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The first time Crowley wears a kilt, Aziraphale almost walks into a wall. He sees him out of the corner of his eye, and the way his hips sway as he saunters (because that’s what he does. He doesn’t walk, he saunters ), makes his heartbeat resound in his ears.
He manages to stop before crashing, but unfortunately Crowley sees it and wraps his arms around him to steer him away. His touch doesn’t exactly calm the way his heart s beating though, and when they finally find a place to sit, he downs a glass of wine as if it was water and is eternally grateful for the table obscuring his view of the kilt. And Crowley’s view of his tented trousers …
The second time Crowley wears a kilt, Aziraphale has been warned beforehand. They are in Scotland after all. But the warning does nothing to calm the way his entire body starts buzzing at the sight of Crowley’s hairy legs poking out of the fabric, his knees just discernible at the right angle. And then there’s the way the kilt fits on his slinky hips. It’s like he’s begging for Aziraphale to reach out and wrap his fingers around him, pulling him close as he finally gets to explore what he is (or isn’t, God-willing) wearing underneath.
Crowley puts on a ridiculous Scottish accent as they explore the city, but Aziraphale doesn’t mind, because every time he gets to walk behind him, he has a rather wonderful view of the way the kilt accentuates his backside.
By the time they make it back to their hotel, he’s so horny he almost propositions Crowley, but he doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable, and he’s terrified what it would mean for their fragile friendship if he actually crossed the line (even if he’s been wanting to cross it for centuries).
Once his door is closed (and locked) he pulls down his trousers, grabs his cock, closes his eyes and imagines getting to explore what’s underneath the demon's kilt.
He comes in seconds, miracling away the proof with embarrassment and pulling on his trousers again.
The third time, he almost caves.
It’s the 1980’s and Crowley has convinced him to go to a discotheque . They meet at the address, and Aziraphale almost blacks out when he sees him.
Of course, he’s wearing his usual suit, but Crowley’s wearing a black tank top in some sort of mesh. It’s tight on his chest, and the fabric doesn’t hide anything, which is why it takes him a while to even discover the kilt. His nipples are hard beneath the fabric, and he feels his fingers twitch to reach out and touch.
When he finally manages to tear his eyes from his chest, he follows the visible line of hair downwards. It’s the same kilt he’s worn before (he knows because he’s spent an inordinate amount of time staring at it, and in intervening years, imagining it), but the mesh top really makes it clear how well it fits his hips.
He’s drooling and he can’t even stop himself.
“Ready, Angel?”
He nods, trying to pry his eyes from him, but unable to.
“I take it you like my outfit?” Crowley smirks.
He forces himself to meet his gaze, hoping his eyes don’t betray just how much he likes it.
“It’s quite comely, I suppose.”
Crowley laughs, grabs his hand and pulls him towards the entrance.
They spend all night being jostled and prodded and poked by drunk, sweaty men, and he doesn’t enjoy it one bit. At least, that’s what he’ll tell Crowley when they finally escape the damp darkness, because he doesn’t think he’ll survive another night in such close proximity to him.
He feels sweaty and on edge and every time he tries to put some distance between them, he’s pushed back by an equally sweaty body.
Crowley seems to be enjoying himself. He’s swaying to the rhythm of the horrid music, a drink in one hand, the other thrown around Aziraphale’s shoulder, keeping him close. He wishes he’d worn something else. He’s so sweaty he almost feels drenched.
“Relax, Angel,” Crowley yell-whispers right into his ear, and Aziraphale feels it like a chill down his spine.
“It’s too hot,” he yells back and Crowley laughs, turning towards him so their chests are aligned.
“You could take off some clothes,” he says, and sends Aziraphale a look that makes him shiver.
“I can’t.” He pauses, staring at the demon’s lips, so close to his own.
“‘Course you can,” and then Crowley starts tugging at his jacket, pulling it over his shoulders. He raises an eyebrow, but Crowley continues. He unbuttons his vest, tugging it off as well, and then he starts on his shirt.
“Wait,” he reaches for his hand, holding it in place against his chest.
“Aw, come one Angel. Show some skin,” he winks and Aziraphale allows him to unbutton the rest of his buttons. But just as he’s about to push the shirt from his shoulders, he grabs his hands again.
“No. This is enough,” he whispers, but Crowley still manages to hear it over the music. He lets go of his hands, and Crowley touches his chest with light fingertips, letting them run over his sweaty skin with reverence.
Aziraphale feels someone bumping into his back, so he takes a step forward, bringing his chest in direct contact with the mesh of Crowley’s shirt. He cannot believe he’s half-naked in public. But he’s a bit intoxicated and no one seems to notice anything. He, on the other hand, is feeling everything at once. The mesh of Crowley’s shirt feels itchy against his skin, but the warmth emanating from the demon gives him goosebumps. He’s desperate to reach out for him, to wrap his arms around him. To kiss him. To touch him.
He wants so much. Has wanted for so long. And the way Crowley is looking at him makes him think that maybe …
He reaches a hand up to his waist. Wraps his fingers around him. Meets his eyes.
But just as he’s about to lean in, the lights come on and they both squint upwards.
“COPS!” someone yells and even though he’s quite certain they’ve done nothing wrong, both he and Crowley make their way towards the exit.
As soon as they’re outside, the cold air makes him come to his senses. He immediately buttons up his shirt, feeling embarrassed.
Crowley looks almost disappointed as he notices, but neither of them say anything about it as they make their way to the bookshop.
When they’ve said their goodnights, Crowley leans in and places a soft, lingering kiss on his cheek, and Aziraphale forgets to breathe for a second.
And if he follows Crowley’s kilt-clad ass as he walks away, no one will ever know.
The fourth time is just a few days after the third one. He shows up at the bookshop in a sensible henley, a leather jacket and a kilt, carrying a cardboard box.
“I brought cake,” he says, offering Aziraphale the box.
He opens the door to him absentmindedly, following every movement of the kilt as he walks. His sporran is moving as well, and it’s like a neon sign pointing towards the thing that Aziraphale can’t stop thinking about.
He has no idea what kind of cake Crowley brought, but he stuffs his face with it to stop his mouth from doing other stupid things, such as telling him exactly how often he’s thought about him wearing nothing but the kilt.
They lounge around the bookshop for the rest of the day, and eventually Aziraphale manages to stop imagining ways in which he can get his hand on the demon. It takes quite a bit of wine though. Which, in hindsight, could have gone either way.
When Crowley eventually leaves, he sobers up and spends the rest of the night reading about Scottish highlands and listening to bagpipes on his record player. He’s a cliché, and he wishes he could stop himself.
The fifth time is 20+ years later. They’re not talking and he hasn’t seen Crowley in months, and frankly, he misses him. He would never admit that, though.
Instead, he’s decided to wait him out on their usual bench in St. James’ Park. He’s wearing a pair of round sunglasses, hoping he looks as incognito as he feels (spoiler alert: he doesn’t), when Crowley suddenly appears. He doesn’t come up to him, instead deciding to take a perch on a bench close enough for Aziraphale to really get a good look at him.
And that’s when he realises he’s wearing a kilt. He’s leaning back on the bench as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, his legs spread slightly, his knees peeking out from beneath the fabric. Aziraphale feels his mouth water at the sight, and he almost loses his resolve. He pretends to read the paper in his hands, but instead, he’s glancing over at the demon.
He forgets why they’re not talking. It was probably something stupid. It always is. But it felt very important when it happened. But he’s missed him and now he’s wearing that bloody kilt, and every part of him feels like it’s on fire.
And then it dawns on him. Crowley knows. He’s doing this on purpose, but he’s forgetting who he’s dealing with. He’s not giving in just because Crowley is dressed like he’s starring in one of his fantasies.
Instead, he gathers up an insane amount of willpower (he has no idea where he gets it from), rises to his feet and walks the opposite way.
And so what if he regrets it the second he steps in through the door of the bookshop. He won.
Winning doesn’t feel as good as it normally does, though.
Later that night, there’s a loud knock on the bookshop door. He’s in his pajamas, no intention of sleeping, but enjoying the softness of it as he lounges in his bed, reading.
He runs down the stairs, alarmed at the continued knocking.
“Let me in Angel,” Crowley yells. “I know you’re in there.”
He rushes to the door, pulling it open to reveal Crowley, incredibly drunk and still wearing the kilt. He swallows a lump in his throat at the sight.
“Crowley?”
“Why didn’t you say hi earlier,” the demon pouts, sauntering into the bookshop, his rhythm affected by the alcohol.
“I didn’t see you,” he attempts.
“Bullshit,” Crowley turns to him, pointing a finger into his chest. “I know you saw me. You were practically eye-fucking me over that paper.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he says, feeling slightly embarrassed.
“Oh, shut up. I know what it does to you when I wear a kilt. I’ve seen the way you look at me. I know it drives you wild,” he smirks. “I know you’re desperate to find out what I’m wearing underneath.”
Aziraphale feels his face flush and his eyes getting big. “I-”
“I knew it,” Crowley says, licking his lips.
“That’s not … I …”
“Cat got your tongue?” The demon walks closer to him, pushing him up against the front door. His pajama-clad back connects with the cold glass, and he feels the air leave his lungs. “Perhaps I should see if I can find it?” Crowley says, his hands grabbing Aziraphale’s face with surprisingly gentle fingers. He leans forward, capturing his lips in a searing kiss, and Aziraphale feels like he’s drowning in the sensation, his hands finding their perch against the door. He wants to touch the demon, but he’s drunk, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop himself if he finally gets to cross that line.
Crowley pushes his tongue into his mouth, letting the kiss turn absolutely filthy, and Aziraphale feels his body react. His hands hover in the air for a moment before pushing at him. He wants this so much, but he doesn’t want it like this. He wants them both to be sober, for one.
“Wait,” he says, feeling out of breath. “You’re drunk.”
“So what?” Crowley asks, placing kisses down his throat, making Aziraphale’s skin burn.
He almost gives in. He lets himself enjoy it for a few seconds, his hands grabbing Crowley’s waist, running his thumbs in circles against the fabric, wanting desperately to pull his shirt out, so he can get to the skin.
“Please, Crowley,” he pleads. “Sober up. I want … please.”
Crowley pulls back, a smug smile on his face. “If you insist,” he says, closes his eyes and goes through the motions of sobering up. Aziraphale looks on, leaning against the door, his heart beating, his cock throbbing. It’s a whole thing.
As soon as the demon sobers up, he opens his eyes again. He’s still wearing the smug smile, but there’s an undercurrent of uncertainty that Aziraphale spots immediately.
“Perhaps we should go upstairs?” he asks and Crowley nods, the smile on his face falling.
They make it to his bedroom in silence, and he suddenly feels nervous. Crowley hesitates by the door, and Aziraphale desperately wants to go back to the passion of the moment before he sobered up, but this is real.
“Come in?”
Crowley hesitates. “You still want to-”
“Yes.”
The corner of the demon’s mouth turns up. “I was right about the kilt then?” He enters the room, stopping right in front of Aziraphale.
“How long have you known?” he asks, immediately placing his hands on the demon’s hips.
“Suspected for a while,” Crowley laughs, as Aziraphale grabs his shirt, pulling it over his head. “But the way you stared at me in the 80’s might have given it away.”
“Was that why you wore it again so soon after?” he asks, his fingers tracing the exposed skin of the demon’s chest.
“Wanted to see if you’d do anything about it.”
“You wanted me to?” he meets his gaze, and is surprised by the intensity of it.
“Desperately. ”
He emits an involuntary grunt at that, and accidentally grazes one of Crowley’s nipples with his knuckle. The demon takes in a deep breath and Aziraphale deduces that he likes it. He brings his thumb toward it and starts rubbing it in circles.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He bites his lip. “Same reason you didn’t, I suppose,” he says, emitting a tiny, throaty moan.
“Didn’t want to ruin the balance?”
“Something like that.”
He leans over, replacing the thumb on Crowley’s nipple with his mouth. The demon immediately grabs his hair, holding him tightly against his chest as he licks and bites at it.
He lets his hands wander lower, tracing the hem of the kilt, grabbing his ass through the fabric. He moves them until the back of Crowley’s knees come in contact with the bed and he falls onto it, pulling Aziraphale down with him.
Crowley spreads his legs, and he slots easily into the space between his thighs. He goes back to licking at Crowley’s nipple, but he grabs his face. “Remember the night in the club?” he says, dragging Aziraphale closer to his face.
“I thought we already established that,” he says. “I remember it. Vividly.”
“Good,” he laughs. “Then you’ll remember how I got to undress you.”
He nods, absentmindedly kissing the demon’s jaw. “Mm.”
“Well, I’d like to do that again,” he sighs. “Right now.”
He pulls back. “Be my guest”
Crowley pushes at Aziraphale’s shoulders until he’s standing at the foot of the bed. Then he sits up and starts undoing his buttons. “You have no idea how much self-control it took not to rip off your clothes that night,” he says.
“I don’t think I would’ve objected.”
“Even though everyone would’ve seen?” He stares up at him through hooded eyes.
“When it comes to you, I’m afraid I don’t have much self control,” he blushes.
Crowley finishes with the buttons, but instead of pushing his pajama top off, he lets it hang open, moving his hands to the bottoms instead.
He yanks them off, taking his underwear with him. As soon as they fall to the floor, Aziraphale steps out of them. He moves to take off the shirt, but Crowley grabs his hands. “No.”
“No?”
“It’s been … I’ve been thinking about you like this for years.”
“Since that night?”
“Mmm,” the demon touches his stomach, hands flat against the skin, massaging it lightly. “I loved the way you felt against me that night. Soft and hot and sweaty,” he says, leaning forward to rub his cheek against his flesh.
Aziraphale grabs his hair, softly threading his fingers through it as he enjoys the sensation of Crowley’s cheek against him. He’s just about to say something when the demon moves his head lower, engulfing his cock in one swift move.
He emits an involuntary moan and closes his eyes so hard he starts seeing stars. “Oh, Crowley .”
He takes him deeper, running his tongue over the tip when he emerges. It’s unbelievable, and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. With his body. It’s almost as if he stops existing, that the only thing tying him to existence is the part of him currently in contact with Crowley. He moans and sighs and he’s quite certain he says something, but he has no idea what.
“Wait,” he eventually manages, grabbing his hair and pulling him off. He leans down and captures the demon’s lips in a soft kiss, tasting himself. It’s a strange sensation, but he revels in it. Deepens the kiss. Chases the taste of himself on his tongue, the taste of Crowley. He tries to distinguish the two as they kiss, tries to figure out what’s him, what’s Crowley and what’s them.
“Stop thinking,” the demon says after a while, pulling him closer. “I can feel you trying to solve something in your head.” He kisses him again, and Aziraphale lets himself get lost in it. Crowley pulls him onto the bed, never once breaking the kiss as he maneuvers Aziraphale to his back and straddles him.
Aziraphale moves his hand towards his ass, grabbing it through the thick fabric of the kilt as they kiss.
“Still want to know what’s underneath?” Crowley says, sitting back and staring down at him. Aziraphale immediately touches his exposed knees, letting his hands wander up his thighs, squeezing the flesh as he goes.
“Desperately, ”
Crowley stares down at him as he explores his exposed legs. He moves his hands under the kilt, feeling for a hem of some kind, but finding nothing but skin. When he reaches his cock, he wraps his fingers around it, moving his hand in a rhythm that makes Crowley gasp.
“Just what I hoped,” he whispers as he moves his hand. “Come closer, please.”
The demon does as he’s told, moving over his body until he’s close enough for him to dive underneath the fabric and take him between his lips. He closes his eyes as he sucks him off, moving his hands towards his ass. He palms at it, letting a finger push against him as he works on his cock.
“Fuck, Angel,” he hears him moaning faintly, muffled by the fabric. He could do this forever, he thinks, just teasing the demon, hearing him come undone above him.
Eventually, Crowley pulls away, and leans down to kiss him. “I want you to fuck me,” he whispers, and Aziraphale feels his heart skip a beat.
“Oh, if you insist,” he grins, and Crowley leans back to grab his cock.
“Want me to take this off first?” he asks, gesturing to his kilt with the hand not currently squeezing Aziraphale's cock.
“Definitely not,” he says.
“Didn’t think so,” he laughs, positions himself above Aziraphale’s cock and before he has time to process what’s happening, he’s inside of the demon. Crowley starts moving, slowly at first, and then with more vigour as he gets used to the sensation, and Aziraphale just lies there, completely overwhelmed by everything. His hands are on the demon’s thighs, and he squeezes them as he grinds down on him.
“Don’t stop.”
“Why would I?” Crowley moans, throwing his head back.
Aziraphale touches him everywhere he can reach, his thighs, his knees, his chest, his nipples. He plants his feet on the bed and starts bucking his hips to meet Crowley’s movements. They set a pace that’s both too fast and too slow and soon he feels himself getting close.
He grabs Crowley’s cock, moving his hand over him in time with their movements and when he feels a white-hot sensation entering his system, he squeezes his cock as he comes, filling the demon and moaning his name.
Crowley keeps grinding on him, and he forces his cock to stay hard as the demon moves, each thrust making him see stars.
“I’m close,” Crowley whimpers, and Aziraphale grabs his testicles with his other hand, squeezing and jerking his cock in time with the rhythm of Crowley’s hips. He wishes he could see exactly what he was doing, but the kilt is obstructing his view. Crowley still looks incredible in it though, and the closer he gets, the closer Aziraphale feels to being ready again. He’s no longer fighting to keep his cock hard, instead he feels the familiar tug in his groin and he’s surprised to already be so close.
When Crowley comes, he fucks him through it. The demon cries out his name, and falls over him. He kisses him softly, coaxing his mouth open.
After a while, he pulls out, and Crowley cuddles down next to him. They keep kissing, but it’s less intense, less hurried than before. Instead, it’s soft and loving and it fills Aziraphale with a sense of joy he hasn’t felt in a long time.
He’s still hard, but he’s in no hurry to remedy the situation.
“You might have to wear that kilt every day,” he whispers into the silence of the room after a while.
“‘S not possible,” Crowley laughs. “I think we ruined it.”
“Nothing a tiny little miracle can’t fix,” he says.
“I thought you didn’t like that?”
“This is different,” he turns to him. “I worked hard for that stain.”
“Disgusting, Angel,” Crowley laughs and kisses him. “Want me to give you a hand with that?” he snickers and grabs his cock.
“I’m saving it.”
“Saving it?”
“I want to bend you over my desk downstairs, but I’m afraid I’m rather too lazy to get out of bed at the current moment.”
“Oh really?” Crowley says, and rises to his feet. “I guess I’ll just have to get started without you then,” he says and exits the room.
Aziraphale takes exactly 30 seconds to make his mind up, and then he’s sprinting after the demon, his cock bouncing against his stomach as he goes.
Crowley is already leaning over his disk, the kilt falling over his ass. He stares at him with a bored expression. “Took you long enough,” he says, feigning a yawn.
He walks directly up to him, lifts up his kilt and enters him without any preamble. It’s fast and dirty and exactly what he imagined.
And when they’re both ready for a round three, Crowley fingers him on the floor of the bookshop and just when he feels like he's about to come, the demon removes his fingers and fucks him into the soft carpet underneath them.
He never once removes the kilt, and Aziraphale is quite certain he’ll never be able to look a Scottish man in a kilt in the eyes again. Or watch Outlander, for that matter.
But then again, small sacrifice for what is slowly turning out to be the most mind blowing night of his life.