You'll Never Get To Heaven (if you're scared of getting high)

To be so adored

Notes: 

This is three thousand words of lovemaking. I have warned you.

If you've been holding out for Crowley and Aziraphale getting to heaven, so to speak, I hope you have fun. If you're here for the plot, you won't miss any if you skip this, see you next chapter, I guess! Love you either way, thank you for reading and encouraging and being awesome.

(See the end of the chapter for  more notes)

They made it upstairs to the bathroom somehow, arms looped around each other as if afraid to let go, Crowley undignifiedly half hanging out of his jeans and not caring. He gave the hot tub a brief look, but he really didn't want to think about the rest of the day right now, only of Aziraphale. 

He sat down on the loo instead, and tried to deal with all the awkward business of undressing like a human, made even more awkward by not wanting to glance away from Aziraphale for a moment. He didn't want to miss the unbuttoning of a single button, the removal of a single one of the layers that Aziraphale felt was necessary for late November. Eventually, Crowley gave up and just watched, taking in every inch of revealed skin, every roll and crease, finally with the right to stare with unveiled infatuation. It was all he could do not to circle hungrily as Aziraphale, even in these circumstances, even with the angel's erection bobbing up against the fullness of his stomach, neatly removed and meticulously folded his clothes. It made no sense that fussiness was so damned sexy; still, there it was.

As a result Crowley was still in a t-shirt and jeans halfway down his legs when Aziraphale turned to put the final pieces on the chair by the door. The sight of him bending was too much. Crowley launched himself forward to embrace him and drape over his back.

Or at least that was the idea. On execution, the jeans and knickers still around his ankles had other ideas and Crowley lurched awkwardly and lost his balance instead, ending up grabbing at Aziraphale's knees to save himself from knocking his head on the hot tub.

Aziraphale looked down at him, bare-arsed and collapsed on the bathroom floor and hanging around the angel's knees, and said, "I see you haven't quite mastered undressing yet."

"Oh, shut it." The twinkle in Aziraphale's eyes was too much for him, he was laughing helplessly. He had imagined being with Aziraphale more often than there were stars in the sky, had imagined tenderly worshipping him or fucking him into the wall or being helpless as Aziraphale drove into him or coming together in slow rutting against each other. Every variation, he had thought, every possibility, and none of them had involved shooting off when Aziraphale had barely touched him or falling on the bathroom floor while trying to embrace him. Somehow, miraculously, it was still all right. Perfect.

He clambered up to deal with the rest of his clothes as Aziraphale turned on the water and stepped into the shower, which was really more of a wetroom, compared to the baths in the other two bathrooms. Humble cottage indeed, his decadent angel.

Aziraphale turned and held out his arms. His pale hair was flattened by descending water, water ran in rivulets over his neck and those wonderful shoulders. Crowley's mind flew back six thousand years for a moment, to an angel soaked by the first thunderstorm while keeping him, a demon and enemy, snug and dry. Always generous, always kind, always so good to him personally, and Crowley, dazzled by his odd new acquaintance, had wondered what it would be like to taste the rain on his sweet fretful lips, to push his fingers into the wet hair, to hold him close and stamp a claim on him. Wondered, and suspected the consequence would be to never see him smile and speak to him again. An unbearable thought, even then.

Now there was nothing to stop Crowley flying home to those thick, strong arms, to feel them come welcomingly, possessively around him. Aziraphale's wet lips found his, Crowley was pulled close and wanted and loved and desired, and it was so real, so concrete that he felt he could hardly survive it and was on the verge of crying again. Instead, he stood close, chest to chest, let the water wash him clean, and tried to touch and memorise every gorgeous part of Aziraphale's shoulders and neck and back and the delicious curves of his backside, learning them with hungry hands.