Chapter Text
"And every day confirms my belief [...] of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense."
Jane Austen, Pride And Prejudice
***
"This is wonderful!" Anathema looked out into the ballroom of Tadfield Manor, her face glowing with excitement. Ladies and gentlemen decked in their smartest finery were exchanging pleasantries and coy glances, their jewels glittering in the seemingly myriad of candles and lamps. "Thank you so much." Anathema turned her triumphant smile onto Crowley.
"This is as much to Eric's credit as it is to mine."
"But it is you who provided the location."
Crowley shrugged. "It's the least I can do. Most of the organisation was taken care of by Newt and Eric." As was a significant amount of the financial investment involved, generously though not selflessly offered by the latter.
"No," Anathema objected, nudging his side. "The least you could have done is absolutely nothing."
"That was never an acceptable option." He smiled at his friend and threw a daring arm around her shoulders to give her a squeeze, much to the titillated consternation of two spinsters passing by.
That was another thing he had been able to contribute: a lure. He knew all too well of the rumours pertaining to his person. A scoundrel. A libertine. One prone to new-fangled ideas and notions that defy the good and proper name of his family. If his dear parents knew how their only son was carrying on, why, they would turn restlessly in their graves.
As if the Crowleys had not always been a welcome inspiration for hushed chitchat.
But the combined enticement of the current Lord Crowley's scandalising reputation and Tadfield Manor's undoubtable beauty was just the right sort of temptation to fill his usually quiet country home with the chatter of voices and tinkle of laughter.
According to his valet Newt, not a single invitation had been left unanswered. And all the answers had been to the positive.
He wished for Anathema and Eric to gain everything they were hoping for out of this. Two young artists, both so very talented in their unique ways. And in Anathema's case in dire need of a patronage. Something Crowley would love to provide her with but was not able to. The frivolous lives of the three generations preceding him had diminished his family's wealth to a point that made it just about possible to upkeep the manor and its surrounding grounds.
Eric on the other hand, while supported by a reasonably affluent aunt, needed to get his name known, and so the three of them had sat together and hatched a plan. A Saturday-to-Monday with a grand ball to start it all off. Invited were the rich and the important and – in Crowley's private opinion – the dreadfully pretentious and conceited.
The things one did for one's friends.
He much preferred the house party he usually gave once a year to this charade. The one he only welcomed those to who he truly enjoyed socialising with. But he had made an exception this time. As long as his friends managed to get a little closer to their goals, it would be worth it. And regardless of how tiresome the majority of his current guests were, he would find ways to entertain himself.
"You asked Mr Archer to come?" Anathema grabbed his elbow and pulled him to her side – most likely to the disappointment of the few mothers who continued to believe being Lady Crowley would be a fine prospect for their daughter.
"Not me." Crowley followed the line of Anathema's gaze, not even pretending to be pleased by the sight of the tall, obnoxiously handsome man who had just entered the hall. "I told you, Eric and Newt took care of the invitations."
"And fine work they accomplished since they managed to get him here. Last thing I've heard he has five thousand a year the least."
"As he likes to inform everyone on any occasion he deems opportune." Crowley narrowed his eyes at the man walking with Gabriel Archer. A couple of inches shorter, he was crowned with a veritable halo of blond curls. His coat and pantaloons were neat, maybe a tad old-fashioned but well-made by what Crowley could judge from a distance. The most interesting thing about him however was the slightly stiff posture he held himself with. "I wonder who his companion is."
"You would know had you paid any attention as to whom you were about to bring into your home."
"Eh." Crowley waved his hand. "I trust Eric and Newt, even if they assembled this tedious bunch. They know what they are doing. They really are well-informed and rather clever, are they not?" He glanced at Anathema, his grin taking on a sly note. "Especially Newt. Isn't he ever so clever?"
"As a matter of fact, he is," Anathema stated, the shade of rose dusting her cheekbones belying the resolute tone of her voice.
"As I was saying. And therefore I don't doubt that whoever this fellow may be, he is just as rich or influential as the rest."
Crowley had reviewed the guestlist his artist friend and his valet had compiled. And despite his initial complaint, he had allowed Eric to add Gabriel Archer. He had, however, not concerned himself with the answer cards and had assumed his guests' companions would be their spouses and offspring. In the case of Archer, he had expected him to bring along his recently acquired wife. A lady of the peerage whom the braggart was keen to show off whenever possible.
"I suppose we'll get to know soon enough," Anathema murmured while they observed the two men making their round, introducing themselves to their fellow guests with little bows. Their smiles, both seemingly etched into their faces, were deeply unlike each other.
While Archer's was wide and bright and breaching the border to exaggeration, his companion's appeared stilted and dim. The one common thing was a lack of real warmth, though Crowley was not surprised by that. The same was the case for many of the crowd currently cluttering up his home.
"I guess we'll see about that. One never knows with Gabriel Archer, he might be of the conviction that it is I who should greet him."
Anathema didn't bother to hide her chuckle behind her fan. "When it comes to a sense of self-importance, you might not fall very far behind the esteemed Mr Archer."
Crowley arched an eyebrow at her. "I'm the host. It is only proper for him to approach me."
"And as we know, you always keep to what is proper," Anathema teased.
Just about to throw a fitting retort at her, Crowley closed his mouth when he noticed Archer moving towards them, his companion no longer by his side. With a frown, Crowley glanced about the room, noticing that the other man had been left with a group of giggling ladies. Despite his back being turned towards Crowley, he judged him not very pleased. Not if going by the terse line of his shoulders and clench of his hands.
"Lord Crowley!" Archer cheered and bowed barely low enough to make it a fitting greeting directed at his social superior.
"Mr Archer, how very pleasant it is to see you. I hope the roads treated you well."
"Not too bad, not too bad. Dreadful inns along the way, as I'm sure you know. But one must suffer such plights for one's community, mustn't one."
Archer's smile widened into a complacent beam.
"Of course. Dreadfully selfless of you."
"I try." Archer let his gaze flick through the hall. "Rather an agreeable place you got yourself here, I must say. A bit empty, of course. It does lend it a particular aesthetic."
"How good of you to notice. This gathering is for the showing of art pieces. It is them that are meant to shine, not these old walls housing them."
"Very grand of you." Archer nodded with an earnestness as artificial as his smile.
Crowley made a show of looking about his guests. "And where is the honourable Lady Michael? I haven't met her since a debutante ball a few years back. Oh, I forgot, that must have been before your time."
"She is indisposed, I'm sorry to say. Fortunately, my cousin Mr Aziraphale Fell was so good as to accompany me. He is very passionate about art and will be a great asset to this gathering, I'm sure. I've heard several promising artists are showing? Even some," Archer glanced about surreptitiously, "young ladies?"
"There are." Anathema stepped forward and curtsied. "Me being one of them. It is an honour to make your acquaintance, Mr Archer."
"Oh, well," Archer blinked at her. "Likewise, I'm sure, Miss…"
"Anathema Device," Crowley offered. "And she is indeed one of the talents who grace us with the pleasure of presenting her craft."
He could practically feel the eye-roll Anathema must ache to direct at him, but she kept to a noncommittal smile. Archer on the other hand scrutinised her openly with an unexpected air of calculation.
"Very nice meeting you, Miss Device. I would love to talk some more, but I fear I must rescue my cousin before the ladies seize too much of him, you know how it is." He winked in what Crowley suspected was meant to be a covert way, then bowed at both of them.
"Lord Crowley, Miss Device, I'm looking forward to more of your fine company."
"So that is Mr Gabriel Archer," Anathema commented once they were among themselves again. "Phew…"
"Phew indeed." Crowley watched Archer's trajectory as he tried to catch up with his cousin who had left the group of ladies. Not much of being seized going on, apparently.
"Odd that he wouldn't introduce his cousin in person," Anathema pondered.
"That struck me as unusual as well."
Archer cradled his companion's elbow and was now pulling him towards another clutter of people.
"He does not give the impression to be overly thrilled about socialising." Anathema's gaze was following them, some of the curiosity Crowley felt sparking within him mirrored on her face.
"He really does not."
*
It took until the last guests had arrived and Anathema had left him to mingle with whom she had pronounced her 'persons of priority' that Crowley spotted the yet-to-be-officially-introduced Mr Aziraphale Fell alone again.
Supposedly having escaped his cousin's attempts at conducting small talk with as many people as possible, Fell had retreated into one of the dimmer corners, watching the proceedings with poorly concealed censure.
A perfect opportunity. Crowley was not one to let such slip through his grasp.
"What a splendorous gathering, is it not?" He kept his voice low and smooth as he stepped up beside the other man.
Fell's shoulders squared. A glance was cast at Crowley out of the corners of his eyes, followed by a second, more lingering one which was trailing along his form.
"If you want to call it that," Fell answered after a moment of silence, attention seemingly back on the scene of merriment unfolding in front of them.
"You don't agree?"
The plush lips thinned. Crowley watched with intrigue as lines cut into their corners and furrowed Fell's brow.
"The setting is pretty enough, I suppose," Fell answered, his voice carrying a sharp bite. "A fine ostentation of abundance."
"For the sake of a talented set of novice artists."
"Ah, yes. The artists." There was a derisive curl to Fell's lips. "Mustn't forget about them, must we?"
Crowley frowned.
"Art does not belong to your interests then? Seems like an unfortunate assembly for you to attend if it does not."
"Real art does. Art that carries meaning, that strives to invoke sentiment and longing. This though–" Fell gestured at the room, "–what is it beyond hobnobbing with the aim to better one's circle? To get in close and cosy with those who got laid high standing right into the crib. Why, the location itself is a showing off of riches not gained by the proprietor's own toil."
Crowley arched an eyebrow at Fell who was no longer eyeing his fellow guests but the very room surrounding them. He made sure to keep his smile mild and his voice pointed.
"And your riches are the result of your own honest labour, of course. Are they not, Mr Fell?"
Fell stiffened and turned around, granting his full attention to Crowley.
"We haven't been properly introduced, have we? Sir Anthony James Crowley. Lord Crowley, as it is." Crowley hinted at the slightest nod, almost a mockery at a bow.
The pinched lips parted and something flashed up in Fell's eyes, there and gone in one blink. "I suppose I should compliment you on your beautiful home then, should I not?" Fell glanced along Crowley's person once again.
"You could. Or we could discuss the subject of riches some more. You are kin to the respectable Mr Archer. Say, does your family reap the fruits of the colonies just as comfortably as the Archers do?"
Two red spots ghosted across Fell's cheeks.
"I hope you will have the most pleasant stay in my humble abode, Mr Fell," Crowley said as sweetly as he could and left with another nod.
*
After a supper that was probably going to be Crowley's most lavish meal of the season, the dancing was to commence. For Crowley it couldn't begin too soon. About done with socialising for the evening, he promised a very persistent Anathema one round across the floor. His first and last dance for the night.
Dancing with Anathema was always a joy, still he looked forward to retreating with a nice drink after their turn. He could leave his friends to their own devices from here on. They could take care of themselves and he had two more days of playing the generous host ahead of him.
Full of the resolve to carve some amusement for himself out of this grandiose affair, he intended to while away the rest of the evening by observing his guests. Forming his own impressions of people and setting those up against the rumours and gossip that regularly got carried to him had always been one of his favourite pastimes. And, despite his somewhat secluded life out in the countryside all year around, gossip did reach him. More often than not born to him by the young lady currently in his arms.
"I've asked around a bit," Anathema muttered while they took an elegant turn. "Our elusive Mr Fell is supposedly even wealthier than his dear cousin, did you know?"
"I did not."
"Almost ten thousand a year, it is said. Imagine, having that much prosperity at one's disposal!"
Crowley hummed and led his partner into an artful spin. When they fell back into line with the other couples, he spotted the object of their conversation standing among the onlookers.
A lady wrapped in deceptively simple silk and satin was lingering by Fell's side, presumably in the hope of getting asked for the next dance. They exchanged a few words, then she left, unsuccessful in her endeavour. Fell's smile had been polite while conversing with her, but it fell away the moment her back was turned.
"Not very enthused about dancing, is he?" Crowley speculated.
"Perhaps he is one of those who remain convinced that the waltz is indecent? Though people must be expecting it to be danced at a ball held by you."
He smirked at her, then searched the crowd for his incongruous guest who had left his previous position. Spotting him on his own by the wall, Crowley caught the end of an appreciative glance Fell was sending after one of the gentlemen passing by.
Well, well, well… That was not the look of one man appraising another's very snug pantaloons for their craftsmanship alone. And rather fit and handsome had been the man filling them, too.
What a fascinating development.
The trajectory of their dance had them weaving through two oncoming couples, and so his awareness was drawn back to keeping their steps fluid and their spins on a clear line. Anathema smiled up at him, eyes bright and cheeks flushed with elation.
"Do not get your hopes up regarding Mr Fell," he warned. "I'm not at all sure that he intends to support anyone showing."
"There are enough fish in this pond, one heavier than the other. We made sure of that." She winked then peered past him. "We do seem to have gained his interest if nothing else."
Guiding them into another twirl, he once again caught sight of Fell. The man was clearly watching him and Anathema, expression guarded but focus intense. When he noticed Crowley's attention on him, he averted his eyes.
Crowley hummed speculatively and picked up the pace. Doubling their rhythm, he took them into a mad dash across the room at a speed not meant for a waltz. Anathema let out a most unladylike chortle of delight and clung to his arms. Once the phrase of the music concluded, he slowed them back down to the intended tempo.
"Is he watching?"
Casting a glimpse across the room, Anathema nodded.
"Yes. Or rather, he did. He appears to have grown tired of it."
At their next spin, Crowley caught the tails of Fell's coat disappearing as Fell exited the hall.
*
"For someone so critical of the art being shown, you sure are eager to catch a foretaste."
Fell halted at the sound of Crowley's voice. He turned just enough to eye him, hand still raised where he had been about to push open the door in front of him.
"Pardon if I misunderstood one of your servants. I was told that the library is open to our perusal and we are free to borrow any book we like."
Crowley did not bother correcting him that they were not his servants but hired ones – and hired by Eric, at that. The information Fell had been given was true enough.
Closing in on Fell, he grinned and opened the door for him.
"You have not misunderstood. You're free to pick anything you fancy."
Fell blinked and stared at him. The expression in his wide, grey eyes sharpened and a little frown marred his face. He studied Crowley intently, then entered the library with brisk steps.
Following him into the dark room, Crowley went about putting the candle he had brought along to the ones artfully strewn about the tables and chests. A small group of paintings were clustered in the centre, ready to be admired the coming day.
It was unsurprising that, so far, the guests had been too engrossed in mingling and exchanging news to enquire after the pieces they had been invited for. After an initial reluctance, Anathema and Eric had agreed to Crowley's proposition of putting the opening ball in focus for the first evening. The paintings would be introduced the following day, once everyone had caught up on the newest gossip and was well-rested and full of a thorough breakfast. There would be enough time for their guests to inspect the art at their leisure and Crowley knew all too well what the first few hours of a house party entailed. Fell had not been completely wrong in calling it hobnobbing.
Fell himself was heading straight towards one of the shelves to shine the light of his candle along the rows of books.
"Interested neither in the art nor the dancing and the merriment – one does wonder why you decided to come," Crowley drawled and leaned against the shelf.
Fell glanced at him. Another flick of eyes along his person which rested the barest fraction of a second on his angled hip. Crowley tilted his head, keeping his countenance placid and guileless. The quick peek at the slant of his neck would have gone unnoticed by anyone not looking for it. Crowley was accustomed to looking for it.
So he had been right. Very interesting.
"I'm here because of my cousin," Fell said at last. He was facing the books again, one finger brushing along leather worn thin by time and usage. "It is a pleasant surprise to see these well-frequented."
Crowley knew how to spot a change of topic, even when it was not as obviously presented as this. Taking note of Archer's influence on Fell's presence at his party, he allowed the conversation to take the new route.
"You did not think me a reader?"
Fell gave him a sceptical look. "Too many a proprietor of a fine library don't know what treasures it contains."
"True," Crowley acquiesced. "How very fortunate for mine that chance brought a genuine connoisseur to it. Why, the poor things must miss the gentle touch of reverent fingers and the probing gaze of enthralled eyes." He leaned forwards, splaying his hand against the book spines beside him.
Fell had gone very still, his eyes wide once again. After a few seconds of tense silence, he cleared his throat and pulled out whatever his fingertips were lingering on.
"Precisely. If you excuse me, I shall begin making headway with just that instantaneously."
Back straight and shoulders set with determination, Fell stalked from the room.
Crowley watched him go, his smirk comfortably in place. Once the door had closed behind a very nicely swinging pair of coattails, he searched the newly empty spot on his shelf.
Ovid's Metamorphoses had been Fell's choice for a bedtime reading. Though how much choice had been involved in him picking it, Crowley was not sure.
*
As per the habit of balls, the dancing continued until the wee hours of the morning. When the last guests had finally scurried off to their rooms, Crowley sank into one of the plush armchairs in the upstairs smoking room, a glass of port dangling from his fingers and a relieved sigh escaping his lips.
A few moments to himself and then he would retire for the night as well. Closing his eyes and sipping at his drink, he allowed tiredness to settle into his bones. The house felt peaceful like this, with quietude blanketing the hallways and stairwells and the small oil lamp on the mahogany table beside him the only source of light.
He wasn't sure for how long he had been sitting like this, longer than intended for sure, when the floorboards just beyond the door creaked. Startled out of his drowsiness by the harsh noise, he rose from his seat and stretched. Time to go and have a proper slumber.
Another creak hinted at whoever had woken him still being out and about. Not a rare occurrence, his guests were free to roam the house. There were no secrets to unearth or valuable objects to abscond with. Most of the time they were looking for particular chambers instead of trinkets anyway.
Crowley tended to stay out of the business his guests conducted with each other, be they clandestine or not. As long as only personally invited people would enter his own quarters, they could do with each other whatever they pleased.
Still, he would not wait until the nightly ambler had reached their destination. This was his home, and if someone ended up having to scramble for an excuse why they were stumbling around in the dark, it was not his concern. It might even be amusing to witness.
Opening the door, he came face to face with green-grey eyes, round cheeks, and a lovely figure wrapped into a cream-coloured dressing gown.
The candle that had been illuminating the startled face was lowered, dipping them into darkness until Crowley raised the lamp in his own hand.
"Mr Fell," he murmured, "what a surprise to meet you."
Fell, to his credit, lifted his candle in answer.
"Lord Crowley." He nodded. "I was just going to fetch one more of your treasures to bring into my room."
Crowley glanced down the hallway. The stairs beyond it led to the ground floor where not only the main library but also the servant quarters were situated.
"I do hope you are not on the way to make advances on one of the maids. That sort of behaviour is not accepted in my house, I'll have you know."
"Certainly not," Fell protested, clearly aghast.
Raising his lamp even higher, Crowley lowered his voice despite being sure they were the only ones about.
"Same goes for the footmen."
Fell was gaping at him, then caught himself and his expression went blank. "I do not know what you are implying. In any case, your household staff is perfectly safe from me. My intentions are solely towards your books."
"Indeed?" Crowley took a step forward. Tipping his head back slightly, Fell kept on meeting his eyes. "Even so, I'm sure you know precisely what I was implying."
He ran his gaze down the delightful figure in front of him, taking notice of how the hand not holding the candle was clenched tightly into the gown's lapels.
"You have heard rumours about me, I presume?" Fell said with a surprising amount of derision.
Too curious about how much Fell would reveal about himself, Crowley decided not to admit that the only rumour he knew of was concerning Fell's wealth.
"Well, I can inform you that it's entirely mutual, Sir," Fell continued. "Prior to coming here, I have been informed of all sorts of scandalous behaviour. The most slanderous being you inviting any kind of person to your rooms. Indiscriminately so, was the expression used."
At that, Crowley chuckled. "You couldn't be further from the truth."
"You deny it then?" A trace of disappointment rang in Fell's voice, far stronger however was the scepticism with which he eyed Crowley.
"That I pick indiscriminately whom I invite to my rooms? I deny it vehemently. I might even make a point to the contrary. I'm most fastidious as to the character of those I decide to get to know. So much that it is the only thing that matters to me."
He took another step forward, elated at the sight of Fell's chest expanding at their increasing proximity.
"A bold thing to admit to a stranger."
"Not to one like you."
A tint of red brushed across Fell's cheeks. "So you have heard the rumours."
"Not about that, no. You have me at a disadvantage there, knowing so much about me already. Were you aware of who I was when we first met?"
"No. I knew of you only by name, not by face. Had I recognised you, I might have wrapped my assessment in more agreeable words." There was a quirk to Fell's mouth that dispersed a bit of the bitterness which had befallen it when speaking of rumours.
"More agreeable words, perhaps, but no change of the assessment itself?"
"The truth stays the same no matter how it is phrased."
"Truth. Such a grand word." Crowley took yet another step. It brough him close enough to see Fell's throat work as he swallowed. "And what is the truth in the way you have been looking at me?" Crowley bent forwards. They were almost touching. "I might have not heard those rumours you keep on mentioning, but I know where to look. How to observe certain things."
He watched pointedly as Fell wetted his lips.
"This isn't something which should be discussed in the open." Fell drew back, his gaze flitting past Crowley for the first time since they met in the hallway. He scanned the darkness stretching out beyond them in both directions.
Crowley had been growing up inside these walls. He was sure nobody had sneaked up on them. This part of the manor did not house any unlocked doors aside of the one leading into the smoking room, and he knew which floorboards were bound to creak. They were securely alone with each other. Still, Fell did have a point.
Crowley reached past him, almost brushing Fell's arm as he pressed down the handle and pushed open the door beside them.
"After you, Mr Fell."
Fell glanced at him, eyes full of piercing scrutiny and a hint at intrigue, then marched into the smoking room.
Closing the door behind them, Crowley set his lamp down on a chest of drawers where Fell's candle had already found its place. He rounded the other man who had halted after entering the room. When he saw Fell's face, he was struck by the sudden flash of urgency in his eyes.
Crowley moved in, delighting in Fell's treacherously shallow inhale despite the forced stillness of his body. He wasn't sure whether to look at Fell's slightly parted lips, or the grey eyes that seemed to almost desperately search for something in Crowley's face. Then Fell's hands shot out and grasped at Crowley's coat.
He was pulled towards the wall. Right by the door, which would hide them if anyone was to stumble into the room. For a moment he wondered if it had always been like this for Fell. If he had always needed to be cautious, keep secrecy as a priority above all else.
When his mouth sank against the warm, smooth skin of Fell's exposed throat, he let go of his musings. Fell's hands trailed to his back, drawing him in. The stifled noise Fell made at the press of both their awakening erections filled Crowley with the need to touch. To feel. His own gasp was lost in the pulse thundering beneath his lips.
Slipping his hands into the gown, he let his mouth trail down to a patch of naked skin where neck met shoulder. A perfect spot to nip at.
The cotton of Fell's nightshirt was light and pliant as he hiked it up, running his palms along thighs so soft he wanted to sink his nails into. He revelled in the swell of Fell's chest against his. In the burn of arousal as he chased the sensation of them hardening together.
"Wait," Fell whispered, once Crowley's hands had taken hold of his bare hips.
He loosened his grip and stepped back, giving Fell the space to voice what made him hesitate. It would not be the first time one of his selected changed their mind when proceedings became real. Though it would surprise him if such was the case with Fell. For as careful as the man appeared to be, he did seem to know himself very well.
Fell was looking at him, lips red and eyes heavy, then turned towards the wall.
This was not uncommon either. Too many did not want to face whomever they were finding pleasure with. Whether this was a simple preference or held a deeper meaning, Crowley could work with it. Fell did not need see him for Crowley to make him remember his touch.
Reaching behind himself, Fell fumbled for Crowley's arm and tugged him closer. He guided Crowley's hand down to where the hard jut of his length was straining against fine cloth, then ground his unfairly lush behind against Crowley's crotch.
Oh, yes, Crowley could most certainly work with this. He could work with this very well.
Pushing his hand right beneath Fell's nightshirt to loosely clasp the delightful girth of his cock, he rubbed his own erection against him, the friction of both their clothing enough to make him groan.
"Is this what you want?"
"Your hand… Touch me," Fell panted. "I want you to touch me."
He collected the sticky fluid gathering at the tip of Fell's arousal and tightened his fist. Fell moaned beautifully and jerked into him, meeting his languid strokes in an attempt at speeding up their pace. Sinking his open mouth to the base of Fell's nape, it was one of Crowley's hands that tightened around the lapels of Fell's dressing gown now.
Strung between chasing Crowley's fist and rutting against his groin, Fell steadied himself against the wall with one hand, the other clawing at Crowley's thigh. His breathing broke into stuttering gasps, the press of his arse against Crowley took on an edge of desperation. When Crowley twisted his wrist on an upward glide, a delectable little whine spilled from Fell's lips. Crowley did it again. And again. Stroked him just the way that made Fell's noises of pleasure go needy and his rocking grow frenzied.
Fell came with a choked-off sound, his hands clenching into fists. He sagged over Crowley's arm. After a few shuddering inhales, he pushed himself up and rested his neck against Crowley's shoulder.
Still catching his breath, one of his hands plucked at the buttons of Crowley's trousers. Together they opened them just enough to free Crowley's erection, and when a warm, eager hand took hold of him, he knew it would not take much for him to empty himself into it.