
Either he’s completely misjudged the shy, well-mannered angel, or Aziraphale Fell has completely lost his mind.
And oh God, oh fuck, is he really a virgin? On Lustr, where innocence is a nothing but a commodity to be chewed up and then spat out once it’s lost its flavour? This is worse than Crowley thought. He clicks through to see if there’s any more kindling to toss into this dumpster fire, and finds a second photo that’s – holy shit – breathtaking.
Centred in the foreground are Aziraphale’s hands. Strong, capable, finely manicured. Crowley can imagine the way they’d… fuck. And in the background, just out of focus – a barrel chest in a velvety waistcoat, a heavy bicep dressed in twill, and a thick, powerful thigh.
Jesus. Between the blatant invitation of a user ID, the tempting bio, and the man’s photos – Aziraphale is going to be getting a lot of attention very quickly.
Crowley needs to make his move. Immediately. At the moment, all he can do is swipe right. Tomorrow, or the next day – the second he can track Aziraphale down - he’ll make his interest known.
Oh, Crowley knows he’s not good enough for Aziraphale Fell… but he’s miles better than the thirsty bastards on Lustr. And if the Library Angel is going to settle for a thirsty bastard, then Crowley is determined to be first bastard in line.
Tuesday, 21 March
The weather has forsaken spring before it fully commenced. A blustery wind catches its icy fingers in Crowley’s hair, pulling the strands loose from their messy knot as he struggles with the library doors. The cold and damp make his hip ache all the way up both flights of stairs.
When he steps out into the reference section, his heart sinks. Aziraphale is nowhere to be seen. Fair enough; Crowley’s never been here on a Tuesday – he has no inkling of the angel’s schedule – but he’d really been hoping.
Crowley finds a table and slumps into a seat, thinking he’ll take a minute to warm up before he heads back out into the chill. Tracy bustles past him from the reference desk, giving him a friendly wink as she passes by and disappears into the stacks. Crowley hasn’t even had time to take out his phone before he hears her bright, cheery voice drifting through the aisles. “Why, Aziraphale! You don’t usually sit back here!”
“Shhhh! I’m hiding.” Despite his whisper, the sound carries through the quiet of the room.
“Oh dear,” she replies, not reducing her volume in the slightest. “Sorry, love. I’ll just leave you to it, then.”
Moments later, she returns from her mysterious errand, passing by Crowley’s table, her hands empty of books. Again, she winks a heavily-mascaraed eye and adds a cryptic little nod before she hurries back to her desk.
What the hell was that all about?
No matter; it’s time to declare himself. Crowley has a plan to be as clear and direct as possible. He pulls out his phone and opens it to Aziraphale’s Lustr profile, takes a deep breath, and makes his way through the shelves.
Of course – of course – Aziraphale spots him immediately, gasps audibly. His expression is odd – is it fear or fascination? – eyes wide, mouth slightly open. His eyebrows pull together in a frown, creating an adorable little wrinkle above his nose… but then he licks his lips.
Whatever. Crowley remains committed to his plan, striding implacably forward. Aziraphale’s eyes flicker downward, noticing his gait, but it can’t be helped – Crowley’s aching hip joint is in charge today. Finally, after a sodding eternity, he reaches Aziraphale’s table.
“Hi,” Crowley says. “Can I sit?”
“Um, he– hello,” Aziraphale stammers. He doesn’t seem to have answered the question, so Crowley remains standing awkwardly.
“Look. I don’t know how to say this,” he begins again, “but I saw your profile –” he lays his phone on the table, facing Aziraphale –“and I want y’to know, I’m very-“
“Good God!” Aziraphale stands so abruptly the table scrapes forward along the floor, making a long squalling noise against the linoleum. His chair careens over backward with an echoing crash. “Where did you get that?” His horrified eyes are locked on Crowley’s phone screen – on his own smiling face.
“I – on Lustr. Are you – are you all right?” Aziraphale has gone pale as a corpse.
Like a colourful bird, Tracy swoops in, takes Aziraphale’s fluttering hands. “What is it, love? What’s happened?”
Quickly, Crowley snatches his phone back from the table, unwilling to let her see whatever has upset Aziraphale; the angel notices the kindness, and shoots him a weak but grateful smile.
The stare Tracy gives him, however, is harsh, unforgiving. “I think you should leave, young man,” she tells him, mouth drawn into a grim line.
“Yeah, alright,” Crowley says, reluctantly backing away. “You’ll take care of him? Make sure he’s –”
She turns her back, ignoring Crowley in favour of cooing and fussing over Aziraphale. She's helping him gather up his things, wrapping him in his coat, promising him a cup of tea. (Everything's fine, love, everything will be okay.)
It will all be okay once Crowley is gone.
Crowley, who was the cause of all the trouble in the first place.
He slinks down the stairs, out of the library and into the cold, planning to work off some frustration in the greenhouse.
On the way, his mobile buzzes. He thumbs it open to find a text from Newt, clumsily and abridgedly composed via T9 on his ancient and indestructible flip phone:
Shit. The disappointment hits Crowley all over again.