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Aziraphale heard the unmistakable thumping of Crowley’s boots as they stomped down the stairs - dramatic as ever, and finally ready to face the day. The poor author had been up and dressed for hours by then, his patience only slightly frayed. After realising that his adoring partner would not be making a prompt appearance, he had resigned himself to the quiet sanctuary of his writing desk, pen scratching steadily across the page.
It seemed the village fair would just have to wait.
It was a little irritating.
Still, when the familiar creak of his office door sounded, Aziraphale couldn’t help the soft smile that tugged at his lips. He set his pen down with a quiet sigh of fondness and turned in his chair, slow and deliberate, to greet the person he had been waiting for.
And, well. He had not been prepared for this.
Crowley lounged in the doorway with the kind of effortless confidence that made Aziraphale’s thoughts grind to a halt. Arms folded, a smirk tugging at the corner of their mouth, they stood like a portrait of sin dressed in style. Aziraphale’s gaze trailed down the length of them, shameless in its reverence, drinking in every deliberate choice: the long-sleeved grey shirt, tailored just enough to hint at lean muscle beneath, hug at those shapely pectorals; the glossy black Doc Martens, with the yellow stitching; and then-
Oh.
The skirt.
A shin-length masterpiece of deep red, charcoal grey, and black tartan, pleated just enough to sway. It framed Crowley’s lithe waist with infuriating elegance, the fabric falling in crisp lines that danced with every breath they took.
Tartan. As if some private, sacred part of Aziraphale had been made manifest and then wrapped around Crowley’s hips like a secret shared only between them. The thought stirred something low and urgent within him, and he shifted in his seat, heat crawling up the back of his neck. Desire, sharp and sudden, curled in his belly, making it hard to breathe, let alone think.
He cleared his throat, tried to look anywhere but at the skirt… and failed miserably.
“My eyes are up here.” Crowley drawled in amusement, tilting their head to knock gently against the doorframe. Their crimson hair was as long as Aziraphale remembered it being upon their first meeting, what felt like a lifetime ago on an anxiety-inducing red carpet. Waves cascaded loosely down their shoulders, all except for the top portion, which had been secured to the back of their head in an intentionally loose bun; artful in its imperfection, as if styled by chaos itself.
Their eyes were lined in black, lids sparkling with something like stardust, catching the light whenever they blinked, and their lips were definitely a darker shade of red. They were twisted playfully upwards on one side as Aziraphale stood and began to walk, each step like wading through honey, towards them.
“My darling, you are simply beautiful.” He croaked, voice rich with awe, as he approached and slid warm hands around their ribs in a tender embrace.
“Why, thank you, angel.” Crowley pursed their painted lips mischievously and glanced downwards. “Anything else?”
Aziraphale followed their gaze to where they had extended their left leg, revealing a bold slit in the fabric of the skirt. Pale flesh was on display, the sinewy thigh speckled in delightful freckles. It was a tease of smooth skin that stopped just shy of scandalous; artfully restrained, as if daring him to imagine the rest.
Aziraphale swallowed hard, the words evading verbalisation.
And so, he didn’t bother with a reply. Instead, his fingers tightened at Crowley’s waist, and with a sudden, forceful pull, he spun them around. Crowley let out a sharp yelp as their back hit the wall, the impact sending a shudder through the bookshelves in the nearby alcove. Continuing to use touch over voice, Aziraphale let one hand slide downwards, to the slit of the skirt, and onto the bare skin beneath. He massaged into the lean thigh, grazing with his fingernails, and reached upwards on his tiptoes to meet Crowley’s mouth in a hungry kiss.
Their tongues practically coalesced, two slithering creatures merging to perform a messy choreography of tugging, pulling, tasting, licking. Aziraphale pressed his erection into Crowley’s thigh, groaning from the relief, intent on making sure they were aware of just what they did to the meek and mild author who had once been so afraid of intercourse. He wanted them to understand the ferality their beauteous form released; in their presence, he did not merely admire. He unravelled, transformed into something primal, an animal ruled not by thought but by craving, as if their mere existence summoned the beast lurking beneath his skin. And as thought to prove this true, he growled into their mouth, before trailing wet kisses to the corner of their lips, the curve of their chin, the keen edges of their jaw, as though mapping the angles of divinity with an unbidden devotion.
Crowley would chastise him if they were to hear his thoughts, the idea that they could possibly be divine.
Oh, but they were.
As his mouth continued its hot journey towards the serpent sigil that marked their face, he felt Crowley’s own erection straining beneath the skirt. He felt their juddering hips seeking pressure, heard their gasping whines as they threw their head to the side, tumbling into shuddering reverberations when he nibbled at their earlobe. Aziraphale dropped lower, sucking red marks into the tendon of their neck as it strained, the hollow of their throat, and finally he pulled the rounded collar of their shirt down in order to line one prominent clavicle with feather-light pecks, signing his work by licking along it in one sloppy stripe.
“Fuck, angel.” Crowley swallowed hard, and Aziraphale felt it against his forehead as he nuzzled their chest through black material. “Nnngghh… clothes. Off. Now.”
“I don’t think so.” The author smiled sweetly, lowering himself to his knees and lifting the hem of their skirt. His azure eyes sparkled with his next words. “I believe you have wasted enough of my time, this morning. I intend to keep us on schedule, and so I’m afraid that neither of us will be removing our clothing, darling.” With that, he cloaked his head with the skirt, breath mingling with the heat of Crowley’s body as he nosed the bulge trapped behind thin lace. If it weren’t for the darkness of his make-shift shroud, he might’ve noted the wet patch where their cock was leaking steady droplets of precum.
“Jesus.” Crowley whispered, legs almost buckling. He heard as they slapped their hands against the wall, as if trying to gain purchase against its smooth surface.
Aziraphale simply hummed and mouthed at the clothed dick, before carefully pulling at the underwear to release it from its confines. The moment it sprang free, he suckled the tip into his mouth, letting out a filthy moan that rivalled the shout from above. Another smack against the wall echoed their sounds; they were truly keyed up. He wondered, vaguely, if this had been their plan all along. Had they taken their time upstairs due to prepping for this very moment? Had they caressed their pretty little shaft, twisted on the upstroke, and squeezed intermittently to the thought of their fiancé in the study below? The sudden thought that perhaps they had opened themselves up lingered on Aziraphale’s mind, but now was not the time for that.
Now was the time for taking the length of Crowley as far as it would reach, holding their thighs in place with strong hands as the head hit the back of his throat and smeared warm liquid against the lining. He was quite good at this by now, and did not gag as he swallowed around them. Even completely filling his mouth, he could not reach down to the base, such was the impressive size – though, he’d been told on many occasions that he himself was significantly thicker that most men, and his cock had ‘almost bloody split’ Crowley in two, at times.
His poor love was hissing expletives above him now, so Aziraphale took pity and began to move in earnest, bobbing his head with an urgency that called for a quick release – and yet, as Crowley’s murmurs evolved into loud exclamations, and their body began to tense and prepare for the inevitable, Aziraphale briskly wrenched himself free of the throbbing cock and stretched back up to full height.
Crowley’s mouth was agape, amber eyes hurt as they glared at him accusingly. “Aziraphale, I was right there, why did you stop?”
“I don’t have time for your refractory period.” He answered matter-of-factly. “So be good and bend over my desk, thank you.”
They didn’t respond right away, the information processing part of their brain clearly still ticking slowly, and so Aziraphale rolled his eyes and grabbed their shirt in his fist, dragging them to the desk and sweeping the surface clear before pushing them onto it. He kicked their legs apart, spreading them deliciously, and spare a quick glance to where their face was squished against the cold wood. He lifted a hand and darted his eyes between it and their increasingly blushed face. “Am I okay to…?”
“More than.” They smirked despite their position, which quickly contorted into pleasure when Aziraphale hiked their skirt all the way up, pulled down their underwear, and spanked their exposed arse. Not too hard at first, simply testing the waters. The second slap was louder, harsher, and left a brief impression of his hand against the pale flesh. Crowley cooed and nodded, blathering nonsense noises that equated to something of a request to continue. He couldn’t see their cock, as it was tucked between the desk and their taut stomach, but he could imagine the way it usually twitched and jumped whenever they entered impact play. The third slap left a welt, and Crowley yelled.
“N-no more.” They stammered, and Aziraphale recoiled a little. “S’good, don’t worry - just too good. M’gonna cum.”
“Oh.” The author exhaled, momentarily losing his dominating persona, and then he chose to knead the unmarked cheek with his hand in a soothing massage rather than tempt fate with another spank. “You really do have a remarkably peachy posterior, my love. So round and sumptuous. Good enough to eat, in fact.”
He was down on his knees again before he’d even really considered it; he gently pulled Crowley’s buttocks apart and traced an eager tongue along the rim of their hole. It was already a little stretched from the night before, so the tip of his tongue poked inside a little as he swirled it around and around.
“Ah-ahhh-ah…” Crowley was practically shaking as Aziraphale tasted them, taking his time as he pressed against the muscle of their entrance and eased it further open. “Angel, please, oh god. Your bloody mouth. Think you can shove the whole thing inside – ngk, yessss!”
Temptation accomplished, Aziraphale thrust his entire tongue into the hole, created suction around it with his lips, and sucked. The resulting howl from Crowley was music to his ears. He fucked them like this for a couple of seconds, and then replaced his tongue with his fingers in order to prep his beauty more efficiently. His salvia provided decent enough lubrication, but he required more.
“Crowley, darling – can you please get the lube from my drawer?” He asked politely as his thumb felt the rim of their arse relax further against his ministrations.
“Mmm.” They responded, lazily doing just that and passing the small bottle behind them.
Whilst it didn’t really take too long to open them up, two fingers easily slipping in and making room for the third within a minute, Aziraphale still enjoying taking his time with this part. Firstly, it was good to make sure it wouldn’t hurt when his ‘bloody massive’ girth entered Crowley; it meant that he could slide home in one heavenly thrust, the sudden pressure something they both rather enjoyed whenever he was the top and they were the bottom. Secondly, he found the mere fact that he could quite possibly make Crowley cum from his fingers alone sent a delightful thrill of control through him. After a lifetime of cowering from others, a command of domination was immensely liberating.
Preparations exceedingly complete, Aziraphale finally unzipped his own tented trousers, giving himself one or two pumps before smearing his precum all over Crowley’s arse. They whimpered and pushed backwards in an attempt to seek more, so he leant over and weighted their body with his own – chest to back, his breath hot in their ear.
“You don’t have to worry, my sweet.” He crooned as they struggled to rock back and forth beneath him. “You’ll get what you want. I just wanted you to feel what you do to me.” Another glide of his soaked tip, this time down the crease of their buttocks. “This is all you. You make me desperate.” One more slide between the cheeks, this time catching on their rim as he teased incessantly.
“Angel, please.” Crowley’s voice sounded so far away despite their proximity. “Fuck me. Just fuck me, please.”
“As you wish.” He bit his shoulder, hard enough to leave indents in the skin but not hard enough for it to break.
And then, just as planned, Aziraphale sheathed himself within the walls of his lover in one swift motion, right to the hilt. The sound of unadulterated relief that simpered from their throat was a broken, needy thing, and he groaned loudly in sympathy. The zipper of his trousers pushed against Crowley’s bare thighs, so he deftly shoved them a little further down.
The author started slowly, languidly grinding his cock within Crowley as their muscles sucked him further in, clenching around his shaft and sending pulses of sparking bliss through his entire body. He didn’t fully pull out; instead, he kept himself mostly seated as he ground himself inside, searching for that spot that would send Crowley into orbit.
“Fff…ngh. Yessssss.” Crowley was undulating to his rhythm, their spine liquid, their eyes squeezed shut in rapture. “Jusss’ like… like that. Shit, Aziraphale, you’re so… ngk, angel, keep… ahhh…”
“My darling,” Was Aziraphale could say in return. He ran his hand from their lower back, keeping a firm pressure, all the way up to their nape – then, his fingers slid into molten strands of hair, tangling deep before closing into a fist. With a sudden, unyielding pull, he yanked their head upward, forcing their gaze to meet his.
Crowley cried out and swore, working their hips faster and harder, their beautifully long neck now angled just so; the tendons strained, beaded with sweat, and Aziraphale crushed into their back once again so that he could lick and kiss as much of the exposed throat as possible. For a moment, there was nothing to hear but huffs of breath, the occasional whimper, and soft whispers for more, yeah, unnn, shit, right there, angel, angel, angel…!
And then they howled. “Fuck! Ahhh!”
Aziraphale smiled, then straightened, raking his nails down the length of their spine in a deliberate drag that left a trail of fire in its wake. His hands slid to their hips, gripping hard, thumbs pressing into the hollowed dents as if to mark them.
He began a punishing pace, finally pulling all the way out only to slam back inside over and over again, each thrust punctuated by hysterically ecstatic shouts as he targeted their prostate.
“Ah! Shit! Yes!” Crowley’s vocabulary was becoming lost to the pleasure. Aziraphale was aware that they wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer, and that was fine, because his balls were tightening and the tingling sensation of nearing completion was lighting up his lower body in waves.
It wasn’t time, though.
“Don’t spill yet!” He ordered, pulling out of Crowley completely and using all of his strength to flip them over onto their back – they made some sort of splintered noise that meant the action had short-circuited their brain, but they didn’t have time to comment on it since Aziraphale was already hooking their svelte legs over each of his shoulders and resuming pounding into them with miraculously increased vigour.
They were making eye contact now. Crowley’s were glistening like gold, their distinguishing and painfully gorgeous almost-slit pupils now blown wide with need. They blazed with fire, a searing cocktail of love, lust, and untamed energy, radiant and raw. In perfect contrast, Aziraphale’s eyes glimmered like deep sapphires - cool, endless, and impossibly tender. They shimmered with devotion, desire, and a quiet depth that seemed to stretch beyond time itself. His gaze didn’t dim Crowley’s flame - it steadied it, embraced it, turned it sacred. In those oceans of blue, there was a promise. One unspoken, ineffable, eternal.
How beautifully the tartan skirt splayed across their stomach as Aziraphale thrust fast, harder, deeper. It left their leaking, aching cock on full display, bobbing up and down with every strike. The sight of their precum dribbling in an endless spool, the way they fought to keep their eyes open and trained on his, and how their words had been reduced to garbles and strings of consonants had Aziraphale reaching the edge in no time.
As he bottomed out, shooting his cum inside, he gripped their thighs and crushed them as closely to his body as he could. And, as always, he came with Crowley’s name on his lips. Still twitching and throbbing inside their hole, Aziraphale shakily reached out to wrap his hand around their cock, pulling at the shaft only twice before they began to cum hard. Ejaculate spurted all over their stomach, and further up to stain the fabric of the skirt.
They stilled, besides their hammering of their hearts and heaving of their chests, waiting for their breathing to even out. Once he felt up to it, Aziraphale planted a quick peck to Crowley’s nose, who simply moaned in return, and gently pulled his softened and spent cock from between their cheeks. Cum spilled out with it, trickling like icing to the hardwood floor below, but he was too tired to care. Too tired, too satiated.
“Ngk. I think I died.” Crowley was still spread out across the desk on their back, seemingly also dizzyingly tired and satiated. They lifted their arms up and Aziraphale took hold of each of their hands, pulling them up into a seated position so that he could wrap them into a stickly, messy embrace. He murmured sweet nothings against their ear, voice low and full of affection. Whispered praise spilled like honey at how beautifully they'd done, how good they always were, how radiant they looked now, wrapped in the fullness of their identity. He held them close, arms firm and sure, anchoring them in a love that saw everything, and celebrated it all.
To hell with their dirtied clothes. To hell with their plans. The rest of the day called for take-away food, cheesy films and plenty of intimate cuddles by the hearth.
And that was absolutely tickety-boo as far as Aziraphale was concerned.
It seemed the village fair would just have to wait.