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Crowley likes forearms and thighs. Thick, wide ones, to be precise. Forearms covered in white blond hair, with muscles that twitch under the weight of books being carried from a desk to a shelf. Thighs that stretch the fabric of beige slacks taut when the angel claims his spot on their park bench, or when he takes a seat at their (perpetually free) table inside the Ritz.
Some men dream of breasts, of buttocks, of hourglass silhouettes. Others dream of rough stubble, of chiseled abs, of strong, defined jaws. Crowley is not a man, and he does not dream of these things. He dreams of forearms and thighs. Thick, wide ones. Aziraphale’s forearms and thighs, to be precise.
He never tries to make sense of these feelings. For one thing, that would require some introspection, and although Crowley is not your typical demon, that’s still a bit much to ask of him. So, that’s that. He likes forearms and thighs, and if someone asked him why, he would only shrug, smile, and maybe he’d wink just for the hell of it. And that is all fine. Crowley does not need to understand why.
Being attracted to forearms and thighs isn’t wholly unheard of, anyway. Some people are attracted to hands, to shoulders, to collarbones. Some people are attracted to feet, for crying out loud!
But… knees?
“I don’t get it.” Crowley gives a graceful twirl, hiking his kilt further up his legs, then raises an eyebrow. Aziraphale’s gulp is noticeable—a jolt in his throat, the visible bob of his Adam’s Apple. “You have to explain it to me.”
The kilt is fitted and structured, woven from heavy and durable wool. Crowley doesn’t have to hike it up to show off his knees—the tailored pleats rest midway down his thighs, brushing against his bare skin as he moves. As he twirls for Aziraphale’s sake.
“I have to do no such thing,” Aziraphale says. “You, however, must come closer. And sit.”
“Sit?”
“Yes. On my lap, darling.”
Crowley snickers but he still takes a step forward, then he takes another. He makes sure to use the full length of his legs, to flaunt his kilt hose—the wool-blend socks with the fold over cuff right below the knee, their navy blue colour matching the Angus tartan of his kilt perfectly.
“You like it, then?” Crowley asks, as though the answer isn’t already obvious. He can see the way Aziraphale analyses every detail of his outfit, can feel the way Aziraphale’s eyes linger on his calves, his waist, his chest. How his gaze travels smoothly, slowly, up and down his body. Drinking it all in and savouring it to the point of licking his lips. “Thought you might.”
“Knew you would” would be more accurate. More true. Crowley picked every piece of clothing with Aziraphale in mind—the skintight, long-sleeved shirt; the kilt; the socks. He might have been acting like a little shit and teasing Aziraphale for the way he blushed beet red at the sight of his bare knees, but he wasn't truly surprised by it.
“I’ll answer that when you take your seat.” Aziraphale fixes his posture, straightening his back, wiping his palms on his thighs. He’s still blushing but he seems determined not to lose his wits, his senses. He drops a hand on the armrest of the couch, his open palm towards the ceiling, and makes a come-hither gesture with two fingers. “I want to see you up close.”
Aziraphale’s gaze darkens, in the same way fire burns hot over coals—not in impressive, intimidating flames but more like heat pouring out of him in waves.
“See me up close?” Crowley smirks, feeling the warmth of Aziraphale’s gaze spread deep within his chest, his belly. It almost makes him want to start panting like a dog. Instead he takes a deep breath and finally steps close enough to rest both hands on top of Aziraphale’s shoulders, and then he carefully takes his seat—kneeling on the couch, straddling Aziraphale’s lap, widening his stance until he fully drops his weight. “I hope you want to do more than just look, angel.”
The corner of Aziraphale’s mouth twitches up into a knowing smile. He grabs Crowley’s waist, wrapping his hands right above his hips, and squeezes.
“Do you?” Aziraphale’s thumb grazes along the path of the kilt’s red overcheck, tracing squares over Crowley’s hip and thigh. “What is it exactly you’re hoping I do?”
The tone of Aziraphale’s voice, soft yet somehow firm, makes Crowley shut his eyes, trying helplessly to unscramble the words bouncing around in his mind and form an articulate answer. It’s no use. He can feel Aziraphale’s bulge pressed against his arse, his arousal obvious, the temptation irresistible, and it’s obliterating all of his brain cells. He’s dizzy, dazed, and his blood feels heavy in his veins as it runs south to fill his budding erection.
It’s almost like he’s intoxicated.
“Touch me. Kiss me,” Crowley demands, breathless, arching his back just because. “Tell me I’m pretty.”
He means to say that last part as a joke, batting his eyelashes and grinning down at Aziraphale, but somewhere along the way the joke must lose its essence because Aziraphale’s gaze softens.
“You are devastatingly pretty, love,” he says, deadly serious. “Breathtaking. If it were up to me, you’d keep the kilt on at all times.”
“At all times?” Crowley snorts, ignoring the swell of arousal low in his belly, the surge of affection deep in his chest. “Even now? You don’t want me to…”
He starts toying with the pin at his waist, the snake brooch securing the overlapping fabric of his kilt in place, instead of using words to finish his sentence. It’s enough for Aziraphale to understand what he means.
“Don’t.” Aziraphale steadies Crowley’s hand and starts toying with the brooch himself, trailing the pad of his finger along the coiled body of the crystal-covered snake, and then he grabs Crowley’s thigh, pulling him closer. “Not yet.”
Bossy. Crowley smirks, making sure Aziraphale feels even the subtlest rolls of his hips by pressing himself flush against him, and then he lowers his mouth to the angel’s ear, taking a quick second to flick his earlobe with the tip of his tongue.
“I’m not wearing anything underneath, y’know.”
It’s a blatant, transparent, obvious attempt to drive Aziraphale mad with lust, and it works brilliantly. It triggers a storm, a whirlwind—a groan leaves Aziraphale’s mouth before he grabs a handful of Crowley’s hair and pulls him into a rushed, open-mouthed kiss, licking into his mouth like he’s trying to taste every rounded corner of it. It’s passionate, it’s hot. Crowley’s brain doesn’t turn off so much as it overheats, then promptly shuts down, any hint of rational thought instantly going up in flames.
“Fuck.” Crowley’s breath cuts short when Aziraphale grabs his arse, holding him close, digging his fingers in and bundling up the fabric of his kilt. He loves the feeling of being held like this, the obscenity of it, the fact that his arse fits into Aziraphale’s palms perfectly, and wearing nothing but a kilt only heightens the sensation. If he concentrates hard enough, he can feel the warmth of Aziraphale’s hands seeping through the wool, and he knows that it would be so easy for Aziraphale to slip his fingers under the kilt, to find his bare skin and spread his cheeks and—
“I want to make you come like this,” Aziraphale says, putting an abrupt stop to Crowley’s train of thought, but he’s definitely not mad at the interruption. He finds himself grabbing Aziraphale’s bicep as though it will stop him from spiraling, clenching down hard. It’s useless. He’s spiraling. Gone. Done for. “Just like this.”
They both moan when Crowley urgently nods his head yes and starts grinding his hips down, instinctively seeking friction and relief against Aziraphale’s belly. The bookshop turns into a blurry background. Crowley can’t focus on anything but Aziraphale’s mouth, pink lips parted in awe, or on his eyes, bright blue irises staring straight into the depths of his soul. He can’t focus on anything else until Aziraphale lets go of one arsecheek and brings his hand to their front, brushing his knuckles against Crowley’s erection, once then twice, looking only a little too smug when Crowley can’t help but whimper at the contact.
In truth, Crowley can’t focus on anything at all.
“Feels good.” He bends forwards to hide his face against Aziraphale’s neck, delirious and needy, kissing and nibbling and sucking without restraint. He can’t help but smile when it makes Aziraphale moan, and suddenly he’s inspired to give the angel a proper hickey. When he finally pulls away, he watches the dark spot bloom darker, shiny with spit, and groans. “Don’t stop, angel. Please, I need—”
Here is another instance of Aziraphale understanding what Crowley needs without him having to say it. He keeps fondling him over the kilt, wrapping his hand around his shaft without actually stroking—just holding him, as if trying to blindly memorize the shape of him under his hand, or maybe wanting to remember how much his cock weighs in his palm.
As if you aren’t quite fucking familiar with it already, Crowley thinks, laughter bubbling up his throat, but then Aziraphale lightly squeezes, fingers coiled around the base, and it immediately changes Crowley’s mind about laughing. Instead he groans, throwing his head back.
“Aziraphale, fuck, please—”
He’s squirming by now, not exactly thrusting forward or pulling away but giving short snaps of his hips, trying desperately to convince Aziraphale to give him more. He lets himself moan freely, he gasps, he kisses, he groans. But it’s seeming more and more likely that being shamelessly desperate for it is not going to cut it.
Aziraphale hums appreciatively, then smiles the most wicked smile Crowley has ever seen grace his lips.
“You’re gorgeous,” Aziraphale says. “And so sweet to indulge me like this.”
“M’starting to regret it.” It’s a lie, because how could Crowley ever regret doing something to please Aziraphale? Whether it be wearing a kilt or taking stains out of his clothes with the use of a quick miracle, whether it be saving a bag of books from assured destruction or letting himself be teased and played with for hours without finding release—he would do anything. “Thought you’d have your mouth on me by now.”
Crowley would rather not have to wait hours before finding release. Yes, he’d do it, he’d let it happen, and he’d probably enjoy it, but right now, he’d rather not. He’s been overwhelmingly turned on ever since Aziraphale told him he wanted to see him up close. Hell, maybe ever since he put the damn kilt on.
“I told you I wanted to take my time admiring you, did I not?” Aziraphale, the lovable bastard, sounds as composed as ever, patient and calm and not at all on the verge of surrendering. Except Crowley knows better, because he can feel hard evidence to the contrary pressed right up against his arse.
He’s starting to feel slightly impatient.
Very impatient.
“Angel, for the love of—” Crowley cuts himself off. Turns out he doesn’t know how to finish that thought. Deeper than that, he doesn’t have the neural capacities to finish that thought.
“Yes?” Aziraphale smiles, trailing his fingers down to find Crowley’s inner thigh, slipping his hand under the kilt. Slowly, far too slowly, he runs his hand up until he delicately wraps his fingers around the base of Crowley’s cock. “For the love of…?”
“Fuck.” Crowley’s heart is going wild, pumping madly, hard thumps that reverberate through his ribcage, deep in his loins. He’s so hard. So ready. “Fuck.”
“For the love of fuck?” Aziraphale giggles.
“Fuck off angel, please touch me.”
“I am touching you.”
“I mean—fuck.”
“You mean fuck me?”
“I mean fuck, I love you.”
Aziraphale says it back with a tight stroke up and down his cock and a hot breath exhaled against his lips—I love you, I love you. He says it back by mouthing it against Crowley’s cheek and picking up the pace, by gathering some slick with the swipe of his thumb and spreading it down then up, by grinning with all his teeth before he catches Crowley’s lips in a passionate, uncoordinated kiss.
Crowley loses it. He falls apart, quickly, like Aziraphale’s pulling on a loose thread of his being and watching him unravel at maddening speed. Making him unravel until his head is spinning. The promise of bliss is overpowering, too difficult to resist or to keep at bay. One moment Crowley’s kissing Aziraphale senseless, a moment later he is panting into Aziraphale’s mouth, every other breath paired with a moan, with a groan.
He looks down at himself and yet another lewd moan escapes him when he sees how fast Aziraphale’s hand is moving under the kilt. His sleeve rolled up, the tension visible in his forearm, his movements controlled and deliberate—Aziraphale knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s mesmerising to watch. Mind blowing.
Heart stopping.
Crowley is on the brink of rapture and the more he looks down, the more it feels like his heart does stop.
His orgasm hits him like the overlying slab of a size five avalanche slamming hard into him, sending him off the edge of a cliff. The only difference is that instead of plummeting wildly to his death, he floats. He flies.
“Aziraphale—”
He isn’t even sure how he manages to speak the four syllables of Aziraphale’s name without messing it all up and making it sound like a jumbled mess. Maybe part of it is muscle memory, or maybe it was always meant to happen. As if the angel’s name was always meant to fall off Crowley’s lips as he hit the highest peak of his climax.
“Oh, Crowley. Darling. Beautiful.”
And maybe Crowley’s name was always meant to be whispered endearingly by Aziraphale, always meant to be followed by a soft-spoken darling as he coaxed the last of his release out of him.
The reverse side of the kilt catches all of the mess, saving Aziraphale’s clothes from temporary ruin. Crowley smiles to himself, thinking about how convenient that is for the angel, but he also knows that he would have miracled it all off anyway. Not immediately, though, just as he doesn’t miracle himself clean right away, because despite how obscene and filthy it is, how sticky and indecent it feels, there’s something deeply satisfying about it. Something strangely fulfilling about knowing that Aziraphale made him make such a mess of himself.
“Gorgeous.” Aziraphale keeps complimenting him, peppering kisses along his jaw as Crowley slowly floats back into his body. “Breathtaking, love.” He removes his hand from under the kilt and pulls away a little, only to have the space to lick his fingers clean. Fuck. Crowley moans at the sight. “You can stand up now.”
Crowley mumbles, deliberately making himself heavier, unwilling to move for the foreseeable future, but Aziraphale nudges him on the side.
“C’mon, dear. Stand up.”
“But my legs are weak.” Crowley protests, burying his face deeper into Aziraphale’s neck. He feels so fucking good right now. He just wants Aziraphale to hold him close and let him simmer in the feeling for a while longer. And it’s not that Aziraphale isn’t doing that, he’s definitely holding him, he’s even running a hand up and down his back, but he’s also telling him to stand up, and he should know better than to think that’s possible at the moment.
“And my arse is numb,” Aziraphale retorts with a snort, clearly smiling. “I’d also like you to get down on your knees,” he adds.
Crowley cannot possibly describe the sound that comes out of him then. It’s midway between a grumble and an eagerly agreeing grunt. The thought of having Aziraphale in his mouth is enough for him to muster the strength to straighten his spine and push himself off Aziraphale’s lap, giving him a quick, sloppy peck on the lips before slithering to the floor.
“M’gonna get rug burns on my damn knees.” Crowley hasn’t forgotten that he isn’t wearing anything to protect them from the discomfort of the rough cotton on his bare skin. His socks aren’t high enough up his legs. He feels it’s worth it to address it.
“Just don’t move too much,” Aziraphale suggests with a little shrug, and Crowley, already on the floor with his hands on Aziraphale’s thick, wonderful thighs, tilts his head to the side and pouts.
He knows how irresistible he is. How irresistible he can be to Aziraphale.
“… Cushion?” Crowley eyes one of the pillows on the couch, raising his eyebrows and pouting even more dramatically than before.
Aziraphale sighs, like he’s unsure about it, but then he smiles, and he reaches down to twirl a strand of Crowley’s hair around his finger.
“Fine,” he says. “I wouldn’t want you to hurt your pretty knees.”
Crowley cackles, hands shaking as he starts fighting with Aziraphale’s belt buckle. A plump cushion falls to the floor, right next to him.
“You and my damn knees.”