Archive of Our Own

Yes, Aziraphale had noticed the redhead. Of course he’d noticed the redhead. How could anyone not? On the one hand, the man was the very definition of “sex on legs.” On the other, he was extremely rude and self-important. Pity that the skintight jeans, fitted blazer, and sunglasses he’d worn in the hotel restaurant contributed to both of these aspects. Aziraphale never would have considered approaching the man, except…

Except that now, the redhead was half-naked, bare arse peeking out from under an overlong hoodie, as the guests of the hotel stood shivering in the cool night. A fire alarm blared rhythmically from inside, inescapable even from a distance. Most people had sensibly covered up against the elements. The redhead? Not as such.

“My good man,” Aziraphale said as he cautiously approached the stranger. “Where in the blazes is your dressing gown?”

The redhead turned and blinked at him. His eyes, Aziraphale realized, were uncovered now. No sunglasses. And without them… Well. Perhaps the shield had been for others’ protection. That color ought to be classified as a military weapon.

“Dressing gown?” the man repeated. His voice was low and gruff, a hint of sleep-deprivation giving it more vulnerability than during the earlier display Aziraphale had witnessed at dinner. “What are you on about?”

“Didn’t you read the fire action protocols?”

Another blink. “The fire what now?”

“The fire action protocols!” Aziraphale refrained from stamping his foot. It was obvious the man was a troublemaker. And look where that had gotten him. Butt-naked and freezing. He drew himself up haughtily. “You’re meant to put on a dressing gown and shoes in case of fire. It says so in your room.”

The man blew a raspberry at him. “Who the fuck brings a dressing gown with them while traveling?”

Aziraphale’s mouth gaped open like a fish. He couldn’t help it. The nerve of this man! The sneer on his face was enough to curtail any desire to continue the conversation. He shook his head in disgust. “Right, then. On your own head be it.”

“On your own head be it,” the man mimicked, saluting as Aziraphale walked away. Bloody menace, he was, regardless of how pretty his eyes, or how soft his hair, or how round his buttocks looked where they peeked out from under that black top. Aziraphale tried not to let his eyes be drawn back to said buttocks, but they seemed to have a mind of their own, as eyes tend to. He found the shape of that arse burned into his imagination. It was a bloody shame that the man had to be so distastefully rude. And idiotic. And—

And cold. Even from where Aziraphale stood, he could see the redhead shivering, arms wrapped around himself as if he could hug himself into greater comfort. He sighed. Under his own sensible tartan dressing gown, he wore full-length pyjamas. He had a tendency toward chill in the evening, so his nightclothes were quite warm. He would be fine without his gown. It would be the kind thing to do. The right thing to do.

Hating his propensity toward good deeds in that moment, Aziraphale slipped the robe off of his shoulders and draped it over one arm. He steeled himself for the confrontation. He had no doubt that the redhead would take one look at his striped pyjamas and laugh at them, or at the shape of his body, with his belly too round and thighs too big and…

No. He wouldn’t go there. His therapist had warned him against all the negative self-talk. It didn’t matter if the redhead scoffed at him. All that mattered was that Aziraphale tried to help him. He could only control his own actions, not others’ responses.

With that mantra circling in his head like an inspirational cliché from a corporate retreat, he tapped on the man’s shoulder. “Excuse me, sir,” he began.

The man turned. “Oh. It’s you again.”

Aziraphale swallowed his irritation. “I thought I might offer you my dressing gown until we’re allowed to return to our rooms. I’m quite warm already without it.”

He shoved the gown into the man’s chest before he could reply. The redhead took it automatically, brows drawing down in confusion. “Why?” he said.

“Because I thought you might be cold.”

For the first time, the man seemed to look at him. Truly look at him. Aziraphale braced himself for whatever sneer or mockery followed. He was taken aback when the redhead’s next words were a simple, quiet, “Thank you.”

“Y-you’re welcome,” he managed as the redhead tied the gown on. They stood there in a silence that grew progressively more awkward. Aziraphale rocked on the balls on his feet, hands clasped around his middle. Eventually, he said, “Right. Well, perhaps leave that for me at the front desk before you check out? I can pick it up when I go.”

He began to walk away. The man called, “Wait. What’s your name?”

Aziraphale froze. “Why?” he said, turning to look over his shoulder. When their eyes met, the redhead broke into a wide grin, and oh fuck, it made him even more beautiful.

“Can’t just say my guardian angel will pick it up, now can I?” the man drawled lazily, almost flirtatiously. Aziraphale wouldn’t have believed the latter, except for the wink that followed.

“Ah, put it under Fell, room 116,” he managed, caught in the magnetic beam of that smile.

“Fell, eh? I won’t remember that number, though. Not good with numbers, me. I’m Crowley, by the way. Anthony Crowley, but I don’t use the Anthony part.”

Of course he didn’t. For some reason, the insistence on using only his surname helped to break Aziraphale free from his hypnosis. He rolled his eyes, making Crowley laugh, and said, “Generally, I prefer to use my given name. Aziraphale.”

Once again, he expected mockery, but Crowley only looked him up and down and nodded. “Suits you. Angel.”

Pyjamas were dreadfully inconvenient when it came to matters of arousal. Aziraphale broke eye contact and looked toward the hotel, hoping that the chill in the night air would keep certain parts of him under control. “Does that make you a demon then, with your red hair and refusal to follow the fire safety rules?”

“Rules? Pffft. Guidelines at best. Can’t help it if I don’t have a dressing gown on me. Hotel should provide one in case of fire, if they’re so insistent that we wear them.”

“I don’t believe—” Aziraphale stopped speaking abruptly, cocking his head. The alarm in question had finally cut off. “Oh thank heavens. Do you think that means we’ll be able to move inside again soon?”

Crowley shrugged. “Would be a shame if we could.”

“A shame?”

“S’not every day I meet an angel in tartan willing to give me the gown off his back to save my bare arse.” He winked again when Aziraphale laughed. “Or are you cold without this thing? Don’t wanna take it from you if it means you hafta suffer.”

Truthfully, he was a bit chilly, but as that was doing him good in the downstairs department, there was no way he would admit to it. “I’m perfectly fine, dear boy.”

Whoops. That had slipped out, hadn’t it? Aziraphale hoped that his blush wouldn’t be visible in the dark. As it was, Crowley guffawed and said, “Dear boy, am I? S’pose that’s better than being called a demon, eh, angel?”

“Foul fiend,” Aziraphale parried, unable to prevent the edge of a smile from forming on his lips.

“Posh bastard.”

“Posh? Me? I’m not the one with designer sunglasses and…”

Aziraphale trailed off as Crowley’s eyes widened and his face lit up in delight. Oh fuck. He’d just admitted to watching the man before tonight’s encounter, and Crowley clearly registered the admission. Indeed, when he spoke again, his words were as slick and sinuous as his bloody legs. “Checking me out, were you, angel?”

“I noticed you, obviously,” Aziraphale said, not meeting his eye. “You did your best to call attention to yourself all throughout dinner. I doubt there was a person in the room who didn’t notice you. As for checking you out, however, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Crowley’s face darkened. His lips twisted back into that sneer from before. “Not good enough for your holy personage, s’that it?”

Once again, Aziraphale was completely taken aback. He spoke before he could think better of his words. “You are miles out of my league. You’re suave and fashionable and undoubtedly famous. It would be like… like… like imagining myself with David Tennant. Utterly absurd.”

“Famous? Me?” Crowley grinned. He’d lost the scowl and returned to teasing. “Yes. Obviously. Very famous. Got it in one, angel. Famous landscape designer, Anthony J Crowley. Everyone’s heard of me. Us landscape folk, we make it into all the gossip rags. You definitely shoulda heard of me.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “You underestimate how few famous names I know, in landscape or otherwise. You could be famous politician Anthony J Crowley, or famous bebop star Anthony J Crowley—”

“Bebop star?” Crowley sputtered with a snort. Aziraphale ignored him.

“—or famous footballer Anthony J Crowley, and I wouldn’t recognize you. Not unless your name was on the cover of one of my beloved books. Because I’m not a famous anything. I’m just a stuffy, portly, posh old bookseller on vacation at a run-of-the-mill hotel that still hasn’t told us when we can go back inside.”

They stared at each other, and then Crowley advanced on him. Aziraphale was frozen in place, hypnotized again by those insanely beautiful eyes. They were practically liquid gold, and he wanted to drown, drown, drown in them. He didn’t register how close they’d gotten until a soft hand caressed his cheek and a puff of warm breath ghosted across his lips.

“We can share the dressing gown, angel. Keep each other warm.”

“My good fellow, there are people about—”

Crowley shrugged. “So? No one will pay us any mind, and if they do, fuck ‘em. And what happened to dear boy? I liked that better, y’know.”

Aziraphale took a few moments to compose himself and think this time. He knew Crowley was flirting, and god did he ever want to give in, but Crowley’s invitation was studded with warning labels. Like a red-bellied serpent lying harmless and beautiful, it could strike and sink its fangs in if Aziraphale made the tiniest of missteps. He’d been on the other end of such bites before and had no desire to repeat the experience.

Eventually, he squeaked out, “You don’t want… this.” He gestured to himself as he said it.

A crackle in the air interrupted Crowley’s reply, and an obnoxious American voice suddenly boomed over the garden via megaphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice said.

“Fucking twat,” Crowley muttered. “What about the nonbinary folks, eh?”

Warmth flowed through Aziraphale at the words, but he didn’t speak. The American continued.

“Thank you all for your patience. We apologize for the delay in getting information to you. The good news is: There was no fire. The alarm was tripped by mistake, it seems. Everyone should be fine to reenter the building. Unfortunately, a few rooms in the east wing, ah, got a little wet from the sprinklers. The hotel management will, of course, assume all liability for any damaged property. Claim forms can be found—”

Panic gripped Aziraphale. Ringing in his ears drowned out the rest of what followed. He barely noticed as the crowd began to flow back toward the building.

“Angel. ‘Ziraphale. You alright?”

He registered Crowley’s words from far, far away. “My books,” he whispered.

“Books? Oh! Oh shit. Um. Okay, let’s go to your room. Maybe nothing happened. Maybe your room is fine. Let’s take stock of the situation before you panic.”

It was far too late for that, but Aziraphale followed the gentle hand on his back as Crowley steered him indoors. He repeated his room number when asked, and barely heard when the man cursed the maze of identical white hallways on the first floor. All he could think about was the books, a neat stack of early edition Jane Austen hardbacks sitting on his bedside table. He should have thought about them when he left the room, should have taken them with him, despite the fire action protocols that forbid him from collecting personal belongings. He shouldn’t have been so focused on the bloody rules!

Crowley pulled Aziraphale’s keycard from the dressing gown pocket and opened the door. Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, imagining the smell of damp, of ruined pages, of smoke damage, of—

“See, angel? S’fine. Everything’s fine.”

He opened his eyes. Crowley stood in front of him, the stack of Jane Austen volumes cradled in his arms, as pristine as they had been when he evacuated. The man’s red hair shown bright, backlit from the hanging chandelier, making it look like he had a fiery halo. The desire to kiss him burst into fullness inside Aziraphale, barely contained. “Thank you,” he choked out.

“For what? I didn’t do anything.”

“Just… Just for being here,” Aziraphale said, gently taking the books from him. “For being with me. Keeping me calm. And, you know.”

“Oh.” Crowley suddenly looked shy, head ducked down, one arm going up to scratch absentmindedly at the back of his neck. “Right. No problem. I, um, guess I should go back to my room then.”

Though it took everything in him to agree, Aziraphale said, “I suppose that’s for the best. It’s rather late and we’ve been up all night.”

“Here, let me give you this back, since I’m here anyway.”

Crowley began to untie the dressing gown, but Aziraphale held out a hand to stop him. He didn’t think he could hold firm against his desires if he had to see those bare legs and hint of arse again. “That’s all right, dear boy. No need to walk through the hotel in a state of semi-undress, is there? You may leave it for me at the front desk as originally planned.”

“Right.” Crowley waited for a moment—was he waiting to see if Aziraphale would change his mind and ask him to stay?—and then repeated, “Right.”

He turned and left without another shared glance. Though the door closed behind him without so much as a click, the finality of it sounded as loud as a bomb.

After wrapping his books into an easily-carried bundle—he would not be caught unawares again!—Aziraphale slipped under the duvet. His heart was heavy, and he couldn’t tell whether the mattress or the silence was more uncomfortable. Crowley had been gone for less than ten minutes and already he regretted the man’s absence.

He wouldn’t sleep tonight, not with remorse plaguing him. If he’d been smarter, he would have gotten the man’s room number, or his mobile number, or… or something. Anything! A way to keep in contact, once they went their separate ways. Did Crowley live in London? Was there any point even considering it? Should he get out of bed and do a search for Anthony J Crowley, famous landscape designer, and hope to get lucky?

Get lucky. That was ironic, given that he’d had the chance at just that tonight…

Aziraphale pictured what might have happened had the American with the megaphone waited five more minutes before making his announcement. Would Crowley have kissed him right there in front of everyone? Would he have pulled Aziraphale into his arms under the pretense of sharing the dressing gown? Would they have felt each other stir, bodies too close to mistake the sensation, and decide to spend the rest of the night together? Could Aziraphale have overcome his reservations enough to say yes to what he wanted?

The mattress was uncomfortable, but the bed was warm, and his body was responding to the idea of what could have been. He let his hand drift down his torso lightly, playfully. If he wasn’t going to sleep tonight anyway—

A sudden knock on the door caused him to jolt upright, heart racing. He didn’t move, and the second knock was accompanied by a muffled voice saying, “Aziraphale? C’mon, angel, you can’t be asleep yet. Fuck, I hope I’ve got the right door…”

With a laugh, Aziraphale threw off the duvet. There was a buoyancy in his step as he reached the door. “Crowley? Whatever are you…?”

He trailed off as he noticed the duffel bag in the man’s hand. Crowley sagged with relief. “Oh thank fuck, I thought I remembered the room number wrong.” He held up the bag. “Turns out, my room is one that got damaged. Figures, yeah?”

“I’m so sorry, dear boy. Come in, come in. Did you lose anything important?”

“Nah, just clothes and shit. They’ll dry. But, um, I didn’t fancy trying to sleep on a damp mattress.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “That would be terrible. The hotel didn’t have another solution for you?”

They both froze, and Aziraphale realized what he’d just said. Stupid, stupid, stupid! He was such an idiot sometimes.

“I didn’t ask,” Crowley said cautiously. “There were a few people already in the lobby, complaining and all, and I thought… well… I guess I shoulda…”

Aziraphale covered his mouth with a kiss. He wasn’t sure where the boldness came from. Something about Crowley’s vulnerable side stirred him into action—or arousal, perhaps—and he didn’t regret it as the man eagerly met him with an enthusiasm that sent a lot of blood quickly south. By the time they broke apart to breathe, Aziraphale had sandwiched Crowley between his body and the door.

“Fuck,” Crowley panted. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Didn’t think I’d ever get there with you, angel.”

“I’m still surprised you wanted to in the first place,” Aziraphale admitted, his mouth trailing along the other man’s neck.

Crowley’s hands cupped his arse and pulled him closer. “You’re an idiot. Been trying to get your attention since I first saw you at dinner. Built like a fucking god, you are.”

“That explains all the sneering and mockery when I first spoke to you.”

“Was cold,” Crowley muttered, hips pulsing lightly into Aziraphale’s thigh. “I was an arse. M’not at my best when I’m cold.”

“Good thing I read the fire action protocols when I checked in, then.” He patted the safety poster plastered to the door at Crowley’s back. “Says it right here. Wear your dressing gown and shoes. I had to come to your rescue, even if you were unforgivably rude.”

“M’unforgivable, me.” He moaned as Aziraphale sucked at his collarbone. “Part of being a demon, yeah?”

“As an angel, I always have the choice to forgive. That waiter you scolded at dinner, on the other hand…” He tsked. “Did you really need to toss that plate of food at him, dear?”

“It was the third time he’d brought the wrong order! He coulda been my kid, he was so young, and still, he flirted so shamelessly that he couldn’t pay attention to his job! B’sides, he kept blocking my view of the cute guy with fluffy blond hair and the body of a god sitting across the way. A demon can only take so much provo— proctiv— Fuck! Hassle before he loses his shit.”

“I believe the word you are looking for is provocation.”

“Bastard.” A sharp nip to Aziraphale’s earlobe caused him to yelp and shiver. “Sorry! Too much?”

“No, goodness no, do that again, do—aah!”

Neither of them spoke for a time after that, too busy kissing and exploring each other’s bodies with wandering hands. They stumbled toward the bed, tangled up and unwilling to separate, even as Crowley accidentally kneeled on the dressing gown he still wore and fell sideways onto the mattress with an oof.

“Perhaps I should unwrap you,” Aziraphale said, guiding Crowley onto his back and straddling his hips to a delightful chorus of moans and swearing. “Are you still half-naked under this thing, or did you put on something sensible before you invited yourself back to my place?”

Crowley bucked against him. “An’ how would I have done that, given the whole sprinkler issue? B’sides, I was never half-naked. Don’t like to wear trousers to bed, is all.”

“Or pants, apparently.”

“I’m wearing pants!” Crowley protested. “What are you on about?”

Aziraphale leaned over until their chests touched. “Was that not your bare arse I saw hanging out under that jumper?”

“My arse doesn’t hang! I take good care to keep it, um…”

“Properly perky?” Aziraphale grinned as Crowley’s cheeks grew from rosy to flaming red. “Superbly supple? Round and robust and—”

Very suddenly, Aziraphale found himself on his back, Crowley having slithered out from under him and flipped him over before he knew what was happening. The move was impressive and—he might as well admit it—extremely fucking sexy. The man must have seen the lust in his eyes, because his lips curled up slowly and he dragged their pelvises together in a slow, agonized grind, making Aziraphale gasp with need. “Is this what you like, angel?”

“This—yes—this is one thing I like.”

Another slow grind. “One thing?”

He would not allow himself to be embarrassed. “I’m rather a connoisseur of sexual pleasure.”

Crowley laughed, but the laughter was delighted rather than teasing. “You’re a hedonist. S’perfect. ‘Cause you know what I like?” A long, maddeningly-slow kiss followed this question. Aziraphale groaned, wordlessly begging for more. Crowley settled in beside his ear to whisper. “I like to give my partner every little indulgence, to take them on a ride of ecstasy until they shake to pieces in my arms. Then, I like to do it to them all over again.”

“Goodness,” Aziraphale said, voice shaking with anticipation. “I can’t say anyone has ever made me come twice, not since those wayward days of adolescent exploration.”

“Challenge accepted,” Crowley said with a grin. He sat up, untied the dressing gown, and slipped it from his shoulders. “Ready to see what’s under here? Because I’m absolutely ready to feast my eyes on you.”

God, the man was a vision, even in a ratty old hoodie. Aziraphale tucked his fingers under where the hemline draped over Crowley’s thighs. His leg hair was surprisingly soft, the pale skin dotted with freckles. “Yes,” he said. “Take that off.”

The man scrambled off of him, almost falling over as he got twisted up in the discarded dressing gown. Aziraphale opened his mouth to admonish him to be careful, but the words died in his throat. Crowley had turned his back and slowly begun to peel off his top.

He was wearing pants: a black thong that left the bottom half of his arse exposed, with a wide swath of lace arching across the top. The center seam extended upwards for a few centimeters, where it met a silver ring that served as a connection point for a separate band that ran around Crowley’s waist.

Aziraphale might have whimpered. Just a little.

Crowley looked over his shoulder, cocking his hip. “Nice, yeah? I wore them for you, angel.”

“Liar,” he said, but the accusation came out breathless and weak. His brain didn’t have much capacity beyond the screaming thought that he needed to see the front of this man, in those pants, immediately.

“S’not a lie. I put them on after dinner, hoping I might… make your acquaintance.” He affected an over-the-top posh imitation of Aziraphale’s voice for those last words, then smirked. “Even if only in my imagination. And clothes make the imagination feel soooo much more satisfying.”

“You wanted to meet me in a hoodie?” Aziraphale said flatly, raising an eyebrow.

“No!” Crowley huffed and dropped the sexy pose. Spinning to face the bed, hands on hips, he said, “I was down to, um, the bare minimum when the alarm went. Since I don’t have a dressing gown, I grabbed my jumper. Didn’t fancy trying to twist back into my jeans if there was a real possibility of fire racing through the walls. Those things take effort.”

Normally, Aziraphale would have responded to any number of those statements. At the moment, though, he was paralyzed. The lace of Crowley’s pants circled forward along with the extra band, the four pieces meeting in another ring in the front. His cock was covered in what looked to be silk, but the space above it was a gorgeous peekaboo of skin and red hair created by the structure of the fabric and rings. “Fuck…” he whisper-moaned.

Immediately, Crowley slipped back into seductive mode. “Like them, do you?” He sauntered forward, hips swaying hypnotically, then crawled back onto the bed, pushing Aziraphale’s knees further apart so that he could kneel between them. “I think it’s time for me to undress you.”

Aziraphale didn’t normally cede total control in the bedroom, but he didn’t complain when long fingers drifted up his torso and began to undo his pyjama buttons one by one. He relaxed into the movement, never taking his eyes from the liquid gold of Crowley’s. His skin tingled under where the man’s nails—painted black, of course—lightly ghosted over him. He was absolutely unprepared for the groan and involuntary buck of Crowley’s hips when the man pushed the now-unbuttoned top back from Aziraphale’s middle.

“Fuck, angel.” Those fingers were less light as Crowley ran them up his torso, threaded them through his chest hair, pinched his nipples, and then returned them to cradle Aziraphale’s belly. “I swear to someone, you must be an angel in disguise. Should be illegal, being this hot.”

“Says the man with liquid-gold eyes and a walk like the personification of sin.”

Their pelvises were grinding hard into each other now, silk and lace against sensible cotton. Aziraphale had no desire to let his pyjamas get soaked through from both of them, so he pushed at the edges of the waistband, only to have his hands caught. “I said I would do everything for you, didn’t I?” Crowley admonished.

“I…”

Seriously, it was like being hypnotized, the way he couldn’t look away from Crowley’s serpentine form and the way it hovered over him, never quite stopping, hips moving in little circles that practically had Aziraphale making kitten mews. He wanted to protest, wanted to say he could take off his own damn trousers, but the words simply wouldn’t get past the knot of want in his throat.

When Crowley was apparently satisfied that he would obey, he slithered lower onto the bed and, instead of undressing Aziraphale, mouthed at the outline of his cock through the fabric. Aziraphale whined and tried to keep himself from smashing upward into the man’s face, but it was difficult.

“Look how fucking big you are. I can’t wait to swallow you,” Crowley said. He cupped Aziraphale’s balls with one hand, and Aziraphale automatically opened his legs further. “But I’m going to enjoy every second before we get there.”

“Is that what you were f-fantasizing about before the alarm interrupted?”

Crowley shook his head, the movement sending little jolts of pleasure up Aziraphale’s spine each time his chin brushed over his shaft. This time, he couldn’t help arching his back with a cry. “Don’t hold back,” Crowley told him. He pushed Aziraphale’s hips down into the mattress, digging fingers into the flesh above his waistband. “I can take it, you know. I want to learn everything that pleasure means to you.”

“We have neighbors. It’s the middle of the night.”

“Don’t care.” Thumbs tucked under Aziraphale’s pyjamas, dragging along the sensitive groove that ran toward his groin. “The hotel shouldn’t have soaked my bed if they didn’t want us sharing.”

Aziraphale tried to think rationally, but that part of his brain had shrunk smaller and smaller since their first kiss, and when those wandering hands tangled in his curls and traced the base of his cock, he stopped trying to hold back any involuntary movements or sounds. “Fuck!”

“God I love that you have such a filthy mouth. With that posh accent and all.” Crowley surged upwards and covered his body again, lips meeting lips, trousers still exactly where they’d been before. Aziraphale wiggled under him to complain, making the man smile against his mouth. “If you want something, ask. I’ll give it to you. Promise. Anything you want.”

“I want my trousers off.” Crowley raised an eyebrow as if to say that wasn’t a request, but Aziraphale wasn’t going to beg. Control was relative. “Take off my trousers.”

For a moment, Crowley froze. His pupils dilated, and then he practically ripped the clothing away.

“Do be careful, dear. I’d rather not have to replace those.”

“Shall I fold them for you, angel?”

He held them up as if he might do just that. Aziraphale shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, but I appreciate the consideration, dear boy.”

“If you weren’t so fucking hot…”

Then their bodies were pressed together again, teeth against skin, fingers in hair, legs intertwining. The uncomfortable mattress dipped underneath them whenever they changed position, and once, Aziraphale almost fell off the side of the bed. Crowley caught him with lightning-quick instincts, pulling him back to safety.

All throughout, Crowley repeated himself. “Tell me what you want. Do you like this? Was that too much? Do you need more?”

And Aziraphale, enjoying the sheer bastardry of it, refused to ask for anything, or to say please, or to give him anything more than nonverbal enthusiasm and an occasional, “Yes, there, do that!”

For his part, Crowley appeared to love the challenge of it. Whenever he got a hint that Aziraphale enjoyed something, he honed in until he perfected whatever it was that caused the pleasure, then kept going until Aziraphale was helpless under his ministrations. By the time Crowley finally took him into his mouth—both pairs of their pants had been discarded sometime during their entwining—Aziraphale keened so hard that he worried his neighbors might actually start pounding on the wall. He threw one arm over his mouth to muffle the sound and squeezed his eyes shut, willing his body not to respond with a force that would hurt the other man.

Crowley, however, seemed to have near-supernatural abilities, swallowing him almost to the root. His tongue worked as his head bobbed, seeking out all the most sensitive spots and playing with them. Aziraphale was biting into his own skin at this point to keep (relatively) quiet. More than once, the desire building in his abdomen began to rocket toward crescendo, only to have Crowley pull off and tease him with lighter touches and licks.

The third time this happened, Aziraphale’s frustration spilled into words. “Will you quit edging me?”

He realized his mistake immediately when Crowley grinned up at him. “Anything you ask for. And how does my angel want to find his release? Mouth? Hand? Want me to fuck you into the mattress? Or do you maybe wanna fuck me?”

Aziraphale blinked at him. Choices. Too many choices. He wanted… everything.

When he didn’t answer, Crowley kept going. “You could fuck my thighs, though I think I’d prefer to fuck yours, they’re so plush, that would be… ngh. Or I could wrap my hands around us both, or eat you out, or—”

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered.

“Yes, what? Eating you out? Or something else?” He sat back on his heels, a thoughtful finger tapping against his lips. “Sorry, angel, you actually have to be clear on this one. Tell me what you want and I’ll do it. It all sounds fucking brilliant to me.”

Everything. Anything! How could he choose? He had a sex god in his bed for a single night, with a smorgasbord of options laid out before him, and all he could think was yes, more, please. “All of it,” he said.

Crowley laughed. “Even I can’t keep going that long. C’mon. What’s your favorite? Give me some direction here.”

His imagination was of no help. It kept flitting between options, never stopping long enough to land on a choice. He didn’t have a favorite. Aziraphale liked almost everything, given the right partner, and he couldn’t imagine Crowley not being perfect in whatever capacity he chose. Why did he need to be the one to make this decision? His fantasies had only gotten so far as a kiss before the knock on the door interrupted him.

Interrupted…

“Crowley? What were you thinking about before the fire alarm went off?”

The slow grin on that man was pure sin. “Want me to show you?”

Yes. Very much yes. Aziraphale nodded. This took the decision right out of his hands.

“Anything you’re completely opposed to?”

“Knife play," Aziraphale said at once. "Shit. Mockery. Being choked or tickled. Age play.”

After a moment, Crowley doubled over with laughter. “When you said connoisseur…” he choked out.

“As a fifty-plus-year-old man, I’ve gained quite an understanding of my likes and dislikes,” Aziraphale said with a sniff.

“Right.” His grin turned sappy. “You know you’re adorable, don’t you? Gorgeous, hot, and adorable. And funny! I like you.”

Aziraphale was starting to feel a bit more certain again. “I hadn’t noticed,” he quipped.

A giggle, and Crowley said, “Well, I’m afraid my fantasy might be a bit lightweight for you, angel. Nothing as exotic as knife play.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a little vanilla on occasion. It’s a classic flavor for a reason.”

“Is that so?” Crowley said, now crawling up Aziraphale’s body to press their lips together. Pelvises met, cocks pressed side by side, and the mild softening that had occurred during their conversation was quickly a thing of the past. When they broke their kiss, Crowley whispered into his ear. “In my fantasy, I took you in my mouth.”

“You said that wasn’t what you were thinking about.”

“I’m a demon. I lied.” At Aziraphale’s huff, Crowley added, “Only a little, though. I’d gotten past that part by the time the alarm went off. You were already loose and sated and ready to give me what I wanted.”

“Which was?” he prompted.

Crowley’s voice quivered as he spoke. “To open your legs, shoving one knee up toward your chest, and fuck you while I stared into your incredible blue eyes.”

Sizzling heat caused Aziraphale to writhe under him, but he kept his words steady. “I’m not opposed to that, though how do you feel about not sating me first? The idea of you inside me is rather appealing at the moment, and I prefer to get my prostate pounded before I come.” He reached up to caress Crowley’s freckled face. “Afterwards, you can clean me up. With that wicked tongue of yours.”

“Ngk.”

There was a scramble as they got themselves ready—lube and towels and, just to be cheeky, a pile of pillows for Aziraphale to recline onto—and then Crowley’s slick fingers were circling his hole. It didn’t take long for one to slip inside, nor did it take long for Aziraphale to adjust to the invasion. Crowley added a second finger, and then a third, purely for the wicked thrill of it, Aziraphale was sure. He was nearly at the point of abandoning his resolve not to beg when the demon pulled out, wiped his hand on the closest towel, lined himself up, and pressed.

Most often, Aziraphale preferred to top. There was something about the feel of being buried, not to mention the eroticism of seeing himself slide in and out of another’s body, that appealed to his carnal nature. Tonight, watching Crowley’s expression of ecstasy as he sank deeper, hearing his whimper as he bit his lip and closed his eyes, was every bit as satisfying. And that was before the man began to move.

In. Out. Soft little motions as their bodies settled into each other. When Aziraphale began to press up to meet him, Crowley shifted position and changed to a corkscrewing pattern. Aziraphale could have sworn it was designed deliberately to tease him—until an unexpected thrust hit his prostate so perfectly that he saw stars. He gasped.

It was exactly as Crowley described: one knee up at his chest, Crowley’s hips snapping forward, their eyes locked on each other. Neither spoke, and though their lips met a few times, both were too breathless to kiss for long. For the fourth (fifth?) time that night, desire pulled taut in Aziraphale’s belly. He left it alone, letting the friction that formed between their bodies do its job slowly. Crowley had said he wanted him to ride a wave of ecstasy, after all. There was no taming the waves. There was only the wait to see where they broke.

“Fuck, angel; god you feel so good; so good; you’re so perfect; fuck; you’re everything, everything; fuck…”

Sensations melded. Crowley’s rhythmic praise, the gold of his eyes half-hidden behind fiery red hair, the stars that burst in Aziraphale’s vision with each new thrust, the trembling in his thighs, the drag of his cock against hot, sweaty skin. “I—” he began, but his climax beat the words, and he lost himself completely as he stuttered into the space between them.

Only when he was wrung out and completely spent did he return to awareness. He opened his eyes to find Crowley staring down at him with naked joy. His hips were still moving. In. Out.

“Did you not…?”

Crowley shook his head. “Didn’t know—if you were okay—with me coming—inside you. Had to check first.”

He was as endearing as he was irritating, this man. Aziraphale smiled at him. “You’re rather kind, for a demon.”

Crowley’s nose wrinkled. “M’not kind.”

He seemed to be slowing, and Aziraphale couldn’t allow that. He batted his eyes and said, “Will you please come inside me, darling? It would make me ever so happy.”

For a second, he thought perhaps he’d gone too far, as Crowley froze, eyes wide. Then the man let out a whimper and began to move again, faster, harder, and without nearly as much precision. He let go of Aziraphale’s knee and wrapped both arms around his shoulders instead. Aziraphale, in turn, put his legs around Crowley’s waist to give him more leverage. Crowley was shaking with fatigue and effort and—if Aziraphale wasn’t mistaken—the same sort of pleasure he himself had just experienced. Indeed, mere moments later, he cried out, and warmth flowed into Aziraphale in bursts.

It was a long time before either of them moved beyond the relaxing of their bodies. Skin cooled, sweat dried, other fluids grew tacky. (Aziraphale was decidedly not going to ask the man to lick him clean after all. A warm, damp towel would be far preferable under the circumstances.) Only once Crowley started yawning did either of them move toward collecting themselves.

The way Crowley touched him, so gently, so methodically, as he cleaned and dried Aziraphale’s skin—it caused a fissure in his heart, a niggling uncertainty. When they’d crashed together, he’d had no expectations beyond a hopefully-extraordinary one-night thing. This level of care was unusual even in an established partner. It awakened dangerous levels of wanting of a different kind, and Aziraphale absolutely could not afford to hope.

“We should sleep,” he said quietly after Crowley discarded the used towels in the hotel shower. “It’s rather late.”

“Right. Fire alarm kept us up all night.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Yes. That’s the only reason either of us are still awake.”

“M’not awake,” Crowley said with another yawn. He froze suddenly, poised at the edge of the bed, an uncertain expression on his face. “Y’don’t mind if I join you, do you? I’d rather not—damp mattress and all—but I could talk to the front desk if—”

“Dear boy,” Aziraphale said, and patted the mattress beside him. “I don’t believe I can offer you the most comfortable of sleeping arrangements, given what I have to work with, but I would be most delighted to have you join me anyway.”

Crowley sniggered and said, “most delighted,” in the same over-the-top posh tone he’d used all night, but the uncertainty had been replaced by affection, and he crawled under the duvet without hesitation. He tucked his head into Aziraphale’s neck and kissed him there. “Thanks for having me, angel.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth with the intention to say, “The pleasure is all mine.” The thought was cut short by a sudden, sharp blaring of the fire alarm overhead.

“Fuck!” Crowley yelled. He jumped up at once, but rather than go for his own clothes, he grabbed the tartan dressing gown from where it had been discarded on the floor and held it out. “Here! Fire safe rule thingies or whatever.”

On the bed, Aziraphale clutched the duvet over his naked chest, feeling irrationally exposed. He didn’t move toward the proffered gown. “I can’t!” he said in a strangled hiss. “If I go out there, my neighbors will see me! Will see us! We were awfully loud.”

Crowley blinked at him. “It’s a fire, angel! Who cares if people see us?”

“Probably another false alarm,” Aziraphale said stubbornly. He refused to let go of the duvet. “Even if it’s not, I think I’d rather die of flames than mortification.”

“Dramatic, much?” Crowley shook his head, the smirk on his lips still carrying that hint of fondness. He tossed the dressing gown over his shoulders and tied it on. “I’ll poke my head out, see if I can get more information, yeah?”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said with relief. He didn’t even mind the amused snort that followed.

Besides, Crowley’s arse looked good in tartan.

Other patrons of the hotel, it seemed, had the same idea of checking for more information. As soon as Crowley opened the door, a cacophony of voices flooded in. That gave Aziraphale a bit more confidence that the walls were not too thin, though he still wasn’t going to leave this bed when there was any chance of being witnessed right after the sorts of noises he’d been making.

“Anyone know what’s happening?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale couldn’t hear the reply, but the man glanced back at him and shrugged.

Fuck, he really, really didn’t want to venture back out into the garden right now…

“Everyone! Stay calm!” Now that voice, Aziraphale both heard and recognized. It was the American with the megaphone. “No one needs to evacuate. I repeat, no one needs to evacuate. Please go about your business as usual.”

“Hard to go about your business with an alarm blaring,” Crowley muttered. Somehow, it was audible despite said alarm blaring.

“There is no cause for concern,” megaphone-American continued. “Everything is in hand. Hotel management is working to—”

An angry shout interrupted him, the words too indistinct for Aziraphale to make out. Crowley’s face, which had previously held the amusement of someone watching a drama unfold before him, spun through a series of expressions: first shock, then incredulity, then unadulterated delight. Before Aziraphale could ask what was happening—or reconsider his stance on not leaving the bed—the American spoke again.

“Obviously the system is working properly. There is no need for rudeness, sir. Come on, people. As you were. Back to your rooms, or whatever it is you were doing. Go on. Nothing to see here. Nothing to see.”

Crowley slipped back inside, letting the door close with a thunk, and shrugged off the dressing gown. “Well, that was a thing.”

For a second, Aziraphale was slightly distracted by the very sudden re-reveal of Crowley’s body. He shook himself. “What happened?”

“He was naked.”

What? “I beg your pardon?”

Crowley giggled and sauntered over to the bed, where he sat on the edge and put a hand on Aziraphale’s knee over the duvet. “The American. He was naked. Completely starkers. Couldn’t see him at first, he was around the corner, but he darted out toward vending to grab an empty box to try to cover himself. A box that said—” He cackled. “—this side up. With an arrow and everything.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said, trying not to laugh.

“I don’t think we were the most entertaining part of the night, angel.”

“Nor the only ones getting up to something,” Aziraphale said, giving a little wiggle of pleasure when Crowley laughed at his emphasis. “Thank you for… that,” he added, waving toward the door.

“S’my pleasure, angel.” He winked. “Who would want to be seen with me, after all?”

“Fiend,” Aziraphale said, pulling him in for a kiss. With perfect timing, the alarm cut off.

They fell quickly into sleep after that, wrapped around each other with as much ease and comfort as two people who had been sharing a bed for decades. The morning came far too soon. Aziraphale woke as Crowley shuffled around the room, picking up his clothes. He noticed that Aziraphale was watching him and grimaced.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “Was trying to stay quiet. Got an early train to catch, unfortunately. I can’t miss it, much as I want to.”

That last part was punctuated by a huge yawn. Aziraphale pushed up to his elbow. “You must be exhausted. I certainly am.”

“S’what coffee is for.” The look he gave Aziraphale was guarded. “Was worth it, though.”

“Yes, it was,” Aziraphale said. “Then again, that’s easy for me to say. I don’t have a train to catch.”

“Have a lie-in then, angel. I’ll get out of your hair.”

He turned away, put his sunglasses on, and slung his duffel over his shoulder. His hand was on the doorknob when Aziraphale finally got his wits together enough to speak. “Wait! Crowley.”

The man looked over his shoulder, and his face was inscrutable behind the glasses. Aziraphale shrunk into himself. Maybe he’d read too much into their snuggling. Maybe Crowley didn’t have to be anywhere at all. Maybe he simply wanted to sneak away before the awkward morning-after conversation made them both uncomfortable. He should have known better, really. Crowley may have said all those things while they were fucking, but that didn’t mean he believed them in the light of day. When it came down to it, Crowley was a sex god and Aziraphale was a stodgy, fussy, middle-aged man with a pretentious way of speaking and too much meat on his bones. He should be grateful for the night he’d gotten.

Crowley was waiting for him to speak. Plastering on his best smile, Aziraphale said, “It was ever so nice to meet you.”

The side of Crowley’s mouth quirked up, and he saluted. “Ta, angel.”

Then he was gone. Aziraphale’s lower lip trembled, but he took a deep breath to steady himself. He would not cry over an unexpected fling, no matter how good it had been. It was probably better this way. Now, he would never learn all of the ways Crowley could irritate and needle him. Better to leave him the embodiment of perfection in memory.

Well, perfection might be a bit much. He had thrown that plate at the waiter.

And walked out into the night without trousers.

And made fun of Aziraphale’s voice and diction when all he’d tried to do was help.

And…

Aziraphale threw the duvet aside and plodded to the bathroom. He wouldn’t sleep more. Best to get himself into a steaming hot shower to sooth the aches that were already starting to form from his night of pleasure. He wasn’t trying to hide tears. If there was any fluid leaking from his eyes, it was build-up from yawning and fatigue. That was all.

Wrung out post-shower, Aziraphale wrapped himself in his dressing gown. It smelled like Crowley, and he had another little battle with his lower lip. Right. He was being foolish. He was—

There was something in his dressing gown pocket. Startled from his moping, Aziraphale pulled out a folded slip of hotel stationary. With trembling fingers, he opened it and read.

Angel,

I’m a demon. I lied. Whatever I said to you, if I spoke to you at all, it was the coward’s way out. Couldn’t stand to see you take pity on me and keep me around past when I was welcome. You know what they say about guests and fish and stinking or whatever the fuck it is. I’m sure you know. Probably shouldn’t even leave this for you, but I’m not above being pathetic if I’m not around to see you cringe. So on the off-chance you’re NOT completely sick of me, I’m in room 206. Gonna be here for another couple days. Or you can text me at ----------. If you want. No pressure.

AJ Crowley

Aziraphale could not dress fast enough. Sure, the end result was that he was not up to his usual sartorial standards, but what did that matter? He planned to be out of his clothes again before long.

At the door of room 206, he paused to catch his breath. A tendril of doubt swirled in his belly, but he shoved it away. It was time to be brave. Trembling, he raised a hand and knocked.

For a few moments, there was no answer. When the door finally cracked open, it was not Crowley who appeared. The American with the megaphone blinked at him. He was apparently still naked, if the sliver of visible torso was any indication. His hair was rumpled in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

Cheeks heating, Aziraphale said, “Oh, I apologize, I was looking for—”

“Can’t you people leave me alone?”

Was everyone in this hotel unspeakably rude? Aziraphale drew himself up. “I beg your pardon, sir, but—”

“Talk to the front desk. I’m off-duty.” The American shook his head in disgust. “You Brits. You think you’re so important. Everything is about you.”

“Hey! We’re not all bad, babe,” called someone from inside the room—someone who was definitely not Crowley, to Aziraphale’s relief.

The American’s face softened as he turned to his companion. “Of course not, sweet-cheeks,” he said, shutting the door in Aziraphale’s face without another word.

Aziraphale stood there, staring at the placard for room 206 and wondering first, if he should complain about this employee’s deplorable behavior (even if he was off-duty), and second, why in heaven’s name Crowley would send him to the American’s door. His heart was starting to crack from the idea that this might be a prank when a soft voice spoke behind him.

“Angel?” Crowley’s head poked out from a room across and down the hall. He looked at number on his door, then at the one in front of Aziraphale, and swore. “Fuck, I mixed it up, didn’t I? Told you I’m shit at numbers.”

Slowly, Aziraphale’s heart began to fuse back into one piece. He approached Crowley’s actual door (209). “You did, yes.”

The man pushed his sunglasses up into his hair, an apprehensive look coming over his face. “Didn’t expect you to find my note so quickly,” he said with a grimace. “Are you angry?”

The warmth in Aziraphale’s heart had gone past healing, so that it felt like the organ was so full of affection and joy that it might burst free from his chest. “No, I’m not, though I am surprised to discover that you aren’t staying in room 666.”

After a moment, a grin split Crowley’s face. “Requested to, but it turns out that they don’t have that one at this hotel. Would you believe it? Where are the demons meant to sleep?”

“Apparently, they don’t need to sleep at all. Or were you planning to ask the hotel to move you to a room that was less damp?”

“Ah. Well. Um. I kinda lied about that, too.”

He looked so nervous that Aziraphale decided not to prolong his misery. “Yes, I figured that out when you were dressed so pristinely this morning. There’s no way you would have gotten into those painted-on jeans if they were wet. Not without waking me, anyway. Now, are you going to invite me in? I’ve been up all night long wrestling a demon that promised a second coming yet didn’t deliver. I need tea and a long nap and a good shag. Not necessarily in that order.”

Crowley laughed and opened the door wider. “Anything you want, angel. All you have to do is ask.”