Chapter Text
Aziraphale does as he’s told and stops trying to move. In the flickering candlelight that bounces off the now-calmed water, Crowley can see that he’s flushed red and sweating at the nape of his neck, beneath his mussed white curls, and that it spreads all the way down his back. Aziraphale is still held taut, unsatisfied, needing, but, aside from his breathlessness and involuntary muscle twitches, he’s gone perfectly still. He’s tight all over and inside, tensed and balanced, staring straight ahead. Still watching Hastur, Crowley supposes.
He glances up from the nape of Aziraphale’s neck, confirms the demon is still lurking near the bathhouse entrance, and then refocuses on the lowest curling tuft of angelic hair and grits his teeth.
Aziraphale hasn’t moved and it’s been almost a full minute. Crowley has been tracking the seconds in his head. It’s been a little more than three minutes since he came.
Aziraphale hasn’t glanced back or uttered a word or reached for him. He has simply remained sitting there, perched precariously in the buoyancy of the water, the backs of his thighs splayed over Crowley’s lap and with his calves pressed to the bench on the outside of Crowley’s knees. He’s held in place by Crowley’s hands digging into his hips and Crowley’s cock still deep inside him.
Aziraphale also hasn’t pulled away and there can be no doubt between them what that means.
At least that’s what Crowley keeps coming back to, almost unwillingly, because just the idea of Aziraphale there, anchored to him, full of Crowley’s come and warming his cock back to hardness — all of it means that Aziraphale wants Crowley to fuck him. And the thought is making Crowley’s all-too-recently spent dick twitch and fill with blood.
Having previously encountered refractory periods, Crowley had simply decided they were not for him. And, now, being stirred back to aching, full hardness – when Aziraphale is still holding so obediently still – is giving away just how fast his heart is racing, how much he wants more now.
A twitch across Aziraphale’s shoulder blades shifts into a sudden small arch of his back; he grinds down and they both groan with the unexpected friction. More than that, it’s the undeniable confirmation that they both want this far more than is permissible, what with them being them and Hastur being right there.
Once Aziraphale has moved and wrung out just a little of his own pleasure, it seems he can’t stop himself from chasing more, from leveraging himself haphazardly with the tilt of his hips and the flex of his legs to try to rock down onto Crowley’s cock.
It feels far too good — it all feels far, far too good — which doesn’t seem fair for all the control Crowley has allowed himself to gather up and hold, for how easily he’s already come once; he should be able to wield that control, instead of just gripping Aziraphale’s hips and letting him rock against him.
Crowley’s fingers grip and spasm into the supple flesh of Aziraphale’s hips and waist, slipping higher, holding on, but incapable of stopping.
Not when Aziraphale leans further forward, head tipping down to stretch the back of his neck, to make Crowley wonder what he tastes like there. In the next moment, he forgets that taste is even a factor in this little game because Aziraphale has gripped his knees, found proper leverage, and is pulling himself up and off Crowley’s cock only to sink slowly back down into his lap.
“Fuck,” Crowley breathes, quiet but involuntary and he tries to thread control back. “Told you to sit still.”
“Can’t,” Aziraphale tells him simply, whining it in a way that makes Crowley believe him and wonder at the idea that he’s so far gone just from being filled, but not quite yet fucked. He’s always marveled at the angel’s propensity for pleasure, but never quite imagined this as a reality.
As a fantasy though…
Aziraphale does it again, shallower and then grinding down, arching and twisting, chasing more friction, more pleasure. Using him, his cock and his body and Crowley can’t imagine he’s even chasing an orgasm, not like this, not from so little, it’s not building, it’s just… Aziraphale enjoying himself.
And that just makes Crowley’s cock harder, fuller, stretching the angel in his lap, and feeling deliriously good. Not five minutes after he warned him to sit still, Crowley is already giving in, intent on coming again. Every wriggle and whispered whimper, the way Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s fingers gripping and kneading his knees, his legs spreading further and his toes, scrabbling without purchase at the sides of his shins. Around them, the ebb and flow of the water increases, where it was almost settled against the tiles, it begins to lap in little, undulating waves set in motion by the roll of Aziraphale’s hips.
Crowley could definitely come from this, again, and maybe he should move properly and take Aziraphale with him? Or perhaps, if he loosens his hands on Aziraphale’s hips and slips back further, if he gives him permission, Aziraphale will take more, will stop wriggling and tilting and grinding and will fuck himself properly, will use Crowley the way he’s fast realizing he wants to be used.
Or perhaps they can just stay like this, caught in this brief moment but drawing it out for hours, neither of them coming but all of it pleasure-soaked and blissful even as everything coils and knots and feels too much. Tiny little incremental movements until Aziraphale can’t help himself but shove his body down, fill himself up, and get off on it.
And wouldn't that be a sight? Wouldn’t any and all of the possible eventualities of Crowley sitting there and Aziraphale using him — because he wants to — be some sort of revelation. They could draw this out for eons, shift outside of time entirely, perhaps. It could be like before time was threaded through reality, when everything was infinite and every potential existed at once. Crowley could do it, he thinks, find a pocket outside reality for the slow, heady drag of them, for it to be infinite. But he’s not at all convinced that would be better than just staying here, in the very real existence of whatever is playing out, of waiting and allowing Aziraphale to take his pleasure.
Even that wouldn’t be what Crowley promised though.
And as his abdominal muscles tighten, hips tilting up with a quick thrust that has Aziraphale gasping, he also knows it’s not what he wants.
Aziraphale’s gasp is breathed out in a huff, impatience leaking into the sound as he arches further, pushing off Crowley’s knees and settling back into Crowley’s lap. Closer, and like he’s trying to get a better angle inside him. He whines and Crowley’s hands tighten, his spine going straight at the overwhelming headrush of Aziraphale’s proximity swamping him. The scent of sweat and some sort of heaven in the glow of his skin, angelic goodness; it makes Crowley’s mouth grow wet mere inches from the tantalizing curve of Aziraphale’s neck.
“Angel, you’re meant to be staying still.” He warns but his voice is so rough with wanting, so clearly undone and his hard cock betrays any potential argument that he isn’t irrevocably, incredibly turned on and eager.
Aziraphale has to know what he’s doing to him .
Aziraphale whines and Crowley bucks up into him, which just makes him whine louder. Crowley glances over Aziraphale’s shoulder just in time to see Hastur’s head snap around at the sound, looking in their direction but not recognising them through the steam and the shadows. And things could so quickly devolve into a heated feedback loop of needy noises and answering thrusts up inside of him, but not if Hastur comes closer, not if it will genuinely risk discovery.
So, instead Crowley grips his hips and makes him stop.
Aziraphale falls all the way back in a slump, his shoulder blades against Crowley’s chest, sweat-curled hair at the base of his neck tickling at Crowley’s lips and nose. It’s as though he’s a few inches taller than Crowley like this, sitting in his lap, heavy and flooding him with another wave of scent and warmth that spills between them. Aziraphale leans more heavily back against him, wide expanses of their skin pressed together from the tips of Aziraphale’s toes digging into Crowley’s calves, through the long, lean contact of thighs together, to Crowley’s sharp hips pushing into the plushness of his seated arse. Chest to back and then the unexpected bump of the ledge of the bath against Crowley’s shoulders as the weight and the lean of Aziraphale makes him settle.
Aziraphale’s whole body rolls and grinds down against him, shoulders flexing, pressing back against Crowley’s neck and chest, head falling back and mostly finding air, only Aziraphale’s chin managed to scratch at Crowley’s temple. Aziraphale makes a frustrated noise and pulls his face away, just a few inches, to twist further and look at him.
Crowley’s been imagining Aziraphale’s face this whole time but the close-up reality is strikingly gorgeous. All red-stained cheeks and rivulets of sweat; splayed, damp eyelashes and a bottom lip that’s still caught between Aziraphale’s teeth.
Crowley shuts his eyes against the onslaught even as his grip on Aziraphale’s hips loosens, allowing him to roll his hips in another sinful drag of his hole around Crowley’s cock.
“Crowley…” comes Aziraphale’s call, small-voiced but pitched high, breath tickling across Crowley’s forehead.
He opens his eyes, eyelashes fluttering as he tries to focus on Aziraphale, now nuzzling too close to see properly and grinding down in small aborted movements that Crowley thinks he can’t quite control. Aziraphale twists at the waist further, hips swiveling slightly in Crowley’s lap and the curve of his shoulder coming precariously close to catching Crowley’s jaw. Aziraphale works to look at him properly, to stay seated and connected and split open on Crowley’s cock, and still be able to see him. The shoulder that almost broke the moment with proper pain shifts and Aziraphale gets his left arm up and over Crowley’s right shoulder, his hand gripping between Crowley’s shoulder blades to steady himself.
He catches Crowley’s gaze then, grinning through his caught breath at the reconfiguration and his cheeks flushing darker. Crowley looks away before he burns up and gives in.
Hastur’s gone.
Crowley realizes it with a jolt that makes them both moan and Aziraphale’s head falls sideways to press his face into the wet mess of hair that’s increasingly escaping Crowley’s bun.
Crowley’s eyes dart quickly around the space, checking every shadowed corner and sunken bath for a hint of demonic presence. He meets the eyes of both the men in the water on the opposite side of the room in quick succession, untangled from each other and unabashedly watching Crowley and Aziraphale.
But there’s no sign of Hastur. Nor out in the main courtyard, where, now that Crowley’s focused, the volume of gossip, laughter and the slap of skin on skin, has increased. Where people are spreading back out and partaking in pleasure the way everyone was before Hastur started scattering bathers like a shark moving through a school of fish.
Hastur’s definitely gone, who knows how long ago.
There’s no longer any threat.
“Crowley…” Aziraphale says his name again, needy and whining and trying to hold still like that’s what Crowley wants.
Crowley’s mouth is dry and he can feel his heart hammering in his chest. Panic bleeding in around the pleasure. Hastur was the flimsy, moronic, ridiculous excuse for all this. A lie that they could tell themselves, and each other, even while they smirked and drank in all their naked wanting. Crowley knows that, he isn’t so stupid as to deny it in his own consciousness, but fear is still rising in him to have lost that threadbare rationale for why Aziraphale had to be stripped bare and split open on his cock. Without that rationale, they might have to face reality and the hairs on the back of Crowley’s neck stand up at the thought. Trepidation at the potential that this might all suddenly be over, that Aziraphale might ask him to stop.
For the first time in his existence, Crowley wishes Hastur would suddenly appear.
Aziraphale moans, loud and reverberating — loud enough that if Hastur was there, he would have looked over again —, and his arse clenches tight around Crowley’s cock, gripping him in wet, slick heat and Crowley can’t tell if it was deliberate or involuntary.
“You’ve been so good,” he breathes out.
The angel’s eyes spring open, his lips parting in surprise, as he leans back to catch Crowley’s eye.
Crowley grips his hips with fingers that are starting to feel numb and pruney from so long in the water, but the heat and soft give of Aziraphale’s body presses back and grounds him. He rocks the angel forward and up, lifting him easily in the water and then pulling him back down with a smooth, deep thrust. They both moan and now neither one of them can look away.
Before Crowley can do it again, Aziraphale asks breathlessly, “Can you kiss me?”
Crowley’s gaze drops to Aziraphale’s lips immediately, tilted up and right there within reach. Of course he wants to.
“Angel…” he warns instead, still not ready to look away from where Aziraphale’s mouth has dropped open, the pink cupid’s bow of it wet from the steam and sweat, and then wetter still when Aziraphale swipes his tongue across them.
Aziraphale doesn’t even know the temptation he is.
The angel’s mouth closes suddenly, pursing into a frown. “You don’t have to,” he says, mistaking Crowley’s hesitation. “You don’t have to do anything.” He pauses and licks his lips once more. “But Hastur… if he looked over and saw us kissing. He could never imagine that it would be you.”
Crowley finally looks up to his eyes, to try to read them and the little crease between. Aziraphale is offering him an out. But he’s also offering him an excuse — admittedly a flimsy excuse that no longer exists, which is something Crowley absolutely should tell Aziraphale. But, still, an excuse that would allow Crowley to press his lips up against Aziraphale’s and taste, would allow him to find out what the slide of his tongue feels like, how those little moans sound taken into his mouth and swallowed.
Slowly, carefully, Crowley loosens his hands from Aziraphale’s hips, lays them flat and moves them in slow, soothing strokes up his stomach, all the while resisting the urge to let them roam, rough and needy, in the other direction. To search out Aziraphale’s cock, which he imagines must be hard and bobbing, or further to where he could find the heavy hang of Aziraphale’s balls and tease the stretch of his rim around where he’s still buried deep.
Aziraphale squirms, impatient, and Crowley’s arms tighten around him, holding him steady. After another squeeze, one arm raises out of the water to move between them, to grasp Aziraphale’s chin between forefinger and thumb as Crowley meets his gaze once more.
He really should tell him Hastur’s gone, should ask him if he wants to keep going anyway. Instead tilts his head up, closes the distance, and presses his mouth to Aziraphale’s.
Aziraphale startles only for a moment, nails digging into the center of Crowley’s back, and then his lips go soft and part. A moan escapes him and Crowley begins to discover the feel of sounds and breath and slick this close, passed back and forth intimately, as only kissing can achieve. Crowley presses and angles, his eyes falling closed as Aziraphale lets him, welcomes him with the returned light friction of his mouth kissing back.
When Aziraphale’s tongue licks inside, it makes Crowley’s nerves catch fire, the water around them suddenly too hot, the steam too sticky, and somehow only the delicious slide of Aziraphale’s skin against his is the right kind of warmth. Broad thighs and the round heaviness of his arse, still sitting across him, all the tight, grasping heat still surrounding his cock. Aziraphale’s back and the side of his stomach pressed in a long line up the center of his chest, surely feeling every hard-fought breath and shudder as Crowley dares to lick out harder and find out what their tongues taste like pressed together.
Aziraphale whines into the kiss, the vibration tickling the roof of Crowley’s mouth as Aziraphale kisses back fiercely. The hand on Aziraphale’s chin slips down to his throat, to feel the bob and strain of the muscles there, every swallow and suck beneath his palm, around his tongue, against his lips. He holds him there, tilts his face further, wider lips and deeper licks, tasting up behind his teeth and then the lush soft crevices he explores under Aziraphale’s tongue. Crowley moans, wanton and desperate and then worse when Aziraphale’s hips roll and he starts to work himself in short, grinding stutters on Crowley’s cock once more.
Aziraphale whimpers, “ Please… ” into Crowley’s mouth and then his teeth catch at Crowley’s tongue. The hand on Crowley’s back glides up to twist and thread his fingers beneath the loosened bun of wet, dark hair, to hold him just as tightly, to keep him there and kissing. Wetter, louder, dirtier. Tongues sliding over each other rhythmically, spit slick between and around, dribbling from the corners of Crowley’s lips and passed between them in messy deep exchanges.
“Please,” Aziraphale whines again and moves his free hand down between his own legs. He moans so desperately that Crowley has to imagine he’s started stroking his own cock. Aziraphale tenses and tightens, leveraging his overworked muscles up and off and then back down onto Crowley’s cock. He lets his cock go and his arm wraps over the top of Crowley’s, their fingers interlacing, back-to-front. “Please, you promised .”
It sounds stubborn and needy.
Crowley can’t help but use the arm around Aziraphale’s waist to encourage another too-slow slide up and then back down, the miracled slickness and the water limiting the friction but the stretching, clenching reality overwhelming.
"You promised,” Aziraphale pants into Crowley’s mouth and then bites down on his bottom lip. “Please, fuck me.”
Crowley groans and growls, teeth pressing into Aziraphale’s tongue, his hand tightening around the base of Aziraphale’s throat to feel the sharp whimpered intake of breath. Before he can say anything, Aziraphale pulls his mouth back and fixes him with desperate eyes. “Hastur’s gone,” he says, voice rasping. “Please… you promised.”
Crowley has no idea when Aziraphale realized, but it doesn’t matter because what Aziraphale is giving him is another excuse — he had promised — and he can read between the lines. Those blue-grey eyes are pleading to be fucked, needing it more than either of them really needs a reason, but he’s giving Crowley one just in case.
“I did,” Crowley admits and he feels his slick, red-bitten lips spreading into a devilish grin. He kisses, off-center to the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth, slips his tongue into the crease before he pulls back.
“Up,” Crowley growls. “Off.” His hands grab at Aziraphale’s hips, at the arm slung back over his shoulder, untangling them quickly and then lifting the angel unceremoniously off his cock.
They both moan, desperate, too loud, and entirely undone at the sudden loss of physical connection: Aziraphale empty and unsatisfied, and Crowley with his cock suddenly exposed and aching in water that now feels too cool. Crowley pushes Aziraphale out into the water, forcing him to find his feet and start to turn to face him even as he whimpers, high and breathless at the loss.
They’re making too much noise, the water growing choppy and every bit of need seeping into their whines and moans, their scant exchanged pleas and commands. It’s certainly enough to be drawing attention, not just from the couple that Crowley thinks is still spectating from the nearby bath, but from the main chamber as well. It sends a thrill up his spine, something like pride at how good all of their pleasure must look, at the blasphemy that no one will realize they’re watching.
“Knees,” Crowley manages as he reaches out and pulls Aziraphale back by the hand, fingers interlacing easily and Crowley’s strength more than enough to draw him over against the bench beside him.
Crowley takes a long, centering breath, then a swallow and he doesn’t mean to moan but the way Aziraphale’s hand is clenched around his, the way his other hand has found the meat of Aziraphale’s thigh and grasped, it makes Crowley’s balls throb and his desperation spill over.
“Like this,” he says, voice rough but unyielding as he pulls Aziraphale up onto his knees on the bench beside him. Crowley slips his hand free and shifts, standing up and shifting behind him so that his feet are planted on the floor of the bath and Aziraphale is craning around to look back. Trying to settle his hands on Aziraphale’s hips, Crowley can’t stop himself from sweeping them forward and across the swell of his belly, over the soft, haired, warmth of so much skin, up to cover the spare flesh of his chest, to tweak at a nipple and then draw him slowly back, to press his own front to the curves of Aziraphale’s spine.
His cock slides easily into the cleft of Aziraphale’s arse, making the angel’s back dip and arch to angle back willingly, his eyes falling closed as he looks forward, his chin dropping to his chest as he bites out a groan.
“Crowley…”
Crowley’s hands move again, quickly now, more desperate still, up Aziraphale’s back and over his shoulders, down the lines of his arms to take his hands from the water and place them up against the edge of the bath where it’s level with the floor of the bathhouse.
When Aziraphale’s hands grasp the edge there, Crowley allows his hands to rub and run over whatever flesh they please, heavy touches along every square inch he can — biceps and thighs and spine and then, again — because he has no idea if, or when, he’ll get another chance. He grinds his cock against the line of Aziraphale’s arse, up through the water and slick, to rest against the small of his back. And then tilting his hips, angling himself down to catch his tip against the perineum, and then further to press to the underside of his balls.
Against every touch of hands or cock or skin, Aziraphale pushes back, twists and arches for more, until his knees are spread on the smooth stone bench and his arse is presented up above the rippling water line (and maybe that was a small, excusable demonic miracle, because he deserves to see this, to feel the friction undiluted), hands stretched out and elbows locked to steady himself against the tiles of the bathhouse floor.
Crowley considers the sight of him. All that pink, hot skin, creased with lines in the places the angel is softest, where he’s bent. The spread of his knees wide and willing, the heavy hang of his balls and cock, a darker shade of red between his pink thighs, and dipping into the bath below with each breath and rub back. It’s intoxicating. The hint of Aziraphale’s stretched-open hole between those two ample handfuls of arse, still looking so stretched open and slick and ready.
Crowley crowds up against him further, ruts harder, but entirely unsatisfying to either of them, into the flesh of his arse. He’s trying to re-center himself, to speed his lust-addled brain up and slow his body down. So he can make this good, make this last, and remember all of it for as long as he needs to. He lets his entire body blanket over Aziraphale’s, heavy against his spine as Crowley breathes and tries to imagine not coming for several hours more, how decadent, but impossible, that would be.
He wraps one arm around the angel’s ribs and fits his other hand around the base of his own cock. He squeezes to take the edge off and then guides the tip to stroke back and forth over Aziraphale’s hole, letting it catch on the furl of muscle, staring unblinking as Aziraphale spreads his knees wider and the tight core of him clenches and then relaxes in anticipation.
“Yes, angel?” Crowley manages to ask, still teasing his cock back and forth.
“Crowley,” falls from Aziraphale’s lips, once more. And then, “For the love of — “
Crowley cuts him off with the smooth, heavy shove of his cock inside of him. No longer under water, nothing is dulled. It’s slick and easy but every millimeter sets fire to nerves which ignite and make pleasure jump back and forth between their bodies. Just one deep, rough thrust in and it makes Crowley hiss profanely and Aziraphale moan so loud it echoes back to them.
And as Crowley finds himself once again buried in Aziraphale, despite all his re-centering and drawing this out and teasing, he has to pause and breathe deep. The hand that he’d used to guide his cock in moves to grip the muscles between Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder, holding them both steady.
“More…" comes Aziraphale’s neediness once more and the frisson of electricity it draws from Crowley is pavlovian. He feels Aziraphale tighten around his cock, the deliberate clench of all that delicious muscle, gripping him and trying to drag him in deeper. Then the release, willing him on. Then, “Move.”
Crowley swallows and, with both arms still grasping Aziraphale’s torso, draws his hips back, letting the dragging pleasure of it hollow him out, the same way he’s leaving Aziraphale empty and moaning. And then he fucks back in.
Again. Another slow, torturous slide out, as far as he dare, until he can feel Aziraphale’s hole clenching, panicking at the potential loss of Crowley’s cock popping all the way free. And then fast and deep back in. Again. More. He focuses on the movement, the repetition, as much as the feel.
His thrusts speed up, more hurried, less careful, his eagerness to feel as close and as surrounded as possible, slipping and changing the angle on every push in.
Aziraphale’s persistent whimpers and gasps, the press back of his arse to chase every pull away and to meet every push back in, make it clear that he loves this, that he is just as overcome by it as Crowley.
Aziraphale’s breath catches, hitching for a moment, and he says “Oh!” as though he’s surprised, and then, “There, just… there.”
Crowley tries to replicate the thrust but doesn’t get the same hitched breath, he tilts his hips, fucks him in half-aborted presses as he chases that pleasure-soaked ‘Oh’ again.
“Like that!” he’s told instead, high pitched and wanton and delicious, so he does it again, over and over, wringing louder moans as he drags the breath out of Aziraphale’s body, under and against him, still wrapped up and held close and overly hot.
That heat suddenly feels too much, and the desperate, humping rut Crowley is managing feels like not enough. His arms unwrap, fingers digging into every centimeter of flesh he canvasses as he straightens his back and keeps pumping his hips.
Aziraphale sags, no longer held up, Crowley realizes, so he sinks and slips and is only caught by Crowley’s hands closing around his hips, gripping him and discovering leverage he’d been missing because from here he can pull and push as he pleases, lengthening his thrusts, driving deep and grinding there to discover the noise it pulls from Aziraphale. Watching him crumple until his forehead is against the back of his arms where they’ve folded against the edge of the bath.
And Crowley can look down, can focus on the visual, on the way he can see the sound of their flesh connecting with every thrust in, can smell the sweat and condensation that he can see slicking Aziraphale’s spine and the cleft of his arse, only adding to the miracled slick that remains to ease the way for his dick. He can watch every inch of his aching, thick cock sliding inside Aziraphale, can see the way his hole takes him, the red skin of his rim pulled and stretched with every thrust in and every drag out.
His hips stutter and he suddenly feels himself close to the edge. Of coming hard and violently and the fear of whatever lies for him on the other side because it’s never felt this much, never felt this good, this deep in his balls and his guts, and never with an angel.
Never with Aziraphale.
The fear claws back a little control and with it the conscious thought that he needs to make this perfect, to make this everything, to make it so good that Aziraphale will be helpless not to seek it out again.
He sucks down gulps of air and tries to keep the whine from escaping on the exhale. He keeps fucking into him, hard and deep, because Aziraphale keeps rocking back to meet him.
And then Aziraphale turns his head against his forearms, his cheek a ruddy red, his forehead creased and sweaty, his hair a riot of twisted tufts. He squirms and casts his eyes back to meet Crowley’s, imploring, panting, with his mouth open, spit dribbling out across his fingers. He moans and Crowley growls out, “Fuck,” as his hips stutter and the coil of heavy, heady want wraps tighter in his belly.
“Up,” Crowley demands, and without waiting, reaches for him, slides an arm around his chest and hauls him back up to vertical.
He only stops thrusting for a moment, just to make sure Aziraphale is balanced and, sure enough, tipping more weight back onto his chest; too close, and all consuming. And then he starts fucking him again, fast and deep, biting his lip and doing his best not to feel all of it too much.
The new angle has Crowley pressing inside Aziraphale in a way that must feel euphoric: the head of his cock rubbing over his prostate with every thrust in, and the thick ridge that runs the length of the underside, prominent with how hard he is, dragging deliciously with every slide out. At least that’s what Crowley thinks, dimly, with the way the angel squirms and shakes even harder, with the way his hole spasms and grips Crowley’s cock, with the whimpered blasphemies that slip from his mouth each time Crowley bottoms out.
“Oh God… Oh fuck… Oh heavens … Crowley!” and “Don’t stop,” over and over and over. Aziraphale arches and spreads his legs further, reaches back with a hand suddenly available to pull his arse wide, greedy, for Crowley to fuck into it more.
Crowley can’t swallow the visceral growl that ripples up his throat. Can’t stop the frantic grab of his hand, up Aziraphale’s chest, over the column of his throat to pull his face to the side and back. Can’t help making him bend and reach, and anchor his remaining hand back into Crowley’s hair as they find an angle and mess of limbs that allows them to keep fucking, desperate and unable to stop. It affords them a moment of clarity, of bright yellow eyes meeting dark steely grey ones in affirmation that this is happening.
Crowley wants to urge him on, to tell him to come, to beg him, because he’s too close, hips stuttering and his thrusts getting shallow as his whole body boils over and his muscles cramp and twitch with how taut he’s holding himself. But when he opens his mouth his tongue is too heavy and he can’t, so instead he just cranes his head down, pushes Aziraphale’s chin up, and kisses him in an off-center, over-stretched mess of tongues and lips.
Aziraphale whines into it, kisses back uncoordinated and decadent, and then lets his teeth catch on Crowley’s tongue. Somewhere in between presses and licks, Crowley thinks he hears another plea, another ‘Please!’ and his name in a needy, breathless way that makes his stomach knot. And then, once again, “More! ”
Trying to thrust harder, deeper, trying to hold off the inevitable, it takes a moment for Crowley to register the movement of Aziraphale’s hands, one twisting, tightening in Crowley’s hair, the other letting go of the swell of his own arse — which just makes everything feel tighter and hotter and more all over again — and covering Crowley’s own where he’s doubtless leaving fresh bruises against the angel’s hip. Aziraphale’s fingers line up between his and he grasps and pulls Crowley’s hand down to his cock. He gets Crowley’s hand, still underneath his, wrapped firmly around the burning hot length of him and moans into his mouth.
And why hadn’t Crowley thought of that?
The feel of him, hot and hard, thick and contoured by pulsing veins and a delicious curve, is perfect in Crowley’s hand in all the ways an angel’s cock really shouldn’t be. It makes Crowley forget to keep kissing. It forces his hips into a momentary, staccato rhythm that feeds back tightness and too much pleasure. But as Aziraphale’s hand fits snugly over his, forming a tight fist for his cock, Crowley refocuses and makes sure that the next thrust builds friction deep inside Aziraphale, and, at the same time, wrings it from him.
Aziraphale cries out, sharp and shocked, lips falling away from where Crowley’s were barely pressed in an open constant groan. Crowley watches and feels, enraptured as his eyes and arse and fist all clench. And Crowley keeps fucking into him, stroking his cock with both their hands in time, now, his thumb pressed up the underside and swiping over the head again and again and again.
He feels Aziraphale’s whole body go rigid.
Momentary relief floods through Crowley, and then the wanting and the pleasure redoubles. He fucks in once, twice more, fists Aziraphale’s cock and lets himself get lost in the panting whimpers that Aziraphale makes as he comes, hard and pulsing, spilling thick white spurts that streak the water and the bathhouse tiles. Crowley holds still, lets Aziraphale use him however he pleases. Watches the arch of his back and feels the dribble of more down over both their hands to dirty the water beneath.
Aziraphale’s hips rock through it the entire time, back onto Crowley’s cock and then forward into their fists, working himself through his pleasure, drawing it out as much as he can until he’s spent, chest heaving and then his breath held, before he shudders out an exhale, still spread on his knees and impaled on Crowley’s cock.
Crowley goes to untangle their fingers from around Aziraphale’s dick, the tacky, slick spend dripping down their skin a new focal point. But Aziraphale catches his hand before it can travel far, wraps around his wrist and slowly brings it back to lay heavily over his stomach, pushing Crowley’s fingers and palm and the come that coats them into his skin.
“Keep going,” Aziraphale urges in a tight, rasping voice. He pushes back, grinds against Crowley’s hips, and gasps. He gets his hands back on the edge of the bath and lets his back go loose before he arches deliberately.
Crowley start to fuck into him once more, one hand anchoring Aziraphale’s chest with come-messed fingers, while the other goes back to his hip, steadies him, holds him in place, and lets himself take every last ounce of pleasure from his perfect soft, clenching, hot body.
It barely takes seconds for him to feel his hips start to stutter and fall out of rhythm again. And this time he lets them, fucks sharper and shorter into Aziraphale’s arse, squeezes his eyes shut against the headrush of blood and the impossibly tight, molten coil of his balls drawing up desperate and eager.
He buries himself inside Aziraphale, latching onto the broken whine of over-stimulation and ebbing pleasure that it draws out of him, and falls forward, pressing his teeth into the back of Aziraphale’s shoulder as he comes with a muffled groan.
He feels Aziraphale clench for him, chasing every last drop of his come as he thrusts again and again and then stills and revels in the feel of his cock twitching and pulsing, so undeniably deep and surrounded. Something unadulterated and euphoric ripples out to his fingers and toes as he realizes he’s still growling, moaning, too loud and too desperate.
Eventually he stops, stills, focuses on the overwhelming too-muchness still encompassing his cock — Aziraphale and two loads of his own come.
“Fuck,” he says into the sucked and bitten bruises he already feels guilty about leaving on Aziraphale’s shoulder blade.
Aziraphale hums something that sounds like contentment back.
Crowley doesn’t know what to do now.
The seconds drag and mostly he focuses on controlling his breathing and untangling their weight distribution without actually stepping away: getting his own feet under him solidly and feeling out where Aziraphale is leaning heavily back against his hips.
He can feel his cock getting soft and for a moment considers another quick miracle back to hardness, to just continue on, or at least to keep Aziraphale plugged up and full. Just the thought makes him groan, small in his throat, but he resists the temptation. He finally steps back, cock slipping free with an obscene squelch.
Looking back over his shoulder, Aziraphale straightens on his knees, but not before Crowley sees the trickle of stark white come out of his hole and down towards the flushed red skin of his balls. He reaches out instinctively, before he can stop himself, and pulls Aziraphale’s arse open with one hand, feeling him tense and straighten even further at the contact. Crowley quickly draws his hand back.
Crowley’s eyes race up to find Aziraphale’s, wide, shocked, and watching him.
“Let me see,” he asks before he can think better of it.
Aziraphale stares at him for several long seconds and Crowley wonders if this is what will be a bridge too far.
Slowly — too slowly to be anything but thought-out and deliberate — Aziraphale shuffles his knees back together, thighs pressing, balls caught between, and his arse still visibly tensed. Crowley holds his breath and fails to quite comprehend what is happening as Aziraphale bends at the waist, all the way down to place his cheek against the bathhouse floor, reaches back with both hands and spreads his arse wide.
“Jesus… fucking… Christ, angel,” is all Crowley can manage to say as he burns the vision into his brain. The supple flesh of thighs and cheeks, marked up with fingerprints he doesn’t entirely remember leaving, flushed red and wrinkled in strange places from too long under water. At the core of it all, Aziraphale’s tight hole, barely loosened despite an age of fucking, clenching and unclenching as the angel drips come down the backs of his legs.
Aziraphale makes another contented, sated noise from where he’s got his eyes closed, forehead resting against the tiles. And then he hums a questioning sound.
Crowley reaches for words and only manages incoherent voweless syllables on his first attempt. He reaches out to push a dribble of wetness back up Aziraphale’s leg with his thumb, a testing touch that just makes Aziraphale sigh and lean into the contact.
Crowley manages something more eloquent when he tries to speak again. “Fuck me, that’s gorgeous.”
Against all odds, Aziraphale giggles at that, wriggling his arse and shifting his fingers against his cheeks to show the white-then-red indents they’re leaving. He simply huffs out another contented sigh and remains on display, giving his arse a decent squeeze for emphasis.
Crowley grins and dares to rub his thumb up over the crease where Aziraphale’s thigh meets his arse, over his sensitive, overly slick perineum, dragging up a dripping streak of come, and easing it back inside his hole.
Aziraphale breath catches and he groans, shoving back and Crowley marvels, once again wondering if they could possibly just do this forever.
Before that thought can progress, though, there’s a sudden jeering cheer breaking into their little bubble of intimacy, louder as other voices join in. Aziraphale pulls away immediately, dropping into the water and twisting around, sitting back and low on the bench even as Crowley’s head whips around, searching out the source of the intrusion.
There are a half dozen men unashamedly watching from the archway to the main courtyard, mostly naked, mostly hard, all grinning and unabashed in their enjoyment.
“Go on, go again, put us all to shame!” one of them yells across the chamber, and several of the others joined in with various whoops and dirty compliments.
Laughter breaks through; the other couple in the bath that have always been there, talking in voices too low to quite hear but something has been said and they are both laughing, not unkindly, as they continue to watch all the action of the bathhouse play out.
Quickly, Crowley glances down at Aziraphale, chin-deep in the water, skin stained red and Crowley can’t tell if it is embarrassment or the heat of the bath or simply post-sex flush. Aziraphale grants him a lopsided smile and a bit of an eye roll.
Breathing out, Crowley flops down into the bath, fully submerging himself. Beneath the surface he allows himself a proper look at Aziraphale: still very much there, knees together and hands resting on the bench besides his thighs under the water, his cock now mostly soft and gorgeous between his legs.
Crowley reemerges, thankful to see most of the men moving back towards the main baths, only two of them remaining, distracted and already tangled up in each other as they press against a wall. Crowley pushes his hair back off his face, taking the time to pull the tie from his mostly ruined bun, gather it back up once more and knot it in place. Then he takes his place on the bench opposite Aziraphale.
Aziraphale is looking at him, unreadably.
“Thank you for hiding me from Hastur,” Crowley offers and it sounds half like a question, half like a joke.
One of Aziraphale’s eyebrows arches high and dramatic. “Thank you for…” he pauses, searching, and Crowley holds his breath. “Keeping your promise.” Aziraphale smiles, tight, proper, but cheeky.
Crowley snorts and leans his head back against the ledge. “My pleasure,” he drawls, and then they are both content to let silent seconds stretch between them once more.