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Taking his black cowboy hat off, Crowley sets it on Aziraphale’s head. In response, Aziraphale taps one finger against the brim, tilting it at a jaunty angle and leveling Crowley with a serious gaze.
“It’s not easy. You’ve gotta be loose, angel. In your hips, your back. You’ve gotta be fluid. I love you, but you don’t have a relaxed posture.”
“You love me?” Aziraphale teases, leaning close to Crowley’s ear so he'll be heard over the loud music. It’s their latest game. One of them casually drops I love yous in conversation, and the other acts surprised.
“Little bit.” Crowley grins, holding up an empty glass and two fingers for the bartender to show he wants a drink for his partner, too.
“Of course not, dear. Incidentally, you had no complaints about my ability to ride last night.” Aziraphale pulls Crowley into his lap. “Although I wouldn’t mind seeing your technique.”
It’s only been a few months, but Aziraphale can’t imagine being with anyone else, especially when Crowley’s grinding on his lap in a crowded bar. It’s something Aziraphale would never have done before he met this self-proclaimed bad guy with a molten hot center.
When it arrives, Crowley tosses back the whiskey and slams the glass on the bar.
“Alright, angel. You’re on.” Crowley’s off like a shot, leaving Aziraphale alone and exposed.
After sipping his drink, Aziraphale discreetly folds his hands in front of himself and cranes his neck to get a better look at Crowley.
No one knows them here, which is part of the fun. They’ve traveled several cities away from home and rented a cheap motel room to walk to after they’ve enjoyed a night of public displays of affection, anonymity, and alcohol.
As such, Crowley doesn’t know the young man he claps on the shoulder, but Aziraphale can read his lips when he says, Good job. Now let someone with experience show you how it’s done. He also doesn’t miss the way the man, easily twenty years their junior, checks out Crowley’s backside.
He likes how everyone in the bar ogles Crowley, how raw desire is painted on their faces, and how Crowley doesn’t even give them a second glance. No, he only has eyes for Aziraphale.
Crowley mounts the mechanical bull. It starts slow, and Crowley rolls with it, pretending to dramatically yawn with a hand over his mouth while the other dangles limply at his side.
Oh, but his movements are fluid and undulating. When the bull drops its head, Crowley’s hips roll forward and his shoulders roll back. It’s hypnotic, and all eyes are on him. When the bull starts to buck faster, Crowley briefly takes hold of the handle, but once he’s stable he resumes riding with both hands free.
Crowley’s legs hold on firmly while the top of him moves with the motions of the bull, and he swings one arm right or left to counter its side-to-side movements.
Whenever he can, he locks eyes with Aziraphale and smirks. Several times he winks as the operator whips him around, showing no mercy after all that showboating. But Crowley is a flag blowing in the wind, both gorgeous and unstoppable, twisting and flapping with ease, like he was built for this.
Eventually he throws both legs over one side and dismounts like a professional gymnast. The crowd goes wild as Crowley takes a dramatic bow and saunters over, sweaty, beautiful, and glowing.
“Darling, I love you so much.” Aziraphale takes Crowley’s sunglasses out of his pocket. “Now take me back to our room and ride me like you promised.”
“With pleasure, angel.” Crowley slips his sunglasses on and slaps cash on the bar. Then he kisses Aziraphale slow and deep. They get lost in it, hands grasping wildly, until several people whoop and holler. Aziraphale has learned a few things about bulls, too. And he plans to keep learning, because there's no way he's ever letting go of Crowley, no way he'll ever get thrown.