Chapter Text
"Jay Crawly? Like… kink scene Crawly? Isn't his stuff a little… rough?"
Anathema's eyes get big. "That's what makes it so perfect. It's brilliant. No one will be expecting it!"
Gabriel nods excitedly. "That's what this new channel is all about. An intimate look at the industry's biggest names. Peeling back the curtain on their personal sex lives."
Aziraphale pulls his phone out of his pocket and swipes across the screen. "But we don't even know one another. It's not..."
Anathema pops a grape between her lips and interrupts him with her mouth full before he can finish his thought. "Of course it isn't. It's porn, baby. But people are going to eat it up.” She swallows the grape. Drags her hands through the air and slips into a sultry purr. “Anthony Crowley and Ezra Prince. Boyfriend debut. Who are they in their own bedroom?"
Aziraphale glances up from his phone. "Anthony?"
Gabriel rolls his eyes. "Intimate look, remember? We're doing a little rebranding. Putting some distance between him and… well, that." He gestures at the phone in Aziraphale's hand where he's pulled up Crowley's most popular video. Crowley and a man wearing spreader bars and a collar. The leash wrapped tight around Crowley's fist. It's quite the departure from the relatively vanilla porn Aziraphale makes. Doesn’t mean he isn’t familiar with it.
"If he gets to be Anthony, I want to be Aziraphale." He misses his real name. It's funny how that works. He always hated it growing up. No one ever pronounced it right. He was the butt of many a bad joke and the target of unrelenting adolescent bullying. But now that he's stuck with the stage name he misses hearing it. He wouldn't mind a little rebranding of his own, if it's on the table.
Gabriel snaps his fingers. Takes his own phone out and starts taking down notes. "Oh, I love that. Yeah. That's good. Anthony and Aziraphale. Got a good ring to it."
"So you think people are really gonna buy it? I mean… we've never done a scene together. We've never even met."
Anathema picks up another handful of grapes. "We'll do photos. We've got the house all weekend. We'll set up some Instagram stories. Drop some hints between filming and release. Just adds to the appeal. You've been in a quiet relationship. Keeping it low-key while you get to know one another. It's cute."
"So when do I get the script?"
"No script."
Aziraphale stares at Anathema. And then at Gabriel. "No script?"
There are at least three grapes in Anathema’s mouth. Her hands are everywhere as she speaks and yet somehow she’s scrolling through Twitter on her phone. It’s as if she can only function if she’s trying to do ten things at once. Aziraphale supposes it's the reason she’s managed to make Boyfriend Studios as successful as it is. It’s made the top ten in page views for gay porn sites for the past ten years running. For the past three their actors and directors have made big showings at the AVN Awards. Aziraphale’s even brought a few of his own trophies home.
"Director doesn't want one. He's an art house guy. Just getting into erotic films. Really brilliant stuff. You're gonna love it. He does all these soft shots. Gorgeous natural lighting. He's all about things unfolding organically."
"Organically…" Aziraphale can't remember the last time he had "organic" sex. There's nothing organic about a porn set. And no one wants to fuck a porn actor. Or if they do, they want the porn treatment. So even on the rare occasions he brings a boy home with him he's "on." Performing the whole time. They never call him after. Or if they do it’s so he’ll promote whatever pet project they’re currently working on. Those, he doesn’t call back.
Gabriel doesn't look up from his phone. "Organically."
"Does he have a list of scenes at least?"
"Stop worrying about it. This is the kind of stuff you've wanted to get into! Better production value. More realistic. Plus, big fucking perks. A free trip to Norway. First class. Have you looked at the pictures of the house? It's gorgeous! And you can go do whatever it is you like to do in the woods between shoots."
"It's called hiking."
"Whatever. Look. Be excited. This is a big deal. You'll be the poster boys for the new channel. You have a great contract. Big paycheck. And you get to fuck Anthony Crowley. I mean… have you seen him?"
Aziraphale's eyes land back on his phone. Crowley's lip is turned up in a snarl as he circles the man in the collar, leather riding crop in hand. Aziraphale can't deny that he enjoys watching the man work. Or that he wouldn't mind being on the receiving end of that look.
"Yeah." Aziraphale tries not to grin too much as Crowley takes his cock in hand and feeds it between the man's lips. "Ok."
The rented house they'll film in is just as stunning as the photos. It's all clean lines and light wood and vintage designer pieces that would make a collector drool. And there’s a panoramic view of Geirangerfjord through floor-to-ceiling windows that run the entire length of the house. The steep mountain terrain is bright green with summer growth and the sheer cliff faces plunge into turquoise water at their feet. Aziraphale has never seen such a stunning landscape. His job doesn't usually take him so far. He wonders, briefly, as he's staring out at a waterfall trickling down the side of the mountain, just who exactly is funding this thing. Why they chose him. He knows this isn’t coming out of the studio’s pocket.
"Great light in here in the evening."
Aziraphale tries not to look at the camera trained on him. The director is petite. Pale with dark, close-cropped hair. He's wearing what seems to be a permanent scowl and a slinky black slip dress cut low enough that Aziraphale can see a peek of a single nipple. And when he bends over, a faint glossy scar beneath. Aziraphale tries not to look at him either. Although he'd done a fair bit of it when he'd first walked through the door. He's not here to fuck the director though.
"Don't worry about the camera. Just getting some test shots in. We'll start filming when Crowley gets here."
Anathema and Gabriel are spread out on the low coffee table behind them sorting through contracts and riders and health records. Aziraphale’s eyes flit to them and then back to the director. He’d introduced himself as Beez. No last name.
"I thought we were shooting tomorrow."
"We are. Tonight we'll get some B-roll. No audio. No pressure. Just the two of you hanging out. Talking. Cuddling. Drinking. We'll stick you in the kitchen together."
Anathema doesn't look up from her laptop. "Boyfriend stuff, baby. Remember?"
Gabriel does look up. He cocks his head to the side in that golden retriever way that makes him come off charming instead of patronizing. "Is that what you're wearing?"
Aziraphale looks at his bare feet and wrinkled dove grey linen trousers. Then his simple white cotton shirt. "What's wrong with this?"
Beez cuts in, "No, no. This is perfect. We don't want it to look like he's trying too hard."
Aziraphale can't decide if he should be offended or not. He doesn't have a chance to think too hard on it before a light rapping at the door draws his attention. Anathema waves a hand at Gabriel and with a sigh he pushes up off the sofa.
When Gabriel opens the door he flashes that signature grin that won Aziraphale over when he’d first signed him. "Crowley! So glad you made it. How was the trip?"
Aziraphale can't see Crowley from where he's standing. Only Gabriel leaning around the open door that's obscuring his view. Presumably to clap Crowley on the shoulder or give him a firm handshake. Undoubtedly trying to woo the new talent with his American charm. And maybe his big, broad American hands too. Aziraphale leans back to try to get a glimpse around Gabriel as a soft voice drifts through the doorway.
"Great. Hard to beat first class.”
When Crowley steps around the door Aziraphale lets out an almost inaudible oof to himself. He’s just as captivating in real life as he is in his films. All leg and fiery red hair. But instead of the sinister smirk he dons while making young men beg, his face is plastered with a bright, open smile. There’s no dark kohl around his eyes, or stringy sweat-soaked locks, or leather harness. He’s dressed in slim black jeans and a loose grey t-shirt. His hair is brushed back in soft, perfectly tousled waves that make him look like he’s just come from the beach instead of back-to-back flights. The only hint at his on-screen persona is the loose confident sway of his hips and the serpent tattoo coiled around his forearm.
Before Aziraphale can introduce himself Beez is stepping between them with an outstretched hand and what must be their version of a smile.
“Beez. Second Circle Productions. It’s great to finally meet you.” He drags his eyes from the messy tips of Crowley’s hair all the way down to his boots, then turns and does the same to Aziraphale. “Good. Good. This works. Lose the boots, though. I like this barefoot thing he’s got going on.”
Crowley shakes Beez’s hand but his eyes are looking past him. “Ezra Prince. Big fan.”
Aziraphale finally takes a step forward and Beez snaps at his cameraman who follows with his lens. “Aziraphale. Actually. For this one at least.”
Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand in his own and it’s far gentler than Aziraphale would have imagined, having seen his videos. “Aziraphale. Sounds like something from the Bible. An angel or something.”
Is Aziraphale blushing? Surely not. “Or something.”
"It fits you." Aziraphale tilts his head to the side. Is Crowley flattering him? Flirting? Or is it just a show for the camera?
Anathema closes her laptop finally and stands. Floats across the room to kiss Crowley on either cheek, skirt billowing behind her. "Look at you! Clean up real nice." She gives him and Aziraphale the same once-over Beez did. "You two are gonna look so good together. Damn I’m good."
She's gesturing again. Toward the ceiling. Down the corridor. Nowhere in particular at all.
"You're rooming with Aziraphale. First door on the right. Real skeleton crew for this one. Intimate, you know? So we’ll be in the other guest rooms just down the hall. Master is for filming. We'll clear out of here” -one wave of her hand and Gabriel is at the coffee table and gathering up papers. Maybe he’s less golden retriever and more lapdog- “and as soon as you're settled we'll start grabbing some shots to play under the interview. Aziraphale, why don't you show Crowley to your room. Save the chitchat for the camera though, mkay?"
She disappears through a doorway and Aziraphale can't imagine where exactly she's gone. Gabriel closes his own laptop. Finishes stuffing files and charging cables and what looks like a small collection of crystals into a satchel and hurries after her.
While Crowley’s distracted Aziraphale takes his bag, and if he flexes just a little as he lifts it onto his shoulder, well… that's certainly for the camera.
Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s eyes on him as they start down the hall, but his voice is closer than he was expecting. It makes the hairs rise on the back of his neck when he speaks. "You've been with Gabriel and Anathema for a while?"
"Yeah, six years now. They scooped me up when I was still making bad decisions."
There’s a pause, as if Crowley were trying to decide whether he should ask or not. "Bad decisions..?"
"Financially. Mostly. Taking dumb contracts with questionable parties. Whatever I could land for a paycheck.”
“You started out modelling, yeah?”
Aziraphale sets Crowley’s bag on the end of the bed spaced just an arms reach from his own. He can’t help but laugh. Most people think he just popped onto the scene out of nowhere. Plucked up off the street for his boyish good looks and head of blond curls. A nobody one day and posing with his cock out the next. But he’d had a short-lived career before he took the dive into full-time sex work. Walked a catwalk at London Fashion Week. Crowley’s done his homework.
“I did an ad campaign or two.” He meets Crowley’s eyes, big and brown and curious. Aziraphale smirks. He's done his homework too. “You had way more success in that department than I ever did.”
Crowley’s chuckle is far more charming than it has any right to be. “I don’t know I’d call it success. Or modelling. That whole influencer business is all bullshit.”
Aziraphale snorts. Crowley had more social media followers before he signed with Wicked Productions than Aziraphale has now despite having been with Boyfriend Studios for the past six years. He built his own brand with cleverly cropped selfies and a fondness for leather. And of course one of those early OnlyFans accounts when the platform was just getting off the ground. Aziraphale knows all about his start as a cute, cocky Instagrammer. How in no time at all he was raking in the sponsorships and, from the exclusive parties featured in his feed, getting wined and dined while he did it.
“Sure looks like a good time to me.”
Crowley drops his gaze. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that what ends up on the screen doesn’t look a lot like the real thing.”
Isn’t that the truth. Judging by Aziraphale’s own social media account you’d think he spends every weekend partying and fucking cute boys. The former is categorically false. He saves up as many snaps from the few events he attends throughout the year and spreads them out while he spends his Saturday nights studying for the degree he wished he’d gotten started on years ago. And maybe the latter isn’t too much of a stretch, but there’s a lot more logistics and colonics and chafing than you’d imagine. Plus that whole thing where there’s a camera two inches from your taint the whole time and Gabriel is just out of frame frowning and saying Lift his leg a little higher. We can’t see the penetration.
When Aziraphale looks back up Crowley's smiling again and he wonders how long he’s been lost in his own thoughts. Crowley walks his fingers across the duvet. “Maybe this weekend will be different.”
What’s this little flutter in Aziraphale’s belly? That's new. He must have spent too long on Crowley’s Instagram account. And way too long scrolling through his Twitter. He's gotten wrapped up in a fantasy. In the story they're selling. “Maybe.”
Aziraphale’s grin grows lopsided and veers toward something far goofier than he’d prefer as Crowley wraps an arm around his waist and winks. “What do you say, dear? Shall we go make our debut?”
Gabriel whistles as they enter the room. “Anathema, I’ve gotta give it to ya. You said there was a cute twink under all that leather and you are so right.” He gives Crowley and Aziraphale a solid once-over. Aziraphale’s starting to feel like a piece of meat with the number of times he’s been on the receiving end of that look in the last ten minutes. “You’re gonna look so good on Ezra’s...”
“Aziraphale...”
“Right! Right. Sorry. Force of habit. Aziraphale. You’re gonna look so good on Aziraphale’s cock.”
Aziraphale does a quick inventory of the scenes he’d watched in anticipation of this weekend. He can’t recall a single one with Crowley on a cock. “Anthony’s a top?” It’s supposed to be a declaration, but it comes out like a question.
Gabriel steeples his fingers. Rocks his chair back onto two legs and waggles his brows. “Not this weekend he isn’t.”
Aziraphale tries to ignore the cameraman circling them like a shark. He narrows his eyes at Gabriel. He’s good at what he does, but sometimes he can be a little pushy. Not everyone knows how to push back the way Aziraphale does. “Whose idea was that?”
“Mine.” Crowley’s arm is still slung around Aziraphale’s waist and his fingers squeeze as he says it. “Bedroom confidential right? Well…”
Aziraphale hopes that Crowley can’t feel the way his pulse ticks up. If he does, he doesn’t give any indication. Instead he leans in. Whispers like he's letting Aziraphale in on a secret.
“Not a lot of people want to watch the dom bottom.”
“But…” Why couldn’t they have just given him a script? This whole organic thing is throwing him for a loop. It’s definitely the reason he’s feeling all wiggly inside.
Crowley shrugs. “It’s a brand. And it’s worked. Sells great. And I’ve enjoyed myself. But it isn’t… me.”
Beez gestures at the sofa. “Let's get some shots of you together while you talk about it. This is the kind of content ripe for a real emotional connection. I want to capture that. Sit. Sit.”
He hurries to start recording on the stationary camera already pointed at the sofa. Or the portion of it that fits in the frame, at least. It’s a monster of a sectional. Fills the entire living room. It's narrow and as minimalist as the rest of the furniture, but piled with soft cushions and blankets that Beez takes the time to fluff and rearrange quickly. The late evening sun is starting to turn golden and Beez ushers them into the corner together so the light falls on their faces. Even as Aziraphale is reclining, Beez is picking up a camera for stills. Snapping a handful of shots and checking the screen. Adjusting and positioning him and then doing it again. This feels more like what Aziraphale is used to. He focuses on the pose. On making sure he’s tilting his head just right.
Beez takes Crowley by the wrist.
“Crowley, just lean back against his chest. Aziraphale, let’s try with one knee up to help support him. Perfect. Now. Just… natural.”
Aziraphale and Crowley both laugh.
Natural.
After having been posed within an inch of their lives.
Beez’s scowl intensifies. “The shot matters.”
Crowley puts his hands up, still giggling. “Sorry! Sorry.” He shakes out his shoulders. Sinks into Aziraphale and takes a deep breath.
“Natural conversation. Natural touch. Natural light. But we need to catch it. So fucking go.”
Aziraphale bites back his own giggles and rests his palm on Crowley’s thigh. This isn't his first film. He knows how to do intimate touch. How to make it look good. The way Crowley reaches up to fidget “absentmindedly” with Aziraphale’s shirt tells him he does too.
Crowley's thigh is warm beneath Aziraphale's palm. He runs his thumb in broad sweeps over the soft denim. Organic. Natural. If Crowley can do it, Aziraphale can do it too. He plucks at that thread of vulnerability that Crowley’s offered up. Tries to draw it out.
“So. Anthony. The whips and leather and attitude. It's not you. So what is? I’ve read your rider. I know the no-nos. What’s the other side of that? Say I’ve just taken you on a date. We’re back at your place. What do you want?"
Crowley turns his face up and there’s something honest about the way he looks at Aziraphale. Something that feels real. Maybe Beez knows what he’s doing after all.
“I want…” He bites his lip. Brings his fingers to it in contemplation. “I’ve spent a long time being in charge. Taking care of my subs. Half the reason I’m doing this is for a break from that.”
Aziraphale strokes the hair on the back of Crowley’s head. Another intimate touch. One that Beez is sure to catch. But one that feels good in some other way. One that gives Aziraphale that swoop in his belly again. The way Crowley leans into him makes the swoop feel even better. “You want someone else to call the shots.”
“Yeah but… in a nice way.” Crowley chuckles. “Less punishment and more…”
“You want someone to take care of you.”
“Yeah? Maybe?" The fingers that are playing with Aziraphale's collar still. When Crowley meets Aziraphale's eye he looks genuine. "And... I’ve heard a thing or two. Through the grapevine. People love working with you, Aziraphale. You're good at what you do. Respectful. Attentive. I figured, if I were going to… well… And… like I said. Big fan. I just thought…” His rambling, aborted non-sentences are almost too cute. Where's that take-charge dom attitude? Aziraphale's pulse is acting up again. It's that vulnerability. It doesn't feel like an act. It feels like Crowley really is looking for something… well, organic.
“You thought… that maybe I would take care of you?”
“Yeah.”
"My bedroom confidential?" Crowley tilts his face up and Aziraphale dips down to whisper so all the other interested parties in the room can't hear. He can be vulnerable too. "I'd really like to do that for you."
Crowley's fingers land on Aziraphale's jaw and Aziraphale follows them down until their lips meet.
The sound of the shutter drowns out everything else in the room. Until Beez leans over and whispers to Gabe.
"God, they're good."