Archive of Our Own

There's talk about Aziraphale in Soho. There has been talk about Aziraphale in Soho ever since he set up shop there. This, Crowley would tell you, is because Aziraphale is weird. It's not a bad kind of weird, Crowley would clarify, but the fact is incontrovertible.

Aziraphale has been various kinds of weird, Crowley might go on to say. He almost never sells anything, but in times when books or types of information are banned unjustly, people always seem to walk out with copies. He's a la mode until a point, and then wears the same outfit for decades. He is definitely, one hundred percent gay as springtime, but in the times this has been expressed to his face as a negative, he just sighs in disappointment and the person suddenly staggers out, reeling like they've just been punched in the jaw.

The shop became a prime cruising spot in the early seventies, for a certain kind of, ah, booklover. It is unclear whether Aziraphale ever realized this. Crowley doesn't know if he wants the answer.

These days Aziraphale is weird for other reasons. The shop's sporadic hours and photogenic interior have made it a hot spot for Instagrammers, though the first and last time an "influencer" asked Aziraphale to stay open late and set up lighting for her, he laughed so hard he cried.

Then she lost all but twelve of her followers, because Crowley overheard, and they were barely going to make their dinner reservations as it was.

But Aziraphale has gotten into the spirit of the thing, because it turns out people will come and admire his collection and not try to buy anything. Most of them won't even bother to touch it, not after Aziraphale puts out a box of mismatched, weathered-looking journals that says

under which Crowley has added,

with an appropriate QR code that Aziraphale is still mystified as to the purpose of.

So people talk about this weird guy who owns a bookshop in a very expensive city, but never seems to do more than sell photo props for Instagram and repair books. He can't even be making much money off Instagram. The #fellchallenge, which entails getting in during the 12 hours a week they may or may not be open and before the cutoff for taking photos, a number set capriciously by a redhead with a tattoo who doesn't even seem to work there, generates hype but very little actual participation, especially because it's somehow impossible and against the challenge to camp out. So clearly Fell is some kind of eccentric millionaire who, who knows, likes background noise while he fixes torn pages?

They're right about one thing: Aziraphale actually is a millionaire. In a fit of distress over leaving the Dowlings' employ and the coming of the End Times, he sold a copy of the Bay Psalm Book at auction in America, to the tune of fourteen million dollars.

He has two more, but that would drive the price down. Either way, the bookshop is set for a while.

Crowley keeps up with the whole thing, because he enjoys Instagram, a human invention but surprisingly restful if you keep your hate-following to a minimum, which Crowley does not. It doesn't surprise him at all that the more ambitious document the shop as a whole and not just themselves. This includes various images of Aziraphale, who is very conspicuous. It amuses Crowley to read people's commentary on their photos.

On a picture of Aziraphale repairing a book:

On a picture of Aziraphale showing a book to an older woman:

On a close-up shot of Aziraphale's favorite mug:

And soon enough, they're joined by pictures of Crowley. It was inevitable, given how much time Crowley spends there and how handsome he is; he has never been above inducing thirst in people.

On Crowley, stretched out on the couch:

On Crowley, still stretched out on the couch but with his eyes closed:

On Crowley, leaning against a shelf, his shirt a little more unbuttoned than usual:

And naturally, they do get around to photographing both of them, and they do get the picture, as it were, immediately.

On a pair of photos, expertly composed, of Aziraphale looking at Crowley and Crowley looking back at Aziraphale:

On a rare image of Crowley outside the shop, holding open the door to the Bentley for Aziraphale, which probably means Crowley was mocking him for something:

On a picture of Crowley, hands on Aziraphale's shoulders, leaning over him to look down at the manuscript he's reading:

Crowley finds the whole thing entertaining, so he continues not to scare people away even though he has many avenues to do so, demonic and serpentine. The more annoying find that their pictures are too blurry to use, the most annoying find that their SD cards are corrupted, but the ones Crowley likes have pictures so crisp and brilliantly composed that they can't help but make their mark.

Some of them may have just a slight hint of a halo.

Be that as it may, something is off about how they talk about Crowley himself, an inference he's not making. He definitely doesn't get the joke of the hashtag they use for him. A trade is necessarily a paperback copy. They don't come in hardcover. The phrase catches the corner of his mind but can't quite find purchase, and it's driving him spare.

He's contemplating this as a pair of girls are taking photos of the shop, the last in what had been a steady trickle for the four whole hours that Aziraphale deigned to stay open. They're talking to each other in hushed voices and sneaking looks at Aziraphale and Crowley, which is par for the course.

"Thought I'd take a walk," Crowley says. He cocks his head towards the young women, who are now heading for the door. "I think all this is over for the day."

Aziraphale reaches into his coat and pulls out a five pound note. "Stop at the bakery?"

"Sure," Crowley says, taking his money and kissing him on the head, and he takes his leave, flipping the closed sign as he walks out.

Crowley has a leisurely walk to the bakery, enjoying the warm air; the door jingles as he opens it, and there's a cheerful-looking woman standing behind the counter.

"How can I help you?" she asks.

He puts down a tenner. "I'll have whatever this can buy me for someone who loves chocolate and cream," he says. "Especially if it's dainty or so rich you can barely eat it."

"I can do that," she says, pulling out a box and selecting treats from the bakery case with a critical, calculating eye.

When she's almost done, a large man, presently wiping flour from his hands, steps out of the back. "Oh, you're Fell's gentleman," he says, upon seeing Crowley. He puts another pastry in the box. "Here, take him one of our new tartlets, see how he likes it."

"Cheers," Crowley says, taking the box, and it doesn't occur to him to feel weird about it until he's down the street.

Crowley doesn't check Instagram for a while after that, but when he does, there's a picture of Crowley kissing Aziraphale's head and holding the money, with a caption that just says

Crowley has no idea what's going on, but by this point he's not sure he likes it.

He lets this continue for another week or so, until the next Friday. He's been calling Aziraphale and getting no answer; he's called twice in fifteen minutes, which is probably an indication of how he panics these days if he can't get ahold of his angel immediately, but that's not the point. The point is that it's not a long drive to the shop by any stretch, so he parks on the curb and walks up to the shop, which is presently darkened.

Crowley is about to just let himself in, but a woman walks up before he can, and sometimes Aziraphale gets weird about too-obvious miracles in and around the shop. He pounds on the door instead, which may be miraculously loud within the shop. "Aziraphale!" he calls. "Open up!"

"Shit, I thought he closed at four," the woman says, in an American accent. He recognizes her now; she lives around here somewhere, not on Instagram. She dropped a book off for Aziraphale to repair, a thing he's doing more often these days, for reasons surpassing Crowley's understanding. She eyes Crowley. "You're, um, Mister Fell's, um, guy friend, right? Could you-"

"His what?" Crowley demands.

She gives him a shifty look. "You two are, y'know."

"Let's have a chat," he says, and he takes her arm so she can't leave, linking it with his. "What is it that everyone thinks I am to Mister Fell that nobody will say it to my face?"

"I feel like you should know that," she says uneasily.

"Pretend I don't," Crowley says, with a winning smile. He's trying to get through this without a miracle, but surely charm will do.

"You're his kept man?" she says, wincing.

His eyes fly open, yellow almost visible around the edges of his glasses, and he drops her arm. "I'm what?"

"Y'know, with the whole sugar daddy thing," she says. "The fancy car, the clothes, the money." Crowley just gawps at her. "You mean-" Her eyes widen too. "You really didn't know, did you." Crowley is still unable to speak. "Well, this is awkward."

"I look older than he does!" Crowley says, because that's the first of many things wrong with this.

"Yeah, but you're all-" She indicates his body. "You know, seductive and whatever."

"Of course I am," he says, preening a little.

"I don't see why a sugar daddy has to be older anyway," she says. She pats his arm. "Hey, don't sweat it. We're all out here trying to hustle. Fell seems like such a nice guy. If you've got a good deal, go after it."

The door opens on Crowley and the woman, Crowley still gobsmacked. "Sorry, we're- oh, it's you," he says to Crowley. "Oh, and Miss Rickson. I did finish the repairs and ship the book to your home, but we are indeed still closed."

"No problem, that's all I needed to know," she says. She walks off, waving a hand. "Have a good one."

"You and me are going to talk," Crowley says, grabbing Aziraphale's shirt and pushing him back into the shop. He snaps his fingers and the door bolts behind him.

"About what, dear?" Aziraphale says, because at some point Aziraphale stopped being frightened of him entirely.

"About how apparently people think I'm with you on a cash basis," Crowley says.

Aziraphale looks caught out. "Do they?" he says unconvincingly.

"I knew it," Crowley says. He looks at Aziraphale suspiciously. "What do you tell people when they ask about me?"

"That you are very dear to me," Aziraphale says, like the sap he is, but Crowley doesn't let himself get sidetracked.

"And what else?" Crowley says.

"Things such as anyone might say," Aziraphale says, with an innocence that is patently false. "You have an extensive collection of plants, you have an interest in vintage motorcars-"

"It's you," Crowley says. "You're the one convincing people I'm your, your-" He twirls his hand. "What do you- the opposite of a sugar daddy-"

"Sugar baby," Aziraphale provides.

"You've been letting people think I'm your boytoy instead of setting them straight," Crowley accuses.

Aziraphale gets a contemplative expression. "What is it that you call your profession, anyway?"

"Well, you know," Crowley says, shrugging. "Idle rich, I suppose."

"It is possible that I didn't set people straight immediately," Aziraphale says carefully. "Forgive me, but it was amusing to think such a thing, just imagine." He chuckles. "But then it just started perpetuating itself, and well-"

"Well what?" Crowley says, when he doesn't continue.

"Don't you think it's at least a little bit hot?" Aziraphale says, and he doesn't actually bat his eyelashes, but it's the same energy.

Crowley's world tilts to the side. "You're doing all of this for the turn-on?"

"It's just a little fantasy," Aziraphale says bashfully. "Perhaps it got out of hand. Really, my dearest, I didn't mean-"

"Go back to the fantasy part," Crowley says.

"You know," Aziraphale says, and now he's genuinely blushing. "You would take special care of me and give me what I want because I hold the purse strings. You'd be at my mercy, just a little bit."

"I am not calling you daddy," Crowley says, because he already spoils Aziraphale and dances to his tune, for reasons having nothing to do with money.

"That's a different thing and you know it," Aziraphale says. He looks chagrined. "Dearest, just because I like it doesn't mean you have to agree to it-"

"I'm just trying to suss it out," Crowley says, because he is still kind of baffled. "So it's like a power thing."

"Mostly," Aziraphale says. "And you see, then you also have power over me, because I'm quite enamored of what my money is buying me. Perhaps I have even fallen in love with you and couldn't bear to throw you over even if I know it's just until the money runs out."

"And now Soho and a not-insubstantial part of the internet is in on your fantasy," Crowley says.

"Perhaps this has gotten a bit out of control," Aziraphale says, wringing his hands.

Crowley sighs. "Do you remember New Orleans?"

"One does not forget New Orleans," Aziraphale says. They had been there in the early 1800s, when it had only just stopped being Nouvelle-Orléans. They spent two years pretending to be brothers in what Heaven thought was a careful subterfuge and Hell chalked up as a long weekend.

"In two years, no one will remember this," Crowley says. "If you want to play it this way for a while, maybe it would be fun."

Aziraphale sighs, his shoulders slumping. "I really was hoping you'd say something like that and not that you were mortified."

"Demons don't get mortified," Crowley says. "So what is the sex like?"

Aziraphale frowns. "What?"

"That's a critical part of the whole deal," Crowley says, stepping towards him. "Do I bend over at your beck and call, or are you some pillow princess who needs a good hard fuck to keep you in line?"

"Oh my," Aziraphale says breathily.

"How do you want me, Mister Fell?" Crowley says, closing in for the kill. "You know I'd do whatever you wanted."

Aziraphale swallows. "Maybe, ah, the second thing."

"You must be tense, handling delicate books all day," Crowley says, running his hands up Aziraphale's arms, over his shoulders, down his chest. "Wouldn't you like to relax?"

"I could be persuaded," Aziraphale says.

"Then let me persuade you," Crowley purrs. "Tell me where to take you."

"Upstairs," Aziraphale says deliberately, almost like it's a challenge. "On the bed."

Crowley calls upon the kind of strength that he definitely doesn't have and needs a miracle to produce- Aziraphale is the strong one, who can throw Crowley over his shoulders without so much as a by-your-leave- and picks Aziraphale up, bridal style. Aziraphale makes a delighted sound as Crowley totes him up the stairs, laying him out on the bed.

"Should I unwrap you?" Crowley asks, drawing his finger down Aziraphale's shirt, and all his buttons unfasten one by one, sliding obediently out of their holes and leaving a broad stripe of skin exposed.

"I think you already are," Aziraphale says, tugging his bowtie loose, and his shirt and waistcoat fall open, held in place only by his trousers.

"I can't help it if you're such a pretty present," Crowley says, his fingers working on Aziraphale's fly. His cock is already hard, pushing at the front of the practical white briefs he's wearing. Crowley pulls the whole thing down, revealing Aziraphale for his inspection. He wraps a hand around Aziraphale's thick cock, stroking it. "Isn't this a nice gift."

Aziraphale fails to say anything coherent, instead pushing up into Crowley's hand. Crowley only lets him do it for a moment before letting him go, pulling off Aziraphale's shoes and dropping them to the floor. The socks come off next, thankfully not held up by garters, and soon Aziraphale is naked from the waist down. What little he's still wearing is splayed out around him, and he does look like he's been unwrapped, like a present too compelling to get all the paper off of.

The effect only lasts until Aziraphale sits up, shrugging out of his remaining clothes and letting them fall to the floor. Crowley bends down, catching his face in his hands and kissing him deeply.

"Why don't you get on your hands and knees for me, sweetheart?" Crowley says. "Let me make you feel good."

Aziraphale does what he's told, rolling over and resting on his elbows. It makes him into the loveliest picture, like he's supplicating himself before Crowley. "Like this?" Aziraphale says.

Crowley banishes all his clothes with a gesture, climbing in behind Aziraphale. "However you want it." He runs his hands over Aziraphale's ass, leaning forward to grind his cock against it. "Should I take my time, or should I skip ahead?"

"Take me," Aziraphale begs. "Please dear, just take me."

"This really does it for you, huh," Crowley says. He strokes his cock, spreading slick all over it, and lines up at Aziraphale's entrance.

Aziraphale groans loudly as Crowley pushes inside of him; it's really quite a miracle, these bodies that do whatever they're told. Crowley meets little resistance, just a long, slow slide until he's seated all the way inside Aziraphale. It's nothing at all to set a nice, easy rhythm, his hands holding Aziraphale's perfect round ass open. He wants, as he usually does, to bite it, but there are such better things he can be doing to it.

Crowley changes the angle a bit, and Aziraphale lets out a cry. Aziraphale is so easy, never able to be quiet when he's feeling good, and Crowley loves it. "Is this what you wanted?" he asks.

"Oh yes," Aziraphale sighs. "Yes please, Crowley."

"I'd hate to disappoint," Crowley teases.

"Keep going, darling," Aziraphale says. "I need you so much."

"That's what you pay me for, isn't it?" Crowley says, and Aziraphale gasps. "So you can have everything that you want, whenever you want it."

"Yes," Aziraphale pants.

"You filthy little hedonist," Crowley says, grinning. "You were wasted in Heaven. You're much too fun."

"And you're too much fun for Hell," Aziraphale manages to say.

"Exactly," Crowley says. "The Earthly delights are the best."

"Harder," Aziraphale says. "Please, dear, please do it harder."

"Sure thing, angel," Crowley says, snapping his hips forward. "I can't have you getting bored, now can I?"

Aziraphale melts under him, slumping forward with a moan, lost in it, and Crowley lets him, stuffing a pillow under his hips to keep him in the right spot. This is Aziraphale at his most unguarded, a being of pleasure, love being just one kind. Judging from Crowley's dealings with angels, She broke the mold after She made him, but by now he thinks that was Her intention the whole time.

"That's it," Crowley says. "Just take it for me. You know how much you need it. Just let me give it to you."

"Yes," Aziraphale sighs. "Oh, Crowley, you're so good to me."

Crowley doesn't know if that was in character or out of character, though it makes his cheeks go hot either way. "Just earning my keep," he says. "I'd never dream of leaving you unsatisfied."

Crowley loses track a little bit after that. He's been doing this to fulfill Aziraphale's kink, but that doesn't mean he's been unaffected by it. It's a hot fantasy, now that he's got his head around it, and also the simple fact of being buried inside Aziraphale is enough to make anyone's mind wander. He's absolutely perfect around Crowley, miraculously so, and Crowley wants to make the most of every last second, wring out every last drop of pleasure.

"Ah!" Aziraphale says, and Crowley can see the way his body tenses, his fingers clawing at the sheets. "Love, I'm so close, please, please-"

"Let me-" Crowley says, and he yanks the pillow out from under Aziraphale and accidentally throws it across the room. It doesn't matter, because the point is getting at Aziraphale's cock, stroking it quickly in time to his movements. "Is that what you need?"

"Yes," Aziraphale says, and for the one who's not a snake, he has a pretty sexy hiss. "I want-"

"I know what you want," Crowley says into his ear, though it's hard to form a sentence. "And I'm going to give you all of it. That's what you need, isn't it? You just need a reminder of what you have."

"Crowley," he gasps.

"That's right," Crowley says. "Now come for me."

Crowley bites down hard on Aziraphale's shoulder, and it's only an instant before Aziraphale starts coming, crying out as he comes apart. Crowley sucks in a breath, suddenly so much closer than he realized; he thrusts in once, twice more and then loses himself entirely, resting his forehead on Aziraphale's back as he comes and comes. He feels lost, and all he can think to do is grab Aziraphale around the chest and pull him close, hold onto him tight, like an anchor.

Afterwards Crowley flops down beside him, sprawled boneless across the bed. Aziraphale doesn't even get that far, just slumps forward, resting his head on his arms; it can't be comfortable to be laying in the wet spot, so Crowley banishes everything inconvenient with a wave of his hand.

"What on earth did you do with my pillow?" Aziraphale asks.

"Ah, I think it's over there," Crowley says, waving vaguely.

Aziraphale turns his head, looking at Crowley. "My dear," he says, "I hope you liked that, because I found it simply astounding."

"I saw the appeal," Crowley says. He's not sure how to articulate that he couldn't keep doing it, not every time, afraid it would drive a real wedge between them when it's just a fantasy.

"We'll have to save it for special occasions," Aziraphale says, and Crowley is immediately relieved.

"I don't mind putting you in your place now and again," Crowley says. He throws his arm across his eyes, because it's just clicked. "Fuck me, that's why I'm hardcovertrade."

"I thought it was a bit disrespectful, but you didn't say anything, so I assumed you didn't mind," Aziraphale says.

"Look at me, angel," Crowley says. "No one has ever called me rough trade in my entire life. I've barely even been accused of buying."

"Before you ask, I didn't come up with it," Aziraphale says defensively. "I think it might have been a tweet, from what I overheard."

"I didn't think to check Twitter for it," Crowley says, annoyed with himself.

"I think they mean it affectionately," Aziraphale tells him.

"I'm not sure that's a thing you can mean affectionately," Crowley says. "They just call you by your supposed name."

"Precisely," Aziraphale says. "I'm just the boring old bookshop owner. You're the pretty young thing who catches their eyes."

"Why does anyone think I'm younger than you?!" Crowley says, still bewildered by the idea.

"It's the hair," Aziraphale says, and Crowley is so annoyed that he just kisses Aziraphale quiet. Aziraphale has never taken him seriously, and it's not going to start now.

The #fellchallenge, coincidentally, gets resurrected a few years later. All it takes is a post from one ajcbooksnake; the photo is of someone aggressively giving the finger to the viewer, only it happens to be a ring finger, one with a wedding band.

The caption reads

The comments range between utter disbelief and outright thirst, most of it in all caps, but Crowley feels he has made his point.