Authors Note: Whilst writing this I had a panicked moment where I was convinced Crowley's fingernails are black, which would have been an obvious clue. But apparently he never has black fingernails in the show – only in fanart. Which is just as well, because there's only so many clues I can believably have these idiots ignore XD


The 1970s


Aziraphale kept his head down as he made his way across the grass. It was a grey Sunday afternoon - a couple of hours before the park closed - and the place was not overly busy.

The walk here from the bookshop had taken longer than he would have liked. This was not a park he usually visited, but a long time ago he'd heard some very interesting things about it. Scandalous things.

The public lavatory came into view from behind some trees, and Aziraphale's stomach fluttered.

Red faced, he glanced around. He half expected to see people watching him with judging eyes, but there was no one about. He reached out with his mind to make sure there were no supernatural entities nearby, and then - once he felt reassured - he forced his angelic essence deep into his core, making himself all but invisible to both angels and demons alike. The last thing he wanted was to broadcast his whereabouts.

Warily, he stepped into the Gents and found it empty, not a soul in sight. He checked the three cubicles to make sure, and as he did so he found the very thing he had been told about all those decades ago. A hole about the size of his closed fist had been cut into the separating chip-board wall between two of the cubicles, black duct tape covering any rough edges.

In the 1930s, a fellow he'd met in a gentleman's club had told him about the existence of glory holes, saying that there was one in a public lavatory half-hidden among the trees of this park. Aziraphale hadn't entirely believed him, suspecting that the man had just been trying to shock and embarrass him but the idea had stuck with him all the same.

Now that Aziraphale was here with the proof right in front of him he felt utterly astonished. Not only had the man been telling the truth, but the glory hole was still here a full forty years later.

When his friend had first explained to him what glory holes were for Aziraphale had found the idea vulgar and distasteful, and even now he wrinkled up his nose at the sight of the hole which looked grimy and unclean. He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to stick any part of their anatomy through there. He looked around the cubicle and winced. When was the last time this place had been given a good clean?

For the briefest of moments Aziraphale allowed his powers to resurface and suddenly the Gents was spotlessly clean, the smell of disinfectant and citrus in the air making him feel much better.

Aziraphale took one last peek out of the cubicle door to make sure he was still alone and then he locked himself inside. He sat down on the closed toilet lid, placed his hands on his knees, and then he stared at the hole in the wall, feeling a mixture of shame and excitement. After a moment, he allowed his powers to resurface just long enough to miracle a cushion to sit on.

Could he really go through with this? Was it really something he wanted? Could he really take part in such an intimate act with a stranger without so much as saying hello or learning their name? Without even kissing them? But he couldn't have those things, he'd learnt that the hard way.

Aziraphale had been with men before, but he knew it could never be more than a casual fling. Aziraphale didn't age, he had too many secrets, too many reasons to keep his distance, but despite all of this he'd become far too attached far too many times. Even worse, many of his lovers – despite agreeing that they didn't want anything serious or long term – had fallen for him themselves. Aziraphale didn't want to hurt anyone.

He had sworn to give up sex many times, but he only ever lasted a century or two before his resolve weakened again. Some poor fellow would show an interest in him and he'd be lost again. It wasn't fair on those poor men - they deserved to be with a human, someone they could grow old with, someone they could love.

Aziraphale wanted to look after those people so shunned by society, those who had to hide their attraction to their own gender. It seemed better, much more rewarding, to match-make than to get involved himself.

It didn't help that he was desperately in love with Crowley, but could never act on it. They were on opposite sides, they were enemies - there was too much at stake. And so Aziraphale had resorted to taking humans to bed instead, but even that was too much for him now.

Aziraphale needed a new way to scratch that itch because self-pleasure really wasn't cutting it right now. He longed for someone else's touch. Gosh darn it - he just wanted to suck a cock and he refused to feel ashamed about that.

So here he was, in a public lavatory seriously considering fellating someone through a hole in the wall. But at least there wouldn't be any risk of him growing emotionally attached to the human on the other side - or vice versa. This would be anonymous. Purely physical. So Aziraphale sat and he waited, buzzing with nervous energy.

After a while a man came in, and Aziraphale's heart raced, but the man only used the urinal. He didn't come anywhere near the cubicles, and then he washed his hands and left.

Soon over an hour had passed and Aziraphale started to wish he'd brought a book or a crossword puzzle to pass the time. He looked at his watch. There was only half-an-hour left before the park closed. No one was coming – in every sense of the phrase.

Had he picked the wrong day? The wrong time? Was there a secret etiquette or schedule he didn't know about? His friend had given him plenty of information but that had been decades ago. Perhaps people didn't come here anymore, perhaps glory holes were out of style. It was the 1970s now – perhaps people were too busy disco dancing.

But the tape around the hole looked fresh, and there were four drill holes in a square around the hole as though someone had tried to cover the hole over with something and someone else had defiantly taken it down again. It must still be in use.

Either way, there wasn't much time left now so he should probably leave. It was for the best that no one else had come here - this wasn't the sort of thing he should be doing. But he felt disappointed all the same. Despite his trepidation he'd been sitting here in a state of increasing arousal, his imagination running wild.

Footsteps entered the room, loud in the otherwise silent space.

Aziraphale tensed, heart in his throat, though he suspected this was probably just someone who wanted to use the facilities or an employee of the park who had come to close the lavatories early. The footsteps stopped in front of his cubicle. Aziraphale held his breath, and then the person moved into the cubicle at the far end, right next to his own with the glory hole cut into the partition.

The door locked.

Aziraphale could feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He dug his fingernails into his knees. Should he make a move? His friend had said to put a foot through the gap below the partition and if the other man bumped their shoes together it meant he was interested. But Aziraphale couldn't pluck up the courage to do it. What if he was wrong and just ended up humiliating himself?

A long, slender finger poked through the glory hole, and Aziraphale stared at it in shock. His stomach flipped as he hesitantly reached out and stuck his own index finger through the hole too, lightly brushing their fingers together. After a moment, the other man's finger drew back.

There came the sound of material shifting and then of a zipper being undone.

With shaking hands, Aziraphale unfastened his own trousers and pulled himself free. He was already fully hard and yet he still found himself frozen with fear and indecision. What was he supposed to do now? Was the other man waiting for him to go first? His friend had told him that speaking was frowned upon – in order to keep things as anonymous as possible – but it seemed odd to not discuss what they wanted. He felt entirely out of his depth.

Movement came from the other cubicle, and Aziraphale watched, wide eyed, as another man's cock pushed through the hole. It was long and pink, and while it was certainly beautiful in Aziraphale's opinion, the sight of it poking through the wall was so ridiculous and surreal that he might have laughed if it wouldn't have been so incredibly rude to do so.

Nervousness kept Aziraphale still for a moment, but he was so helplessly aroused that in a moment of bravery – or madness – he shifted forward in his seat, reached out and wrapped his fingers around the stranger's cock.

There came a shaky gasp from the other side of the wall as Aziraphale started to stroke him, slowly at first before gaining more confidence, smearing pre-cum down his length. The man started to move in slow little pushes into his fist.

Aziraphale licked his lips. He wanted to taste him. He wanted to feel him against his tongue. Trembling with anticipation, he yanked the cushion out from under himself, threw it to the floor, and then knelt down on it. Now at eye-level, he had a perfect view.

Red hair - just visible through the glory hole - framed the man's cock, and it looked like he'd trimmed it back just a little. The red hair immediately reminded him of Crowley, and his cock twitched eagerly at the thought of him. It would be just like Crowley to cut his hair fashionably no matter where that hair was. As Aziraphale took the stranger's cock into his mouth with a blissful sigh, he wondered if the hair at Crowley's crotch matched the hair on his head, and if his cock looked like this one; tall and slender just like the demon himself.

He moaned around the man's cock, tasting him, sucking on him, feeling the heaviness of him. Oh, it had been such a long time since he'd last done this, and it felt so good to have his mouth so full.

He was hit by a sudden desire to reach out and grasp the man's hips, his arse, pull him close, feel skin under his fingers, bury his nose in that red hair, but it was impossible with this barrier in the way. Instead he braced himself with his hands on the wall as he bobbed his head up and down.

Aziraphale grabbed his own neglected cock, and started moaning around the cock in his mouth as he stroked himself. The man on the other side let out a shaky noise and rocked into him, once, twice, before he seemed to force himself to keep still, perhaps unsure if Aziraphale wanted to be face-fucked. Aziraphale gave an encouraging moan, and then the man hesitantly started to rock into him again, growing in confidence as Aziraphale made enthusiastic sounds of encouragement. Aziraphale moved in as close as he could get, nose squashed against the wall, lips partway through the glory hole, trying to take as much of the man's cock as he could, feeling him nudging into his throat. Aziraphale's eyes closed in bliss. He focused on the cock pushing into his throat, the musky smell of him, the lewd and wet slapping sounds, the rattling of the wall, his hand moving furiously on his own cock.

The man made a choking sound – ironic really, all things considered – which turned into an unintelligible attempt at a warning, and he was spilling down Aziraphale's throat. Aziraphale sucked enthusiastically, swallowing his seed while his hand moved desperately between his legs. He was close, so very close.

The man pulled himself from his mouth, and Aziraphale's eyes flew open. He started to chase him with his tongue, but the cock vanished to be replaced by a finger which poked through the glory hole and made a beckoning motion. It took Aziraphale a moment in his current state to realise what it meant, but then he was staggering to his feet, embarrassed by what he'd done and what he was about to do, and yet he felt so desperately aroused that he couldn't stop himself from pushing his cock through the hole in the wall.

Lips wrapped around him almost immediately, and a skilled tongue moved in ways that seemed almost impossible - this man must have a very long tongue – and then Aziraphale's eyes were widening in shock, and he was crying out helplessly as his orgasm swept through him, leaving him coming into the man's mouth.

Aziraphale stood there, trembling with the aftershocks, both of his hands and his forehead pressed against the wall, shocks of pleasure still shooting through him.

He wanted to apologise for not giving any warning and for not lasting longer, but he didn't feel like he was allowed to speak. Besides, the man didn't seem to mind, he was licking his cock clean with enthusiasm. Eventually the man stopped his leisurely licking, and Aziraphale drew back, removing his cock from the hole. He looked down at himself, at the unruly white-blond curls around his cock, and worried that he should have used a quick miracle to tidy and trim his hair. He should have made himself as presentable as the other man had. He felt a sudden surge of inadequacy. He'd never been able to keep up with what was considered fashionable. Aziraphale sat down on the toilet seat, feeling shaken.

He looked towards the hole, trying to catch a glimpse of the man on the other side, but all he saw was a dark shape moving towards the door - a blur of dark trousers - and then the door was creaking open and the man was leaving. The man stopped briefly at one of the sinks to wash his hands, and then he left the lavatory, his footsteps growing quieter until they were gone altogether.

Aziraphale suddenly felt very alone.

The afterglow had completely worn off, leaving Aziraphale feeling dirty and ashamed. With trembling hands he pushed his now soft cock back into his underwear, fastened up his trousers, and then tried to make himself look presentable. Tears prickled at his eyes. He shouldn't have done this. He should have been stronger, he should have tried to resist such base urges.

He stood up, desperate to get home. He couldn't bear to be in this horrible place a moment longer. He almost tripped over his cushion on his way to the door. He glared at it and it vanished – he never wanted to see it again.

He opened the door slowly, scared that someone might see him, but there was no one there. He washed his hands hurriedly, and when he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror he had to look away.

Head low, Aziraphale marched away across the grass. He felt as though everyone was looking at him, as though everyone could tell what he'd done.

He wondered if the man had waited nearby to get a look at him. Aziraphale kept his eyes on the ground because he couldn't bear to see him - or the look on his face when he realised he'd just sucked off someone who looked like a middle-aged English teacher.

Who even was this man? Was he lonely - just like Aziraphale - or was he in a relationship? Was he married with children? Had Aziraphale just helped a man cheat?

Aziraphale dried his eyes on his sleeve. He was not going to cry in the middle of the park - that could wait until he got home.

But Aziraphale didn't cry when he got home. He made himself a cup of tea, put on some music, and then settled down to sort through some recently acquired books. Now that he was in the safety of his own home he felt much better. In fact, now that he thought about it sensibly, he'd done nothing wrong. They were both consenting adults, after all.

Although… perhaps doing it in such a public place wasn't the best course of action. But gay men needed places like this – they needed to be able to keep their identities secret. The man might not feel safe seeking out gay men in other places, fearing being judged or hurt. Maybe this was the only way he felt he could fulfil his desires - just like it was for Aziraphale. They had brought each other a little pleasure today and there was nothing wrong with that.

Yes. It was going to be okay. It was no one else's business what Aziraphale got up to in his spare time anyway. No one would ever know. It was his secret.

Over the next few days every time that Aziraphale thought about what he'd done the guilt faded a little bit more until it had vanished altogether. Instead, the memory of it gave him a thrill every time. The illicit nature of it, the secrecy, the way both he and the man had forced themselves to keep quiet, save for the little gasps that had escaped them – it all seemed so exciting and erotic now. He'd just been too nervous at the time to fully appreciate those things. Perhaps if he were to go back…

But no. He should not go back. It was for the best that it be a one-time thing. The memory of it would keep him going for a long time. It was something to fantasise about in the middle of the night alone in his bed. There was no need for a repeat performance.

On a warm Saturday afternoon almost a week after his visit to the glory hole, Aziraphale met Crowley in the park - a different park of course - to discuss the arrangement. Afterwards they went for a late lunch, which turned into dinner, which turned into drinks in the backroom of the bookshop. Before Aziraphale knew it, the hour was late, and Crowley was snoozing on the sofa. He didn't have the heart to wake him.

Aziraphale didn't sleep as a general rule and he had no desire to do so now. Instead, he fetched a book and settled down in the armchair opposite Crowley. Except he couldn't concentrate on his book - he kept looking up at Crowley, draped across the sofa, his lips parted, his burgundy shirt open at the collar showing a hint of his throat and chest. Aziraphale wanted him so badly.

Aziraphale unfolded a blanket, draped it over Crowley and then he left the room. He spent the rest of the night in the bookshop filing.

Early the next morning Crowley crept out of the backroom with a sheepish look on his face. Aziraphale made them coffee and they drank it together in the kitchenette before Crowley drove away in his Bentley.

Aziraphale was alone in his bookshop once again. He got back to his filing but he struggled to focus. All he could think about was that it was exactly a week ago today that he'd been to that park. Maybe the same man would be there. The hours dragged by, and Aziraphale lost his internal battle. With a fluttering feeling deep inside his chest, he put on his coat and stepped out into the street.


Authors Note:

Spoiler alert: It was Crowley all along! :o

So if it was fashionable in the 1970s to let your pubes grow wild and free, I suppose Aziraphale is trendier than Crowley right now? Pubes wise? Of course he doesn't know the trends so he has no idea.

A quick bit of research tells me that people started trimming their pubes in the 1940s when bikinis became a thing. But even before then, Ancient Greek and Roman cultures shaved their pubic hair.

Honestly, my search history is something.

This story is going to be in four chapters. The rest is written, I just need to re-read and edit it :)