Chapter Text
“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasps as Crowley manoeuvres their rental between two slower vehicles. “You do realize they drive on the right side of the road here in America.”
“Didn’t go over the lines . . . much,” Crowley mutters, honking at the line of traffic that has suddenly appeared in front of them. The Pacific Coast Highway, or PCH, as the locals call it, is almost as bad as the M-25, but at least it’s more scenic. The view in the car isn’t bad, either. He glances at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye, taking in the casual white linen suit, a departure from his usual Victorian waistcoat and jacket. The fine-woven fabric drapes fetchingly over his shoulders and hugs his thick thighs, and Crowley itches to reach over and feel it for himself. So he does. He can do that now.
He presses the brake and the Tesla slows to a crawl; his fingers crawl too, right over to that plush thigh to give it a squeeze. Aziraphale’s hand covers his own, warm and soft. The atmosphere here is brighter than in England, the air drier. It suits Aziraphale, Crowley thinks, this California light. He could almost be a movie producer out for a Sunday drive, save for the way his brow furrows in consternation whenever Crowley weaves the Tesla too close to oncoming traffic.
“Oh, we’re going to be dreadfully late for the wedding,” Aziraphale says. “This traffic is terrible.”
“Told you, angel,” Crowley says with a shrug. “You’re the one who insisted we come.”
“It’s only right. They’re our friends. Plus—” Aziraphale continues before Crowley can protest he’s only met them twice. “—beach weddings are lovely.”
“You ever been to one?”
Aziraphale clears his throat. “I’ve seen them in films.”
“Well, you’re not going to go to this one, either, if we don’t do something about this,” Crowley says, gesturing to the snaking line of cars sparkling in the afternoon light, emitting, unbeknownst to their drivers, a low hum of ‘let’s be late’ into the May sky.
“Won’t you do the honours, dear?”
Crowley blows out a dramatic sigh; it’s only for appearances of course. He lives for indulging his angel, and Aziraphale knows it. With a snap of his fingers, the cars in front of them all pull to the side of the road to make room for the sudden approach of an oncoming emergency vehicle. Crowley doesn’t waste any time, pulling the Tesla into line behind it. The car handles a little more easily than the Bentley, but it lacks character. The fact that it’ll let him play music other than Queen isn’t enough to make up for this deficiency. Plus, it doesn’t make any noise at all, which isn’t much fun—though as a demon, he should probably like the idea of being able to sneak up on people unawares.
The obstruction circumvented, the rest of the drive passes without incident—if you don’t count Aziraphale scanning through every Southern California radio station trying to find something other than be-bop to listen to (which Crowley most assuredly does). Still, he bites his weird tongue and puts his hand back on Aziraphale’s thigh.
They get to their destination with five minutes to spare. It turns out that a wiccan beach wedding is pretty much what you’d expect. There are minimal decorations, most of them from the sea itself—bits of driftwood and seaweed, strings of shells draped haphazardly among the white folding chairs. Anathema wears a gauzy pale violet dress and a wreath of flowers in her long, loose hair. Newt looks a little less ravishing in his brown suit—to represent the earth, maybe? Hard to tell. Everyone, about forty guests in all, crowds around the lucky couple on the sand, where they exchange vows and rings under the direction of a person named Saint, who smiles benignly and offers some sort of benediction to the goddess after they’re done.
Crowley, the only one in the whole assemblage wearing all black, does a very good job of not rolling his eyes behind his Ray-Bans, and Aziraphale seems positively jubilant for these people they hardly know, but who are nonetheless inextricably linked to them because of the day they all saved the world. The stand at the back of the crowd and hold hands, and watch as Newt and Anathema, newly married, wade into the sea laughing.
It’s cool in spite of the sun, and the sea breeze is really more of a wind that whips Aziraphale’s hair into a froth. He looks beautiful, happy and calm, accepting a celebratory glass of champagne from a young woman in a wide-brimmed hat who seems to materialize out of nowhere. Crowley wishes they were alone, so he could taste the sunkissed and salty bit of skin at the base of Aziraphale’s throat.
“The water looks nice, doesn’t it?” Aziraphale says. “Should we go swimming? I didn’t bring my bathing costume, but I’m sure one could be procured at a shop in town.”
Crowley smirks. “I don’t think they have the kind you’re used to, angel. You might just have to miracle yourself a suit. A wetsuit, probably. That water’s freezing, you know.”
Aziraphale frowns and nods. “You’re probably right.”
“But don’t let that stop us,” Crowley says to get rid of the frown. “Can’t be any colder than the water in England.”
Aziraphale beams and sips his champagne.
A few minutes later, Anathema and Newt, wet to the waist and shivering, their arms tangled around each other, emerge from the sea. They look ridiculous. Crowley feels his mouth turn up into a genuine smile and lets it sit upon his features, briefly.
“Oh Mr. Fell! Mr. Crowley! We’re so glad you’re here.” Anathema comes forward and embraces Aziraphale, who is all smiles as she pulls away, though she leaves his pristine linen suit jacket sandy and damp. “I wondered if you’d come.”
“Yes, my dear, we wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
Crowley snorts. “Well, maybe for the world.”
Anathema’s sharp eyes dart from Aziraphale back to Crowley. “And you got my—and Agnes’s—note?”
“We did indeed.” Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand again, and if there had ever been any doubt regarding their relationship, Crowley sees it vanish from her eyes, replaced by a sincerely pleased expression. He decides he doesn’t mind her.
“And how are you? How’s the bookshop?”
“I sold it, my dear. We’re moving. Found a lovely little place on the South Downs,” Aziraphale continues, raising an eyebrow and lowering his voice unnecessarily. “You must come visit when you have the chance.”
“Oh, we will!” says Anathema. “I’ve always wanted to see the coast of England.”
Newt claps his hand against Crowley’s shoulder, and then looks just as startled as Crowley is himself, withdrawing it awkwardly to wrap around Anathema. “You’ll come to the party, won’t you?” Newt aims the question at Aziraphale.
“Lead on, dear boy.”
The reception continues back at Anathema’s childhood home, a surprisingly modern house perched cliffside overlooking the Pacific. They don’t know anyone else; Adam and his friends were invited but couldn’t come because of school. Most of the guests seem to be close friends or relatives. A pretty woman who introduces herself as Anathema’s mother is the only other person who greets them by name, giving them both a knowing look, probably not unlike that of Agnes Nutter.
“My daughter tells me you collect rare books, Mr. Fell,” she says, hooking her arm in the crook of Aziraphale’s. “Please allow me to show you my collection.”
“I would be honoured.”
“And you, Mr. Crowley. I hear you are a fan of rock music? Perhaps you would be interested in seeing my signed guitars.”
“Sure,” Crowley says, and takes her other arm. She has obviously been instructed to make them feel at home.
The party isn’t terrible. As it goes on, Crowley lounges in the corner with a bottle of wine while Aziraphale flits around performing a series of minor miracles to keep the best wine flowing and the food fresh and warm.
It’s amusing to watch him talk to people he doesn’t know; everyone likes him, everyone thinks he’s sweet and odd. He’s both of those things, of course, but that is only a tiny part of the story. It makes Crowley feel proud that he’s the one who knows Aziraphale best, that he is the only one who will ever know him so well. His husband—even that word doesn’t seem to encompass all that they are to each other. Human words never could.
An hour or so into the party, Aziraphale rejoins him with a fresh glass of champagne for them both. “Having fun, darling?”
“Ah, it’s not really my scene, but it’s not bad. How about you?”
“Simply delightful. But I would really rather be spending this time with you. Alone.” Aziraphale lowers his voice so there can be no mistaking his meaning.
Crowley raises an eyebrow. “You get randy at weddings, angel?”
“I suppose I do. It’s all the love, you see.” He spreads his hands across Crowley’s chest and leans in for a kiss. The mark tingles under his touch—the soul mark that is etched onto Crowley’s skin. In response, Crowley puts his arm around Aziraphale’s waist and slips his hand under the linen jacket, pressing it just above the line of his trousers, and Aziraphale shudders slightly. His mark is particularly sensitive, especially when he’s feeling amorous.
“Maybe we should pay our respects,” Crowley says, smiling a little against Aziraphale’s lips.
“Yes, let’s do.”
They say their goodbyes to Anathema, her mother, and Newt, then slip away unnoticed by the rest of the guests, who will not even remember them in the morning. It’s usually better that way, to ensure no one starts asking questions about the unlimited supply of champagne or the two men that no one had ever seen before.
Outside, it’s twilight, and the sky is a brilliant shade of red and orange, partially obscured by the sea fog rolling in. The breeze is much cooler now; probably not a good night for swimming, then. That can wait until tomorrow.
They drive to their hotel—a 5-star just down the coast in Santa Monica with a miraculously available penthouse suite overlooking the ocean.
“This is opulent,” Aziraphale remarks quietly as Crowley hands off the keys and a generous tip to the valet. He sounds pleased, though, his cheeks slightly pink from the cool night air.
Crowley shrugs, feeling the heat creep up the back of his neck. Aziraphale may have insisted they attend the wedding, but Crowley had taken over planning after that. And he has a few more things in store. “Everywhere else was fully booked.”
Aziraphale gives him a look. “Indeed.”
The suite is almost absurdly lavish; a huge king-sized bed resplendent in red and gold dominates the master bedroom. There is a kitchen and a sitting room, and a balcony with chairs for lounging. In the closet, Crowley discovers two fluffy hotel robes and leaves one on the bed for Aziraphale while he explores.
The bathroom is modern, with a huge tiled shower big enough for two and a hot tub that would probably fit most of Lower Tadfield. Crowley is contemplating the possibilities when Aziraphale appears behind him, a warm presence at his back.
“You really do spoil me, my dear.”
“You like it?”
Aziraphale answers by plucking the buttons on his shirt open, one by one, his well-manicured fingers practiced now after almost a year of doing this. “Please, allow me to spoil you in return.”
Crowley isn’t going to say no. He sighs into the touch, feels himself hardening as Aziraphale kisses his neck and jaw, slips his hands down to undo the fly of his tight black trousers.
“No pants, I see,” Aziraphale tuts, closing his hand around Crowley’s half-hard prick. He gives it a few slow strokes, and Crowley shivers and turns in Aziraphale’s arms to lick at the shell of his ear. It doesn’t take long before he’s aching and it’s clear they’re both wearing too many clothes. He makes an impatient sound and tugs Aziraphale’s shirt out from his trousers.
Aziraphale lets him go long enough to help. His cock springs up, freed from the confines of his pants, and Crowley reaches out to touch the velvety soft skin, the hardness firm against his palm. The shower beckons. Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand and leads him toward it, across the grey slate floor and into the cavern of the shower, grey tiles ringed by white. There is a bamboo bench inside, sturdy and wide enough for two, that will be just perfect for what Crowley has in mind. He urges Aziraphale to sit, turns on the water from each showerhead, and kneels between Aziraphale’s legs on the shower floor.
“I’m supposed to be the one spoiling you,” Aziraphale gasps as Crowley slides him into his mouth.
Crowley can’t talk, so he shrugs. He has plans for every available surface of the hotel suite, and he’s not one to keep score.
Hot steam fills the room; Aziraphale runs his hands through Crowley’s hair, which is getting long again, and when wet nearly touches his shoulders. Crowley blinks away the shower spray and gets to work, moving Aziraphale’s cock in and out of his mouth in slow, deep slides. The slate is hard under his knees, just verging on uncomfortable, but Crowley hardly cares with the way Aziraphale is petting him, running his hands over his cheeks, touching his mouth at the edge to feel the slide of himself there.
Aziraphale favors a fat cock. It’s not as long as Crowley’s, but it’s the perfect size to stretch his lips around, pink and pretty, just like the rest of him. He knows Aziraphale likes watching, so he makes a bit of a show of it, licking the slick head and getting it nice and wet. Hot water sluices down his back and runs in rivulets over his shoulders. It feels incredibly decadent to be on his knees like this in the bath, reminds him of things he’d done in Rome, only it is so much better to be with Aziraphale and no one else.
He sucks Aziraphale until he is shuddering, his thighs tense with need. Crowley digs his fingers into the supple flesh and watches through his wet eyelashes as Aziraphale approaches his climax.
“My dear, I—”
Crowley pulls off. “Want you to fuck me tonight, angel. Will you do that for me?”
“In . . . in here?” Aziraphale’s eyes are wide.
“I’ll take care of everything.” Crowley presses two kisses to the insides of Aziraphale’s thighs, then stands. With Aziraphale sitting on the bench and their natural height difference, Crowley is pretty sure he has this covered. He miracles a generous amount of oil and reaches to stretch himself as Aziraphale watches, eyes going even wider.
“You’re so experimental.”
Crowley rolls his eyes and turns around, moving until he is seated in Aziraphale’s lap, back to front. He wriggles his arse from side to side, and Aziraphale’s cock rubs against him. He sucks in a sudden breath as he is breached.
“Ohhh,” Aziraphale says with a drawn-out sigh. “This is very nice.”
“Ngk,” Crowley agrees, working his hips back and forth until he is fully seated. The stretch is magnificent, and Crowley feels Aziraphale deep inside of him, the hot water and steam cocooning them from the rest of the world. The angel’s hands are on his waist, gripping firmly, proprietarily.
If only Gabriel could see them now.
He can barely stifle a laugh, and Aziraphale makes a bemused sound. “What are you laughing about?”
“Tell you later. It’s . . . it’s a mood killer, let’s just say.” He leans back and takes his cock in hand.
“Oh, my dear. You feel so wonderfully good. Would . . . can you please . . .?”
“Are you trying to tell me to hurry up and fuck you, Aziraphale?”
“Ah—yes.”
“Say it, then.”
“Hmm?”
“Tell me what you want.” His own body is eager for movement, craves the drag of Aziraphale’s thick cock, but he can wait. He’s been waiting for this night for months. “You would think that after watching all of that pornography, you’d be a little more forthcoming with the dirty talk.”
This is a little game they play. Aziraphale has lost most of his shyness in bed, but he still likes Crowley to tease the words out of him. To tempt him. Crowley is always happy to oblige.
Aziraphale shifts his hips, obviously trying to move, but Crowley is flush against him and there’s no purchase for his feet on the slippery shower floor. Crowley is the only one who can reach, and thus Aziraphale is at his mercy, tender though it is.
“Come on, angel. I want to hear you say it.”
Aziraphale runs his hands up and down Crowley’s sides, hugs him closer to pinch his nipples, and of course, runs his hand over the mark on Crowley’s chest. Crowley shudders as warmth blossoms there. “Very well. Please fuck yourself on me, dearest. I’d be ever so much obliged.”
“You can do better than that.”
A dramatic sigh. “Very well, you old serpent. If you don’t ride my cock right now, I’m going to take you to bed and give you a thorough seeing-to.”
“That sounds great, actually. But I’ll take the point.” This whole thing was, after all, his idea, and he wants to see it through. He starts to move, rising and falling in a quick rhythm that makes them both groan. Aziraphale is hard as an iron bar inside of him, and every slide of his cock hits Crowley exactly where he wants it. The shower is almost unbearably steamy now, and Crowley can’t see much, can only feel the thick drag of Aziraphale’s prick as he pulls himself off. He jerks his cock quickly, knowing Aziraphale won’t last from the way he is panting and moaning, and really, wanting to get out of the shower. Exotic sex scenarios are almost always less exhilarating in practice than they are in fantasy. Give Crowley a soft, dry bed any day, and a warm angel to fill it.
Still, there is something almost illicit about doing it like this. Aziraphale is obviously having a good time. He gives a warning cry, and Crowley slams his hips down. Their skin slaps wetly together as Aziraphale shakes and grips him hard, coming deep inside him.
Crowley lets himself glide over the edge, settling down into Aziraphale’s lap as his orgasm overtakes him. His toes curl as he pulses, and the shower conveniently washes everything away. Aziraphale mouths at his neck, whispering sweet nothings—which is a stupid term for it, really, because to Crowley those words are everything. He moves his head for an awkward kiss, and then, with some effort, he disengages and helps Aziraphale to stand.
They hold each other for a moment, and then Aziraphale snaps his fingers to dispel the steam and shut off the water.
“Well,” he says, his soft hair plastered against his forehead. “I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.”
Crowley chuckles. “They’re supposed to have a few things for us in the fridge. Come on, angel, get dry. I’ll go see what we’ve got.”
After miracling one of the fluffy white robes into his preferred colour—he does have a reputation to uphold, if only to himself—Crowley prowls into the kitchen and finds the fruit, cheese, chocolate, and wine he’d requested. He makes up a plate and grabs two glasses, snagging the bottle under his arm.
Aziraphale is waiting for him in the bed wearing his white robe. His drying hair fluffs around his ears, skin still pink and soft. Crowley feels his renewed interest stirring and wonders if Aziraphale might make another effort, sooner rather than later.
“Oh my dear! Look at that.” Aziraphale claps his hands together as Crowley sets the food down in the center of the bed. He pours the wine and watches with bemusement as Aziraphale nibbles a bit of this and a bit of that. Then, suddenly, his angel turns to him with a strange expression on his face.
“Crowley.”
“Hmm? What’s up?”
“Is this . . .” He gestures around the room. “Are you taking me on a honeymoon?”
Crowley feels his face flush, takes a deep sip of wine to dispel it. “Dunno. Hadn’t really thought about it.”
“You’re a horrible liar, my dear.”
“I am not! Take that back right now.”
“You are when it’s me.”
“I guess that’s probably true,” he admits begrudgingly. “Anyway, yeah, you got me.” He chances a sidelong look, and Aziraphale is beaming.
“Thank you.”
“Ssss no problem.”
“Come here, darling.” Aziraphale sets down his wine glass. The hungry glint is back in his eyes, but this time, it’s clearly not for food. He opens his robe, and Crowley is treated to the sight of clean, voluptuous angel with a soft thatch of hair between his legs. His throat goes dry.
“How long do we have the room?” Aziraphale asks as they find their way together.
“As long as we want it.”
“But your plants back home—”
“I took care of it, angel.”
“Oh. Oh!” Aziraphale cries out as Crowley moves between his legs. He is already wet, his little cunt perked up and ready.
“Well. I suppose we might stay for a few days.”
“At least.” Crowley sinks into him with a quiet groan.
Aziraphale throws his head back. “Or maybe a week,” he says on a sigh.
“As long as you want.”
“I would really like to take a swim tomorrow. Or perhaps go to the Getty.”
His angel is too coherent for Crowley’s liking. He reaches down between them to find the place where they’re joined and rubs his fingers over Aziraphale’s aroused clit.
“I’ve heard that the Griffith Park Observatory is q-quite nice. Oh, just there, my dear. And of course, we must get tacos. Mmmm a bit slower.”
Crowley circles his fingers in just the right way, feels Aziraphale spasm around him. “If we’re done, sure.”
“If, oh Crowley, you demon.”
Crowley smiles into the warm crease of Aziraphale’s neck as he starts to move. He might be a demon, but he always has the best ideas.