Work Header

being comfy

Work Text:

The thing is, Crowley wasn’t expecting Aziraphale.

Of course he wasn’t expecting Aziraphale. Aziraphale was meant to be off in Denmark for the weekend, prowling around an antique book auction of some kind, eating smørrebrød and drinking Carlsberg and making catty side-comments about the state of various leather bindings to the sorts of people who care about those sorts of things.

He was not meant to be standing in Crowley’s doorway, coat and suitcase in hand.

The only person who was meant to be standing in Crowley’s doorway was a Deliveroo driver, who was meant to be bringing Crowley an absolutely mouthwatering triple-cheese pizza. They were supposed to be a stranger, virtually anonymous, someone who would come and go and who would never see Crowley again, or who at least wouldn’t notice if they did. Someone for whom it did not matter in the slightest what Crowley was wearing.

It was not meant to be someone Crowley was hoping to get a leg over on this upcoming Sunday night, for purposes not at all related to Valentine’s Day or the fact that they’d been apart all weekend. He had plans. There were going to be candles.

Not: whatever moment this is.

“My dear,” Aziraphale said lightly, putting down his suitcase, “what, if I may ask, are you wearing?”

Well, that was the million dollar question, wasn’t it?

Crowley looked down at himself. He thought about all the ways he might avoid answering this question: turning into a snake, throwing himself into Aziraphale’s arms, feigning a swoon, ignoring it altogether. But none of them would resolve the underlying problem, which was, of course, that Aziraphale had already seen it.

He sighed, and raised his arms so that Aziraphale could get a better look at it. Might as well.

“It’s called,” he said, with some difficulty, “the Comfy.”

What it was was harder to explain. The form of it was based off a hoodie—not an article of clothing Aziraphale was likely to be familiar with anyway—but made ten times larger, and that was no exaggeration. It went over Crowley’s head like any shirt, but the bottom hem fell to somewhere just above his knees, even as tall as he was, and the sleeves would have extended well past his hands but for the ribbed cuffs, holding them in place at his wrists, leaving the black fabric to bunch under and around his arms. The huge marsupial pocket on the stomach currently held his wallet, a bottle of wine he hadn’t opened yet, three satsumas, sunglasses, and a book by Truman Capote he was, if asked, definitively not planning to read.

He also had on a pair of socks, and that was it.

It was ridiculous. It was unflattering. It was—polyester. It was, in short, a complete nightmare.

Aziraphale looked him over slowly, lingering on his bony knees, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Crowley could relate; he couldn’t quite believe Aziraphale was seeing it either.

“Is it?” he finally asked, looking up to meet Crowley’s eyes.

“Is it what?”

“Comfy?” He said the word as if he’d never said it before, as if it were a foreign word that couldn’t possibly be applied to Crowley, hesitant and a little awed, and something else, a bit. Something eager. “Is it—are you comfortable?”

Crowley sputtered, flushing. “Am I—what’re—of course I’m comfortable, I’m not wearing it for the style, am I? This is sherpa-lined, angel, this isn’t fashion, this is—this is—sloth personified—what are you doing?

Because Aziraphale had folded his coat neatly over the top of his suitcase, never taking his eyes off Crowley, and had begun to stalk toward him, slow and deliberate, stepping right into his space and still going, crowding him back and back until he had Crowley pinned against the concrete wall with his hips, leaning in to tuck his nose into Crowley’s neck.

It was a good thing he had the Comfy on, Crowley thought stupidly, clutching onto Aziraphale’s shoulders with helpless hands and wondering if that were the bottle of wine digging into his belly, because the wall would’ve been damned cold on his bare arse.

“Do you have any idea what you look like?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley did: he’d seen himself in the mirror a few times like this, long and overwhelmed with cheap black fabric, swimming in the drapes and folds. It made him look small inside it, skinny as a rail and not half as graceful.

“Like a great big bat?” he guessed wildly, his breath hitching at the feeling of Aziraphale’s lips brushing his neck. He suggested, rather forcefully, that everything in his front pocket find somewhere else to be; knowing what was good for it, everything immediately did, and Crowley was aware that that had been the bottle of wine, but there was something else going on rather lower that was not.

Snug,” Aziraphale said breathlessly. “And warm. Like I’ve stumbled onto your most private self. Tell me if this is all right.”

The fabric between them was so thick Crowley could barely feel Aziraphale pressed against him, could barely feel the rise and fall of his chest, the beat of his heart, which Crowley knew he kept running because he liked the way it grounded him. He could barely feel Aziraphale’s fingertips as they skated down his leg, reaching for the hem of the Comfy down his right thigh.

This is really happening, he thought. He was already starting to sweat in the thick lining, even backed up against the cool wall. He was already starting to feel a familiar tension starting in his thighs, pooling in his belly, at the hint of wet heat from Aziraphale’s mouth on his neck.

What was more surprising was that he wanted this to happen. It should have been embarrassing, it should have been cringe-worthy—but Aziraphale was looking at him like he was seeing Crowley for the first time, in some new and unknowable and eminently touchable way.

And Crowley wanted to be touched.

He tipped his head back against the wall, cushioned by the Comfy’s gigantic hood, and spread his knees a little wider to let one of Aziraphale’s slip between them, the edge of the fabric riding up to accommodate him. “Yeah, yes, come on. It’s—good, it’s all right.”

Aziraphle’s mouth curved against Crowley’s collarbone, and his hand finally—finally, finally, down past Crowley’s thigh and almost at his knee—found the bottom hem, and started to gather it up, exploring the warm skin underneath. Caressing up, and up, and up.

“Goodness,” Aziraphale said, sounding soft and delighted as he found Crowley’s bare hip, skating fingertips higher to his waist and then down again. “Nothing else on?”

“S’long enough. Don’t need anything else, do I?”

“Mm. And what were you going to do tonight, dressed like this?”

He was going to be warm, that’s what he was going to do. Lay about on his sofa, wrapped up this damn thing so as not to get cold. Watch old episodes of the Golden Girls and not read that book. Get a little drunk and maybe a little affectionate, call Aziraphale up after two in the morning, when he’d be ensconced in his hotel room for the night, to slur pet names at him over the phone and keep him company.

“This is better,” Crowley said, in lieu of answering, and it was—he was hard now, grinding down a little against Aziraphale’s thigh, against the soft sherpa lining. Felt weird, but good, maybe. Good enough for now. Aziraphale was hard too, trapped inside his trousers and pushing into Crowley’s lower belly, and that felt good too. “Wasn’t expecting you until Sunday.”

There was a wet spot on Crowley’s neck when Aziraphale pulled away, and he blew across it with a slow, even breath, making Crowley shiver. “There weren’t as many decent titles as I’d expected.”

Ten years ago, three years ago, six months ago, that might have been enough of an excuse.

Not anymore.

Crowley slowed his hips to a stop, blinked his eyes back open. Waited for Aziraphale to look up at him, eyes velvet-dark and blue, hooded with want, with need.

“I missed you too,” Crowley said, surprised when his voice came out thin and cracked, and Aziraphale’s face crumpled for an instant before he was kissing Crowley, kissing him hard, kissing him back against the wall, kissing him breathless and mindless and so full of love that Crowley could taste it, bright as magnesium and just as hot, searing into him.

“You’re lovely like this,” Aziraphale mumbled into his mouth, rucking up the edge of the Comfy to get at more of him, and Crowley groaned and clung to him, fumbling to get his bow-tie undone. “It’s unbearable. Like you’re all exposed, even though you’re all wrapped up. Just you, and nothing of what anyone expects of you.”

“S’just a silly blanket, angel,” Crowley said, kissing him again, but Aziraphale was shaking his head, skating his hands up over the vulnerable sides of Crowley’s waist, over the soft-barely-there swell of his belly.

“You’d never look like this if you weren’t perfectly alone, would you?”

Crowley snorted. The bow-tie hung loose at Aziraphale’s collar; the buttons at his neck followed, spreading him open. “Course not. Look ridiculous like this.”

“You do,” Aziraphale agreed, meeting Crowley’s eyes, “and it’s gorgeous.”

That was too absurd to respond to, Crowley thought, entirely too absurd. No use arguing with a stubborn angel, after all, when that time could be better spent undoing buttons, undoing layers, finding the bare skin beneath waistcoat and shirt, the delicate flesh of a stomach and the fastenings of ancient trousers, delving into the warm spaces inside. No use responding when the flush of his cheeks and the rock in his throat and the clutch of his hands could do all the talking for him.

“Let me,” Crowley said instead, and circled Aziraphale’s cock with his fingers.

This was easier, he thought, focusing on the slide of Aziraphale’s hot-slick-velveteen flesh in his palm, on the shudder of Aziraphale’s breath under his ear. This was what gorgeous was, Aziraphale’s jerking hips and pink cheeks, the heat of his body and the groan of his voice. The angle of his jaw as he clenched his teeth and tilted his head back, letting Crowley stroke him, letting Crowley find a rhythm.

But Aziraphale wasn’t so handily deterred, and he only allowed the stroking to go on for a minute until he was remembering himself, remembering the bare skin he’d found under the Comfy. Until his own fingers had slid south, touching lightly at first, a tease, until Crowley cursed under his breath and Aziraphale took pity on him.

He slipped his hand around Crowley’s cock, brushing his thumb over the head before reaching down to cup his balls, too, as if to say hello, and sparks flew down Crowley’s thighs, up his spine, tension tightening, lungs contracting.

“I missed you, you know,” Aziraphale said, watching the pleasure flit across Crowley’s face, pushing his hips forward into Crowley’s grip as he slid his own hand down Crowley’s length, setting a slow, gentle rhythm. “I missed you more than I could stand. I couldn’t stop thinking about being here with you.”

Crowley was hot, too hot. The bulk of the fabric between them was too much, too big, too soft even as Aziraphale rucked it up to get at more of his skin, too in the way of bringing them together where their wrists tangled, trying to stroke together in time. He wanted to be closer, closer, he wanted to be—

—bent over the desk in the office, the fabric pushed up around his shoulders with the cool slab of marble against his belly as Aziraphale licked into him from behind, his tongue slick and eager—

—on his knees in Aziraphale’s lap, using the back of the sofa for leverage to rock down against him, to press their cocks together and stroke greedily, to have both his hands up underneath the fleece and sherpa where he was sweat-drenched and writhing, on his hips, his waist, guiding him down and down and down with the leather sticking against his shins—

—sitting on the kitchen counter as Aziraphale sucked his nipples, a sliver of an ice cube in his mouth and the blanket already half-way off, hanging on by a shoulder, damp where Aziraphale’s fingers were disappearing up inside him, stroking him from the inside, making him shout where it would echo, where Aziraphale could lay him back on the counter when he was ready and—

—spread out in bed, his ankles hooked together behind Aziraphale’s thighs as he pushed inside in that careful, slow way he had sometimes, too tender to be withstood, making Crowley’s eyes sting with salt as he whispered, as he brushed Crowley’s hair back off his forehead, kissed the corner of his mouth, waiting too long and then rolling, rolling, rolling in until Crowley cried out—

Aziraphale’s hand twisted at the head of Crowley’s cock on the upstroke, slamming Crowley back into his body in the here and now, leaving him gasping and scrabbling at Aziraphale’s shoulders, at his chest, “Angel, angel, please.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale answered, knocking Crowley’s own hand out of the way so he could get one of his hands around them both, stroking them together, thrusting against him. “Yes, come on, I’m here, come on.”

The Comfy slid against the concrete, too soft for friction, and Aziraphale had to wrap his free arm around Crowley’s lower back to hold him in place; Crowley helped by hitching one thigh up around Aziraphale’s, steadying them both by forcing them to lean more heavily against the wall, pressing them even closer together, so close Crowley could feel every slide of Aziraphale’s hand all the way down to his knees, up to his shoulders.

“You’re beautiful,” Aziraphale was whispering to him, “beautiful, gorgeous, you shine, Crowley, you shine—”

He felt mad, he felt insane, couldn’t catch his breath, felt like Aziraphale was teasing him open and taking a look inside, kissing all the inner walls of his ribs, of his breastbone. Like he was being seen the way no one had seen him since he was made in Her vision; like he was being touched in ways no one had touched him since She’d crafted him in Her hands. Deeper and truer than just the hand on his cock, than just his lower back slick with sweat and the press of their foreheads together, the mingling of breath between kisses that were barely more than just gasping into one another, the eruption of scales in the hollows of his hips and collarbones, in the curve of his neck and the length of his spine. He felt exposed, too exposed, for all the fabric between them; he felt raw and naked down into his very bones, displayed and discovered and loved.

He felt like he was going to come.

“You can,” Aziraphale urged him, as if he’d said it out loud. “Come on, darling, show me, show me what you’re like, show me everything.”

The orgasm rolled over him, rolled through him, like a wave closing over his head: muscles slammed into place, wrapping him around Aziraphale’s body as totally as he could and clenching, squeezing, holding on as if he were a life-vest, the calm in the storm, and Aziraphale held on to him, kept whispering to him, kept stroking and stroking, the place between them dripping with Crowley’s spend, until Crowley was shuddering with sensitivity and Aziraphale himself tumbled over the edge behind him.

They breathed.

Crowley nudged at the side of Aziraphale’s face, nudging him into another kiss, this one slower, lazier, less a demand than a sinking down into calm together. Sweat and come had begun to cool; Aziraphale finally let go of their pricks where they were beginning to soften, still pressed together against Crowley’s belly, and tugged Crowley’s Comfy back down to cover him, to keep him warm.

“Hi,” Crowley said softly.

Aziraphale smiled, and kissed him again. “Hello. How are you tonight, darling?”

“Brilliant, although if you wipe that hand on my Comfy,” he warned, but Aziraphale had already done it.

“Pish-posh. It’s already a mess.”

It was. Crowley sighed, and leaned his forehead against Aziraphale’s shoulder, letting himself go slack against him.

There were things they probably needed to talk about, Crowley knew. Missing each other too much to be apart for a weekend. Being embarrassed to be caught in socks and a wearable blanket as seen on TV! The acknowledgement that there were still parts of themselves that they kept from one another, and even though they’d always each have their secrets, their hopes and wounds and things not ready to be spoken aloud, that either of them could be—could want to be—comfy shouldn’t be one of them.

“I hope you’re not terribly put out that I’ve interrupted your evening,” Aziraphale said carefully, giving Crowley an out: we don’t have to talk about it all tonight, you know. “I don’t have to stay, of course. If you’d rather an evening on your own.”

Crowley looked up at him, and could see how much he meant it. The softness of his smile, curved with understanding and patience. The gentleness of his hands, pulled out from underneath the fabric now to find Crowley’s hands, fingers tangling up together. The tenderness of his eyes, filled with deliberation and affection. With wanting Crowley to be happy.

“No,” Crowley said, squeezing one of Aziraphale’s hands in his. “Stay. Have a lazy night with me. I was just going to lay about on the sofa anyway. Be nice to have you with me.”

Aziraphale leaned in, pressed a kiss to Crowley’s temple. “If you’re sure?”

Crowley is a demon; he can’t feel love the way an angel can.

He can feel it the way a human can, though, and here in Aziraphale’s arms, he feels plenty of it. Bright and protective, eager to please and eager to comfort. It’s almost overwhelming, even if Aziraphale did wipe his hand on Crowley. It’s an invitation to be himself; it’s an ask to know him, to truly know him, with Golden Girls reruns and old books, satsumas and triple-cheese pizzas, wine-drunk and affectionate.

With the Comfy and all.

“I’m sure.”