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When Aziraphale first found him in his depressingly dingy flat near Bethnal Green, it had been to talk. That much was abundantly clear to Crowley. Whether it had been to explain himself, to apologise or something else entirely, he didn’t find out, though. Crowley didn’t let him get that far. In fact, the first two times Aziraphale had shown up, Crowley simply pretended to not be home, even though he knew that Aziraphale could tell that he was. Maybe some futile part of Crowley had hoped that Aziraphale would simply give up. But of course that didn’t happen.
So when Aziraphale shows up again this time, knocks politely on his door and then doesn't budge for close to four hours even though Crowley doesn’t acknowledge him at all, he finally has enough. Crowley gets up from where he’s been miserably lounging on his couch, shoves his sunglasses up his nose and walks up to his front door, where he yanks it open furiously.
“I don’t want to hear it, Aziraphale,” Crowley hisses viciously, the door barely all the way open. “So stop wasting both of our time and leave.” Only then does he fully take in Aziraphale. The angel looks strangely whitewashed. He’s still wearing his usual outfit, but instead of the warm cream and brown tones, all of his clothes are now almost pure white, save for the occasional gold and off-white accent. He also gives off the strong ozone-like odour and faint glow that comes with staying in Heaven for a prolonged time. It makes Crowley nauseous.
All of it put together only serves to strengthen Crowley’s resolve and he is about to slam the door shut again when Aziraphale raises one of his previously clasped hands, stopping the door from hitting him square in the face.
“Crowley, please, just hear me out for a moment.” Aziraphale’s tone is pleading but it also carries an odd tone, something almost authoritarian, and it makes Crowley’s blood boil.
“Leave. Me. Alone,” Crowley spits out through clenched teeth, emphasising every single word and straightening up to his full height. He pushes the door against Aziraphale’s hold but the angel isn’t yielding.
“It really won’t take long at all and then I’ll go, if you wish. Crowley, please.” Aziraphale takes a step forward, across the doorstep and Crowley can feel himself starting to shake with barely suppressed rage.
“If I wish?!” he growls, and then again, louder, “If I wish?! I will tell you what I wish, Aziraphale—” Crowley gets right up in Aziraphale’s face, “—I wish for you to fuck back off to Heaven and leave me the Hell alone. Understood?!” For a second he wishes he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses to let Aziraphale see the full force of his fury, but deep inside Crowley knows it would be a mistake; he is still too hurt, too vulnerable, to let Aziraphale see him bare.
For a very brief moment, Crowley thinks he’d finally succeeded and Aziraphale would let him be, but then something in the angel’s face changes. The pleading expression he’d previously worn fades away and is replaced by determination. Crowley can see him set his jaw and even though Aziraphale is a few inches shorter than him, he suddenly seems to tower over Crowley.
“I don’t think that’s really what you want, Crowley.”
Aziraphale’s tone has taken on a dangerous calm and when he takes another step forward, Crowley can do nothing but allow him.
He knows that Aziraphale is stronger than him, especially now in his role as Supreme Archangel, and could easily overpower him if he wanted, but Crowley could never be afraid of him. Especially because at his core, Crowley knows that Aziraphale is right. He doesn’t want him to leave. He never wants him to leave ever again. He wants to soak up every explanation and apology Aziraphale could give him; wants to trust in him and wants to believe that everything he’d done, rejecting Crowley and going to Heaven, has been the only right decision at the time to save them all and guarantee they could have a future together.
But Crowley also still has his pride and he is still hurting too much to allow his true feelings to simply spill out just like this.
So Crowley stands where he is, teeth still gritted, while Aziraphale closes the door behind himself and then turns back to face Crowley, still oozing that air of calm authority. And fuck, Crowley despises admitting it even to himself, but it is having an effect on him. He swallows thickly and trains his eyes on a spot somewhere behind Aziraphale on the wall.
“I think there are a lot of things you do want,” Aziraphale says and steps closer, invading Crowley’s space, the bastard. “And I’ve gathered that talking isn’t one of them right now. That’s all right. We can do that later.” He is even closer now, his voice dipped to a lower register and Crowley can’t stop the shiver from running down his spine. It settles low in his gut and when Aziraphale puts a hand on his waist and moves in even more, so that his hip is now pushed up against Crowley’s front and he is effectively speaking right against Crowley’s right ear, they are that close, Crowley cursed inwardly. He is wearing a cock as his chosen effort and if Aziraphale so much as moves his thigh an inch, he’d be able to tell for certain just what he is doing to Crowley right now. Not that Crowley isn’t sure Aziraphale knows anyway. Fuck, he hates how weak he is for the angel.
As if to drive Crowley’s point home, Aziraphale chooses that precise moment to put his other hand on Crowley’s waist as well, and starts walking him backwards until they collide with the nearest wall. Crowley knows he could have stopped him, could have stopped all of this before it even really started; but his fucked up, pathetic, pining self is screaming at him to take, take, take everything Aziraphale offers to give him. Most of his anger has drained out of him by now, turned into arousal and a desire to simply feel Aziraphale.
So when the angel pushes him up against the rough wall, his thigh now firmly wedged between Crowley’s, Crowley lets his mouth fall open, allowing the quiet groan that has been lodged in his throat to escape, while he studiously avoids Aziraphale’s eyes.
“How long has it been since someone touched you, my dear?” Aziraphale murmurs, obviously remarking at how eagerly Crowley reacts to his touch. “Have you even denied yourself?”
No, Crowley wants to scream. It’s just you, you fucking bastard. I love you, I love you, I love you! But instead he just clenches his jaw and grits out, “Don’t call me that.”
Aziraphale hums and rolls his thigh against his cock, making Crowley gasp. “You’re dear to me, though, Crowley. Very.” And then, in one fluid motion, he reaches up and plucks the sunglasses right off of Crowley’s nose.
Crowley is so startled by it all, his eyes immediately fly to meet Aziraphale’s, who is looking back steadily. Once the only person he felt safe baring himself to like this, it is all too much now, Crowley feels like he could cry. To save himself from that mortification he forces his eyes away and twists his body around, braces both hands against the wall. He pushes his arse back against Aziraphale, feeling the bulge forming there through both their trousers. Crowley curses the way Aziraphale always gets under his skin. Why couldn’t he simply fuck Crowley and then leave him to wallow in his misery?
Aziraphale seems to hesitate for a moment, but then Crowley hears him sigh softly and his hands reclaim their spots on Crowley’s waist. They don’t stay there for long though, soon travelling to Crowley’s front where Aziraphale cups him through his trousers for a moment, drawing another groan from Crowley, before he deftly undoes his flies and pushes his trousers and pants down just enough to bare him. Crowley’s cock springs free and Aziraphale doesn’t waste any time before he wraps a miraculously lubed up hand around him. Crowley is already leaking and he knows he is high-strung enough that he won’t last long, so he urges his arse back against Aziraphale’s front again.
“Come on, get on with it.”
Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s stuttered out moan against the back of his neck and then, only a few moments later, warm and slick fingers are sliding between his cheeks, probing at his entrance. Crowley pushes back against him even harder and finally Aziraphale lets one blunt finger sink into him.
The stretch is delicious, but Crowley wants, needs, more. “More, come on.”
Aziraphale’s grip around his cock tightens for a second, making Crowley’s breath catch, but then he obliges and pushes another finger inside Crowley alongside the first, working him open.
When finally, after excruciatingly long minutes, Aziraphale presses his slicked up cock inside Crowley, he almost comes instantaneously. Just the tight circle of Aziraphale’s thumb and forefinger around the base of his dick keep him from tumbling over the edge.
“Move,” Crowley rasps out, hands scrabbling uselessly at the wall. Aziraphale’s arm slung around his chest is probably the only thing keeping him upright.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Aziraphale confesses and Crowley almost laughs out loud.
“Bit too late for that, don’t you think?” He asks cruelly and then shifts his hips forward before impaling himself on Aziraphale’s cock again with a drawn out groan. The seams of his jeans creak in protest and Crowley hears some of them rip. “But if you’re talking about my arse, I don’t care.”
Crowley expects Aziraphale to protest, but is surprised when instead, Aziraphale starts to move, slowly at first but quickly gaining speed and soon he is fucking into him at a brutal pace.
“Yes, good,” Crowley moans as Aziraphale hits his prostate spot on, “right there, keep it up.” His cock is leaking steadily and it’s only a matter of time before he comes now.
Spurred by his words, Aziraphale keeps hitting the same spot with inhuman precision time and time again; and when he then twists his hand up over Crowley’s cock, tightening his fingers just beneath the tip, Crowley comes with a scream, painting the wall, his shirt and Aziraphale’s hand with his spend.
His arse clenches hard around Aziraphale’s cock and it’s only mere moments later when Crowley feels Aziraphale come as well, spilling deep inside him.
They stay there for a moment, unmoving and silent, except for their heaving chests and panting breaths. Aziraphale’s arm is still wrapped around Crowley’s middle, his forehead pressed against his back, and Crowley’s knees feel so wobbly he’s not actually sure he could stay upright on his own.
“How long,” Crowley pants, “how long until you can go again?”
Crowley more so feels rather than hears the moan his words draw from Aziraphale. “I—I’m not sure,” Aziraphale’s breath is hot and damp through the thin cotton of Crowley’s shirt, “but not long.”
“Good,” Crowley says. And then he presses his forehead against the wall and concentrates. His cock slowly starts to shrink until it’s eventually gone entirely and in its stead the anatomy of a vulva forms between Crowley’s legs. The lips and clit are already swollen and he is wet from residual arousal. Crowley shudders and his thighs twitch as his cunt throbs.
Aziraphale, whose sticky hand is still cradling Crowley’s right hip bone, makes a questioning noise against Crowley’s back and then he lets his fingers wander, following the crease of Crowley’s thigh to the vee between his legs. He finds coarse hair first, follows it down, and Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s cock jump where he’s still buried inside him, when Aziraphale’s fingertips discover swollen lips and the hard nub of Crowley’s clit.
“Oh,” he says, softly, intimately, like he didn’t mean to, and then glides his fingers through Crowley’s folds, gathering moisture.
Crowley isn’t sure what he was thinking, directing Aziraphale’s attention to his newly formed but already sensitive cunt when he’s barely come down from his last orgasm, but he certainly didn’t expect Aziraphale to start fingering him right away. While he still had his softening cock up his arse, no less. But finger him Aziraphale does, and it’s costing Crowley all his remaining strength to not crumple to the floor, his legs are shaking so much.
“Look at you, you’re so beau—”
But Crowley cuts Aziraphale off with a harsh “Don’t!” before he can fully voice his thoughts.
“Right,” Aziraphale mumbles, but his arm around Crowley tightens, his hand splayed right over where Crowley’s broken heart is beating rapidly. And Crowley has to swallow around the lump in his throat, the stinging in his eyes.
At this point, Crowley is so wet, Aziraphale can easily slip two broad fingers inside of him, and he does, while his thumb rubs slow circles over his clit. Crowley can already feel the telltale tightening of oncoming orgasm low in his belly and when, shortly after, he does actually come, it’s so sudden he doesn’t even have time to hold onto something when his knees do eventually give out.
Luckily for Crowley, Aziraphale’s hands on him are enough to stop Crowley from crashing into the ground, and Aziraphale is quick to catch him and cradle Crowley against his chest. Though, in the process, Aziraphale’s cock and fingers slip out of Crowley, leaving him feeling empty and pulsing around nothing. Crowley wimpers.
Aziraphale walks them both the few feet to Crowley’s couch and carefully lowers him onto it. He’s so gentle in doing it, Crowley thinks he might actually start to cry.
He takes a few deep breaths to collect himself, again careful to avoid meeting Aziraphale’s eyes, even though he can feel the angel’s gaze trying to meet his.
Aziraphale is still completely dressed, only his trousers are unbuttoned, his cock is poking, half-hard, through the slit in his pants. Crowley, too, is still wearing jeans and shirt, though he now pushes the denim down his trembling legs along with his pants. When he leans forward to push both off his bare feet, he can feel some of Aziraphale’s come leak out of him. He groans and his cunt throbs.
Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley notices Aziraphale lifting one of his hands and in the split-second before he can do anything, Crowley, again, stops him.
“I can take care of myself if I want to,” he grits out. Aziraphale lowers his hand again, slowly.
“Crowley, what can I—”
“Just get over here,” Crowley says once he’s gotten rid of his pants and trousers. He scoots to the edge of the couch and leans back, lifts one knee to his chest and braces his other foot against the floor, baring himself to Aziraphale.
Aziraphale just looks at him for a moment, taking all of him in, something painful edged into his features; and Crowley can tell he wants to say something, many things, probably, but doesn’t. His cock is back to full hardness, and eventually he moves closer, lowers himself so he’s lined up with Crowley’s cunt, and then, pushes in.
They both groan in unison, Crowley wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s neck to draw him in and for a heart-stopping second their eyes meet and Crowley almost kisses him. He can see it in Aziraphale’s eyes, that he expects him to, wants him to, but Crowley tears his gaze away and doesn’t. He pulls Aziraphale closer instead and hooks his chin over his shoulder.
Aziraphale’s hand finds Crowley’s knee and he presses his fingers into the crook of it, pushes it back against his chest more to get better access, Aziraphale’s other hand snakes its way down to play with Crowley’s clit while he moves his hips in a steady rhythm.
“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whispers against Crowley’s neck before he can stop him. “I’m so sorry, Crowley. Please believe me.”
Crowley squeezes his eyes shut and a single tear rolls down his cheek and soaks into Aziraphale’s coat. He swallows, once, twice, tries to get rid of that traitorous lump in his throat but can’t. He’s not even sure what Aziraphale is apologising for. Deep down Crowley knows he had his reasons, that he’s probably been forced to act the way he did, but a part of Crowley still can’t see past the rejection. He needs more time.
So Crowley clings harder, fists his hands into the fabric of Aziraphale’s too-white coat, presses his mouth against it, and hopes it will stifle his choked up sobs as more tears run down his cheeks.
Aziraphale, to his credit, doesn’t remark on Crowley’s current state. He keeps his face hidden against Crowley’s neck and doesn’t speak again. The pace at which he’s fucking into Crowley has turned a little more frantic, the rubbing at his clit a bit more insistent and every now and then a small moan escapes him.
Eventually, Crowley turns his head to the side, sucking in unsteady breaths. He can tell Aziraphale is close and as if on cue, the angel’s grip on his knee slips and he instead loops his arm around Crowley’s back and clenches his hand into his shirt. His rhythm starts to falter, he pushes back in deep, once more, twice, and then goes ridgid before coming with a low groan, cock buried as deep as he can inside Crowley’s cunt.
Crowley can feel Aziraphale pulsing inside of him and paired with the thumb that’s still rubbing circles over Crowley’s clit it’s enough to make Crowley come as well. He sucks in a sharp breath and bites down on his hand to keep from crying out.
When Aziraphale slides out of him this time, Crowley feels like he’s losing something indefinitely. He still can’t bring himself to look him in the eye and when, after putting himself away, Aziraphale offers, again, to clean Crowley up, he just shakes his head.
“Please, leave,” Crowley mutters weakly, and then adds, after a moment, “I’ll be okay. Just—” he flicks his gaze from the floor up to the ceiling, “I need more time.”
Even though he can’t see him, Crowley can tell that Aziraphale is still standing there, looking at him, probably deciding what to do. In the end he does walk towards the door, opens it, hesitates. Crowley tilts his head towards him.
“Take care, Crowley.” The words are so quiet, Crowley could have easily missed them.
Then the door closes and Aziraphale is gone.
How long Crowley stays slumped over the couch for, he isn’t sure. It could have only been a few minutes, but it feels like hours when he finally gets up again. As soon as he’s standing upright, he feels the evidence of what happened slowly leaking out of him, dripping down his inner thigh from his cunt and to the floor from his arse. He clenches around nothing. Crowley slowly turns around, his movements feeling sluggish, and regards the stain from where he’d sat on the couch with mild interest before miracling it away. He likes this couch.
Crowley shuffles towards his bedroom. On the way, he passes his bathroom, briefly considers showering but dismisses the thought as quickly as it came. Then he walks past his hallway mirror. He stops, takes a look at himself. His eyes are red-rimmed, his hair a mess. He moves a hand between his legs, gathers some of Aziraphale’s spend on two fingers and lifts them to his lips, where he licks them clean, all the while following his own movements in the reflection. A residual curl of arousal briefly flares inside of him as he tastes Aziraphale on himself.
Crowley tears his eyes away and continues on to his bedroom. He curls up on the mattress and pulls a blanket up to his nose.
He sleeps for a month.