![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
[ Aziraphale is quick to do what he's told, though when Crowley stops him mid-turn his breath hitches in surprise. He's so warm behind him, voice a fine honeyed wine. He can still see those eyes in his mind, burning into his neck, preparing for the hunt. Throat dry, he swallows hard and speaks with a tremble. ]
Oh, Crowley. We really mustn't.
[ Even as he says this, he reaches a hand to still Crowley where he is and pushes his hips back against him.
They both know that this scenario isn't quite correct because there is no way that Aziraphale could have put these clothes back on until he had returned to London, but he likes to think that in this reimagining of this particular scene, that Crowley could have taken him somewhere for a little drinking after lunch and proposed that Aziraphale show a little more gratitude for having saved his corporation. Naturally he would have been too embarrassed at the time, and would've wondered if he had given himself away. And he would have acted offended and hid from Crowley and refused his audience for years, maybe a century. There would be none of this playing coy, this careful curated tension between them; he thinks it would be alright to forsake a little realism.
And because of it, he takes Crowley's hand and pretends to consider him for a moment, walking away, turning on his heel, feigning confliction all over his face. He might just be a tad too overdramatic an actor. ]
Well, you did come rescue me. At risk to your reputation.
I suppose. It's only fair.
[ Trying so hard to keep up the act, he slowly and mock-shyly undoes the buttons of his coat, neatly folds it onto the bed. And he practically has to peel off the britches, laying them aside on top of his coat. He presents himself before Crowley, taking his hands and putting them on his hips, but biting his lip as he regards Crowley's face as if sussing out his intentions. Curiously, he leans in just the slightest to ask in quiet confession: ]
Would it be alright if I kissed you?
Oh, Crowley. We really mustn't.
[ Even as he says this, he reaches a hand to still Crowley where he is and pushes his hips back against him.
They both know that this scenario isn't quite correct because there is no way that Aziraphale could have put these clothes back on until he had returned to London, but he likes to think that in this reimagining of this particular scene, that Crowley could have taken him somewhere for a little drinking after lunch and proposed that Aziraphale show a little more gratitude for having saved his corporation. Naturally he would have been too embarrassed at the time, and would've wondered if he had given himself away. And he would have acted offended and hid from Crowley and refused his audience for years, maybe a century. There would be none of this playing coy, this careful curated tension between them; he thinks it would be alright to forsake a little realism.
And because of it, he takes Crowley's hand and pretends to consider him for a moment, walking away, turning on his heel, feigning confliction all over his face. He might just be a tad too overdramatic an actor. ]
Well, you did come rescue me. At risk to your reputation.
I suppose. It's only fair.
[ Trying so hard to keep up the act, he slowly and mock-shyly undoes the buttons of his coat, neatly folds it onto the bed. And he practically has to peel off the britches, laying them aside on top of his coat. He presents himself before Crowley, taking his hands and putting them on his hips, but biting his lip as he regards Crowley's face as if sussing out his intentions. Curiously, he leans in just the slightest to ask in quiet confession: ]
Would it be alright if I kissed you?
[ The lace at Aziraphale’s collar is against his lips, his cheek. Crowley almost can’t bear to let go of him, even to let him do what he’s instructed, but the fantasy they’re building here is too good. It’s easy to imagine that this is a room he’s taken in Paris, above a tavern or a shop or some other, more disreputable establishment, that he’s persuaded Aziraphale to accompany him back to; he wouldn’t have worn these garments, no, but perhaps he’d miracle them back when they were safely alone, being more comfortable in them. Not having any notion of how much Crowley loves them, how delectable he looks in the lace and silk, like a creamy confection...or he’d be red with embarrassment. ]
Yesss, we must.
[ His soft consonants get away from him in his desire, his voice turning extra sibilant. ]
We really must.
[ His gaze follows Aziraphale hungrily as he walks away a couple of paces and then turns back, the grasp of their hands like a tether. Grinning briefly at the angel’s playacting, Crowley lets a cunning tender smile replace it, stepping closer as Aziraphale charmingly undoes the buttons of his coat and strips it off, followed by his breeches. He undoes the waistcoat for him, sliding it from his shoulders and folding it almost as neatly, taking care with it as he lays it atop the other garments. The tenderness isn’t feigned, or the stark desire in his gaze as he takes in Aziraphale in just shirt and stockings, the hem of the shirt covering him to the tops of his thighs, still buttoned up at the lacy collar and cuffs.
His fingers touch the collar, trailing up to Aziraphale’s chin and tipping it a little. ]
I think you ought to, angel. Before I do something far more lascivious.
Yesss, we must.
[ His soft consonants get away from him in his desire, his voice turning extra sibilant. ]
We really must.
[ His gaze follows Aziraphale hungrily as he walks away a couple of paces and then turns back, the grasp of their hands like a tether. Grinning briefly at the angel’s playacting, Crowley lets a cunning tender smile replace it, stepping closer as Aziraphale charmingly undoes the buttons of his coat and strips it off, followed by his breeches. He undoes the waistcoat for him, sliding it from his shoulders and folding it almost as neatly, taking care with it as he lays it atop the other garments. The tenderness isn’t feigned, or the stark desire in his gaze as he takes in Aziraphale in just shirt and stockings, the hem of the shirt covering him to the tops of his thighs, still buttoned up at the lacy collar and cuffs.
His fingers touch the collar, trailing up to Aziraphale’s chin and tipping it a little. ]
I think you ought to, angel. Before I do something far more lascivious.
Edited 2019-08-05 12:46 (UTC)
[ Aziraphale has to break character a moment to grin at Crowley's hissing, much too proud of himself. But it's easy to slip back in when he does feel exposed, dressed in what essentially had been his underwear for years, stockings up to his thighs and a long shirt to cover the rest, drawers invisible underneath. A flash of ankle would've been considered scandalous, though in those days most people would still have this many clothes on during sex, and he supposes the reason he feels so uncomfortably warm is possibly the same reason that other people enjoy lingerie. He raises Crowley's hands to his neck, to help him loose his ascot, smiling beside himself. ]
You've a dirty mind, Crowley.
[ And yet he speaks so affectionately, kisses him with such ease that he would be hard-pressed to pretend he hasn't dropped this pretense entirely. With his arms around Crowley's neck, he starts to make his way back towards the bed and pulls Crowley over him in a tumble of kisses and little giggles.
There's a joyous absurdity to it all, the excitement of something new but already with a solid foundation of trust and of openness and ability to just be themselves. No more posturing needed to be made; they were already well aware of each other's many quirks and oddities, and with no secrets left between them it just led to a comfortable safety they could retire into. ]
Crowley...
[ He whispers to halt a kiss, drawing his ear nearer as if holding in a great secret. He can hardly keep from laughing as he requests: ]
Do be gentle.
You've a dirty mind, Crowley.
[ And yet he speaks so affectionately, kisses him with such ease that he would be hard-pressed to pretend he hasn't dropped this pretense entirely. With his arms around Crowley's neck, he starts to make his way back towards the bed and pulls Crowley over him in a tumble of kisses and little giggles.
There's a joyous absurdity to it all, the excitement of something new but already with a solid foundation of trust and of openness and ability to just be themselves. No more posturing needed to be made; they were already well aware of each other's many quirks and oddities, and with no secrets left between them it just led to a comfortable safety they could retire into. ]
Crowley...
[ He whispers to halt a kiss, drawing his ear nearer as if holding in a great secret. He can hardly keep from laughing as he requests: ]
Do be gentle.
[ Both his fingers and Aziraphale’s pull the knot undone, and Crowley leans in close to kiss him, stealing a taste of his lips as his hand drops to ease beneath the hem of the shirt, fingers grazing Aziraphale’s thigh. ]
I’m not the one dressed like that.
[ He says it in a low murmur, his lips at Aziraphale’s cheek, just to provoke more of his blushes. It’s all in affection and fun, letting Aziraphale tug him towards the bed with his arms linked around his neck and pull him down over him. Crowley drags up the hem of the shirt to reach beneath, kissing him hungrily among the bedsheets and the soft fabric of the clothes, his bare legs tangling with Aziraphale’s so that he can feel the silk of his stockings. Everything about him causes him a torment of delight and wanting, like nothing he’s ever known before.
Aziraphale’s request makes him groan and bury his face at his throat, heated through in spite of their pretending. Crowley slips his hand beneath his shirt and trails up his waist, then down to his front, palming his cock through the fabric of his drawers. He moves and catches Aziraphale’s mouth in a kiss again, hand slowly caressing, following the shape of him through the fine linen. ]
I’ll be good to you, angel.
[ His voice is low and husky, the words sincere in spite of the part he’s playing, and he slides down his body as he tugs the shirt up further and pushes down the waist of his drawers, exposing his cock. Reaching it with his mouth, Crowley nuzzles lightly at the head, closing his lips around it in a brief suck. ]
I’m not the one dressed like that.
[ He says it in a low murmur, his lips at Aziraphale’s cheek, just to provoke more of his blushes. It’s all in affection and fun, letting Aziraphale tug him towards the bed with his arms linked around his neck and pull him down over him. Crowley drags up the hem of the shirt to reach beneath, kissing him hungrily among the bedsheets and the soft fabric of the clothes, his bare legs tangling with Aziraphale’s so that he can feel the silk of his stockings. Everything about him causes him a torment of delight and wanting, like nothing he’s ever known before.
Aziraphale’s request makes him groan and bury his face at his throat, heated through in spite of their pretending. Crowley slips his hand beneath his shirt and trails up his waist, then down to his front, palming his cock through the fabric of his drawers. He moves and catches Aziraphale’s mouth in a kiss again, hand slowly caressing, following the shape of him through the fine linen. ]
I’ll be good to you, angel.
[ His voice is low and husky, the words sincere in spite of the part he’s playing, and he slides down his body as he tugs the shirt up further and pushes down the waist of his drawers, exposing his cock. Reaching it with his mouth, Crowley nuzzles lightly at the head, closing his lips around it in a brief suck. ]
[ Out of instinct, Aziraphale wiggles his hips closer to Crowley when there's a nice warm hand on his hip. ]
You like it when I'm trouble.
[ It's increasingly difficult to play along as Crowley continues, his touch waking that part of Aziraphale that thinks using so little of his brain, and he thinks possibly it might just be too much effort to keep up this game. His cuffs, still with bunches of lace, brush across Crowley's shoulders and his cheek, feather soft as he eventually settles his grip into that long hair, pulling it as he gasps upon being so suddenly exposed. He can still feel the drag of fabric like a snap across his skin, and his cock stands straight and pink and jarring out of the confines of cloth, emerging from a nest of downy white curls. And as Crowley takes Aziraphale into his mouth, his back makes a sharp bridge and a strangled groan makes its way past his lips. ]
I know. You're always so good to me.
[ That's a little truth that slips in without his filter, a slightly melancholic thought. It's a feature that Aziraphale has taken advantage of over the years, and even manipulated to his will more than once or twice. He wishes for hundreds and thousands of years to do the same for him, to leave Crowley wanting for nothing, not just in a partner but in his life. There is a certain amount of empathy that they share in feeling unfulfilled in work and in what surrounds them, but all that falls away when they're alone.
He wets his lips and gently encourages Crowley with thumb on his jaw and stare through heavy-lidded eyes. But then he reminds himself of why he's dressed like this in the first place as he catches a glimpse of one stockinged leg slung over Crowley's shoulder. ]
I thought I was supposed to be the one rewarding you on a job well done, darling.
[ There's a thickness to his every breath; obviously, he doesn't mind. ]
You like it when I'm trouble.
[ It's increasingly difficult to play along as Crowley continues, his touch waking that part of Aziraphale that thinks using so little of his brain, and he thinks possibly it might just be too much effort to keep up this game. His cuffs, still with bunches of lace, brush across Crowley's shoulders and his cheek, feather soft as he eventually settles his grip into that long hair, pulling it as he gasps upon being so suddenly exposed. He can still feel the drag of fabric like a snap across his skin, and his cock stands straight and pink and jarring out of the confines of cloth, emerging from a nest of downy white curls. And as Crowley takes Aziraphale into his mouth, his back makes a sharp bridge and a strangled groan makes its way past his lips. ]
I know. You're always so good to me.
[ That's a little truth that slips in without his filter, a slightly melancholic thought. It's a feature that Aziraphale has taken advantage of over the years, and even manipulated to his will more than once or twice. He wishes for hundreds and thousands of years to do the same for him, to leave Crowley wanting for nothing, not just in a partner but in his life. There is a certain amount of empathy that they share in feeling unfulfilled in work and in what surrounds them, but all that falls away when they're alone.
He wets his lips and gently encourages Crowley with thumb on his jaw and stare through heavy-lidded eyes. But then he reminds himself of why he's dressed like this in the first place as he catches a glimpse of one stockinged leg slung over Crowley's shoulder. ]
I thought I was supposed to be the one rewarding you on a job well done, darling.
[ There's a thickness to his every breath; obviously, he doesn't mind. ]
[ He relaxes, warm and welcoming when Aziraphale's back arches up and the motion pushes his cock deeper into his mouth, taking it easily. Crowley pulls back slowly, in a wet, luxurious glide, eyes already hazy as they lift up to glimpse Aziraphale's face. He loves the weight of his thigh over his shoulder, the silk stocking dragging against his back, the brush of lace where Aziraphale's hands grip him. If this had really been Paris in the 1700s, he might have told him that this was thanks enough, and meant it: he would have taken anything he was given, any chance to touch and worship Aziraphale as he'd dreamed of for ages. Crowley can't deny how long he's yearned for him. But he's had other things to sustain him, up til now. Aziraphale, his company, his smiles, his kindness to a demon from the beginning, as if he could possibly be deserving of it.
Oh, Crowley wants to be good to him, here and always. The impulse has been in him so long that he's forgotten all about what a demon should or shouldn't do when it comes to helping an angel, except when Aziraphale reminds him by trying to attribute niceness to him. ]
Oh, I'll get mine soon, don't worry.
[ Crowley wets his lips, glances up briefly at Aziraphale when he licks around the head of his cock before taking him into his mouth again, deeper than before. He's glad Aziraphale offers no real objection to the proceedings. It's so good to do this, to taste him and feel him push deeper into his mouth with the helpless motions of his hips, to swallow him down to the pale curls and suck at him slowly and languidly, taking his time, as though there is all the time in the world for them now. ]
Oh, Crowley wants to be good to him, here and always. The impulse has been in him so long that he's forgotten all about what a demon should or shouldn't do when it comes to helping an angel, except when Aziraphale reminds him by trying to attribute niceness to him. ]
Oh, I'll get mine soon, don't worry.
[ Crowley wets his lips, glances up briefly at Aziraphale when he licks around the head of his cock before taking him into his mouth again, deeper than before. He's glad Aziraphale offers no real objection to the proceedings. It's so good to do this, to taste him and feel him push deeper into his mouth with the helpless motions of his hips, to swallow him down to the pale curls and suck at him slowly and languidly, taking his time, as though there is all the time in the world for them now. ]
[ Aziraphale's eyes roll back hearing Crowley's answer, which is quite a shame because he can no longer see his cock slide into that glorious mouth, the one that makes him wonder if Crowley might be able to unhinge his jaw even in this form because his tongue and his mouth are absolutely inhuman, soft and smooth as a late summer night, just as hot and twice as lush.
But he would have balked at the other one, the answer he would've received those two hundred years ago: even Aziraphale would have found it overly-saccharine, unable to cope with his own boundless love for Crowley. He would have felt guilty that he didn't feel the same way, lying to himself, giving only into the temptation so that later his own self-flagellation and repentance would feel strong and worthy of conviction. Even Crowley's company-- his conversation, his sly humor and his longing gazes, his fraternization had almost been excessive. Aziraphale's internal conflict would have been destructive, eating him from the inside out.
Currently, the only thing that comes close to doing so is a flame, licking at his skin with desire, pulling at him like his spine were string, taking on the form of the demon nestled so wonderfully between his legs. This is not how he thought his early morning would turn out, but as his hips writhe and try to chase after that gorgeous heat, he can't be too disappointed. ]
Crowley--
[ Ragged breath trawls from deep in his chest, little noises filling up all the space in between them that may exist. His tongue is a vicious traitor, betraying all his inner thoughts and feelings, unable to form them into coherent words. ]
But he would have balked at the other one, the answer he would've received those two hundred years ago: even Aziraphale would have found it overly-saccharine, unable to cope with his own boundless love for Crowley. He would have felt guilty that he didn't feel the same way, lying to himself, giving only into the temptation so that later his own self-flagellation and repentance would feel strong and worthy of conviction. Even Crowley's company-- his conversation, his sly humor and his longing gazes, his fraternization had almost been excessive. Aziraphale's internal conflict would have been destructive, eating him from the inside out.
Currently, the only thing that comes close to doing so is a flame, licking at his skin with desire, pulling at him like his spine were string, taking on the form of the demon nestled so wonderfully between his legs. This is not how he thought his early morning would turn out, but as his hips writhe and try to chase after that gorgeous heat, he can't be too disappointed. ]
Crowley--
[ Ragged breath trawls from deep in his chest, little noises filling up all the space in between them that may exist. His tongue is a vicious traitor, betraying all his inner thoughts and feelings, unable to form them into coherent words. ]
[ Getting lost in it, Crowley makes a low incoherent sound, a soft hum around Aziraphale's cock, his tongue pressing wickedly to the underside of its length. It's an act of devotion, as sincere as any other he's shown throughout the centuries, and he's always been a demon incapable of doing anything by half-measures, either scoffing and ignoring whatever it is he considers a waste of his time or going at it with his propensity for flash and dramatics, little else in between the two ends of the spectrum. So it is with his relationship with Aziraphale: he could never do it by half.
But before now he's always managed to pull back enough, unwilling to push Aziraphale too far in his own struggle to risk their friendship coming to an end. Whatever luck has come to him at last, whatever he's said or done that managed to convince Aziraphale to set aside his doubts--they're not gone, Crowley knows, but at least they don't hold him back at the moment--he feels fervently grateful for it.
His name in Aziraphale's ragged voice is a beautiful sound, and Crowley longs to hear him cry it out again and again. Never would he have thought that it would be like this, Aziraphale's cock buried deep in his mouth, his thighs around his shoulders--sucking deep and slow, swallowing around him, so sweet and obscene that at last he has to draw back briefly, turning to suck a tender bite into Aziraphale's thigh, just above the cinched silk. ]
Oh, I want to fuck you. In your pretty stockings.
[ He sounds drunk with pleasure, lips trailing over Aziraphale's thigh. ] We can call that my thanks.
Will you let me?
But before now he's always managed to pull back enough, unwilling to push Aziraphale too far in his own struggle to risk their friendship coming to an end. Whatever luck has come to him at last, whatever he's said or done that managed to convince Aziraphale to set aside his doubts--they're not gone, Crowley knows, but at least they don't hold him back at the moment--he feels fervently grateful for it.
His name in Aziraphale's ragged voice is a beautiful sound, and Crowley longs to hear him cry it out again and again. Never would he have thought that it would be like this, Aziraphale's cock buried deep in his mouth, his thighs around his shoulders--sucking deep and slow, swallowing around him, so sweet and obscene that at last he has to draw back briefly, turning to suck a tender bite into Aziraphale's thigh, just above the cinched silk. ]
Oh, I want to fuck you. In your pretty stockings.
[ He sounds drunk with pleasure, lips trailing over Aziraphale's thigh. ] We can call that my thanks.
Will you let me?
[ No matter what, Aziraphale thinks, they will always be friends. That part was never in question for him; if he should be angry with Crowley or the other way around, then it would be for a short time in the general sense of their epochs-long relationship, swinging from enemies to friends to enemies to lovers, now, lovers and friends and everything that Aziraphale could have ever desired from this arrangement save for the blessings of God and of Satan.
He wishes for a life that the humans have, to select one person out of however many billion to love, to cherish for eternity. Why else would God have planned for the two of them to spend what amounted to their entire lives together with no one else as constants? How cruel of Her to place them as enemies. And yet, he knows better, knows that many human marriages are unhappy, that two men-shaped beings can only be together in about as much secret as they are already exercising, that romantic love is impractical as it is, historically, not a measure of a good partnership.
And yet he yearns for it, for thousands of years of Crowley discovering all the ways to taste him just as he is now, for Aziraphale to know all the corners of Crowley's body better than he does. And, afterwards, covered in the sheen and scent of their lovemaking, does Aziraphale want to curl up in Crowley's arms and tell him all the things that are reserved for those intimate moments, those words that like with drink, spill out only once one's had a satisfying amount. His moans turn into complaint when Crowley lets him go, but only briefly until he nibbles at the soft skin of his thigh. ]
You spoil me, Crowley.
[ A shiver works its way down every vertebra of his spine at the request, and through thick white lashes, Aziraphale peers at him with the utmost affection. ]
Yes. A hundred times yes.
[ He rubs one leg against Crowley's arm, tongue drawing across his teeth as he shifts a little underneath him, spreading his legs and giving Crowley a most indecent view. ]
He wishes for a life that the humans have, to select one person out of however many billion to love, to cherish for eternity. Why else would God have planned for the two of them to spend what amounted to their entire lives together with no one else as constants? How cruel of Her to place them as enemies. And yet, he knows better, knows that many human marriages are unhappy, that two men-shaped beings can only be together in about as much secret as they are already exercising, that romantic love is impractical as it is, historically, not a measure of a good partnership.
And yet he yearns for it, for thousands of years of Crowley discovering all the ways to taste him just as he is now, for Aziraphale to know all the corners of Crowley's body better than he does. And, afterwards, covered in the sheen and scent of their lovemaking, does Aziraphale want to curl up in Crowley's arms and tell him all the things that are reserved for those intimate moments, those words that like with drink, spill out only once one's had a satisfying amount. His moans turn into complaint when Crowley lets him go, but only briefly until he nibbles at the soft skin of his thigh. ]
You spoil me, Crowley.
[ A shiver works its way down every vertebra of his spine at the request, and through thick white lashes, Aziraphale peers at him with the utmost affection. ]
Yes. A hundred times yes.
[ He rubs one leg against Crowley's arm, tongue drawing across his teeth as he shifts a little underneath him, spreading his legs and giving Crowley a most indecent view. ]
[ The general cruel indifference of the universe to any one creature's suffering long ago forced Crowley to take a more pragmatic than romantic view, the marriage of their bodies and souls a fine fantasy to consider but not one that is ever likely to happen. Still, in its own way this is something close, each kiss and caress imparting a love as devout as reverence and a desire that scorches him to the basest pieces of his being. Crowley rubs a hand along Aziraphale's thigh, considering the lovely prospect of him with his legs spread and the affection in his gaze, waiting for him. ]
Mmm. You've shown me how an angel ought to be spoiled.
[ Trailing kisses, Crowley makes his way back up along Aziraphale's body, ducking his head to his throat when he reaches it and worrying softly with gentle teeth and an indecent tongue. The front of Aziraphale's shirt brushes him softly, the silk of his stocking grazes his palm where it still lingers at his thigh, and Crowley likes Aziraphale this way, half-dressed and appearing utterly debauched. ]
I think you'd best stay with me from now on. I'll take proper care of you. [ Reaching his mouth, Crowley nips at his lip, urging it to part from the other, a thumb stroking at the corner of his mouth as he plunders it in a brief, hot kiss. ] Keep you out of trouble. You won't need to go looking for any excuses to bring me to you. You'll have all of me you could possibly want.
Mmm. You've shown me how an angel ought to be spoiled.
[ Trailing kisses, Crowley makes his way back up along Aziraphale's body, ducking his head to his throat when he reaches it and worrying softly with gentle teeth and an indecent tongue. The front of Aziraphale's shirt brushes him softly, the silk of his stocking grazes his palm where it still lingers at his thigh, and Crowley likes Aziraphale this way, half-dressed and appearing utterly debauched. ]
I think you'd best stay with me from now on. I'll take proper care of you. [ Reaching his mouth, Crowley nips at his lip, urging it to part from the other, a thumb stroking at the corner of his mouth as he plunders it in a brief, hot kiss. ] Keep you out of trouble. You won't need to go looking for any excuses to bring me to you. You'll have all of me you could possibly want.
[ There is something quite indescribable about being so disheveled and not worrying a stitch about it. Aziraphale is usually so buttoned up and takes great pride in being presentable, but Crowley is so determined to make a mess of him while trying to claim the things that have gone unspoken between them for so long. For the pursuit of this, Aziraphale would put aside nearly anything. And how could he dedicate any resources to thinking about such a thing when Crowley starts to move up his body, to leave kisses on his throat? It leaves Aziraphale trying and failing to move the bunches of lace around to better receive them, to greedily accept all of them while tacitly requesting more.
Crowley does him one better and delves into his mouth, and Aziraphale tries to kiss back with just as much fervor but the weight of him nestled between his legs is such a distraction; he whines when Crowley pulls away. ]
You know how badly I want that.
[ He cups Crowley's cheeks in his hands to give him a serious and searching look for a second; maybe he might be able to steal some of Crowley's boldness and madness. But for now he pulls Crowley down and crushes their mouths together in a kiss, feeling adoration surge from the depths of his core as he considers forever, as he contemplates infinity.
It doesn't seem so insurmountable now.
His legs bracketing Crowley's sides, Aziraphale reaches for his arse and pulls their hips together as they kiss, wishing for as much physical closeness as possible. The contact makes him keen and struggle for breath, but even as he ends the kiss he nips a dozen more in quick, needy succession. ]
Stay.
[ He murmurs, almost swallowed up by a kiss. ]
Please stay.
Crowley does him one better and delves into his mouth, and Aziraphale tries to kiss back with just as much fervor but the weight of him nestled between his legs is such a distraction; he whines when Crowley pulls away. ]
You know how badly I want that.
[ He cups Crowley's cheeks in his hands to give him a serious and searching look for a second; maybe he might be able to steal some of Crowley's boldness and madness. But for now he pulls Crowley down and crushes their mouths together in a kiss, feeling adoration surge from the depths of his core as he considers forever, as he contemplates infinity.
It doesn't seem so insurmountable now.
His legs bracketing Crowley's sides, Aziraphale reaches for his arse and pulls their hips together as they kiss, wishing for as much physical closeness as possible. The contact makes him keen and struggle for breath, but even as he ends the kiss he nips a dozen more in quick, needy succession. ]
Stay.
[ He murmurs, almost swallowed up by a kiss. ]
Please stay.
[ The sweetness of Aziraphale’s mouth is something he wants to chase over and over, Crowley settling his weight against him with a hand still at one of his thighs, urging it around his narrow hips. He doesn’t really need to, Aziraphale seems as eager for it as he does, but he meets Aziraphale’s gaze when he cups his hands around his face, searching his eyes gravely and sweetly, in the way he has that always makes Crowley feel terribly exposed, makes him feel as though the angel sees right through him. And yet he doesn’t want to hide from him, or hold back any part of himself.
Crowley looks back at him, momentarily arrested by the words and the sincerity in them, his heart giving a violent thump as Aziraphale pulls him back down into a kiss. ]
Aziraphale.
[ He says the angel’s name in a voice wracked with need, caught between their mouths and the kisses Aziraphale demands again and again, his hips giving a helpless jerk when Aziraphale’s hand on his arse drag them closer. There’s no pretense in this, not in the impassioned kisses, his mouth all but devouring Aziraphale’s, in his unsteady breaths as he pushes up his thighs and then guides his cock to him, miracling slickness between them as he rubs it at his entrance. Aziraphale imploring him to stay will be the death of him. He’s wanted it for so long, and never expected to hear it.
He pushes his cock into him slowly, throat tight, bracing himself on an elbow when he lets go and takes Aziraphale’s hand instead, holding his palm at his mouth as he eases deeper. ]
Tell me—if it’s too much.
Crowley looks back at him, momentarily arrested by the words and the sincerity in them, his heart giving a violent thump as Aziraphale pulls him back down into a kiss. ]
Aziraphale.
[ He says the angel’s name in a voice wracked with need, caught between their mouths and the kisses Aziraphale demands again and again, his hips giving a helpless jerk when Aziraphale’s hand on his arse drag them closer. There’s no pretense in this, not in the impassioned kisses, his mouth all but devouring Aziraphale’s, in his unsteady breaths as he pushes up his thighs and then guides his cock to him, miracling slickness between them as he rubs it at his entrance. Aziraphale imploring him to stay will be the death of him. He’s wanted it for so long, and never expected to hear it.
He pushes his cock into him slowly, throat tight, bracing himself on an elbow when he lets go and takes Aziraphale’s hand instead, holding his palm at his mouth as he eases deeper. ]
Tell me—if it’s too much.
[ The way that Crowley calls his name is the most beautiful sound, but in this moment also the most heart-wrenching. He wants nothing more than to give himself fully to Crowley, to assure him that in this world and in all the worlds that he and God are the only beings to which he would say he had ever belonged. But these two loves are the only things that he would consider to be ineffable: God and Her plans, her vast plans which no one can know but Herself; and the love he shares with Crowley, the only one that exists between Angel and Demon, the torturous and conflicted and obsessive love that is somehow also the purest and most joyous.
He's caught in an inhale as Crowley pushes himself in, and though it hasn't been a full night since they last came together this way, Aziraphale's eyes go wide as he feels like he might become split in two equal halves. Yet though he feels a burning heat and an impossible stretch, he feels no pain: there's only pleasure as his fingers take a vice grip on Crowley's and slaps his own palm over his mouth to cover his shout of a gasp and subsequent moans. And when he feels Crowley buried all the way that he can go, Aziraphale locks eyes with him and everything is good and right. He murmurs this to Crowley, that he feels so good, so, so good-- And with his hands and hips he urges him to move. ]
Please, please.
[ His hand has found its way back to the swell of Crowley's rear, holding onto him for purchase, his hips wriggling and impatient. His body is weak in its urgency, unable to do anything else but to supplicate itself to Crowley's mercy. ]
He's caught in an inhale as Crowley pushes himself in, and though it hasn't been a full night since they last came together this way, Aziraphale's eyes go wide as he feels like he might become split in two equal halves. Yet though he feels a burning heat and an impossible stretch, he feels no pain: there's only pleasure as his fingers take a vice grip on Crowley's and slaps his own palm over his mouth to cover his shout of a gasp and subsequent moans. And when he feels Crowley buried all the way that he can go, Aziraphale locks eyes with him and everything is good and right. He murmurs this to Crowley, that he feels so good, so, so good-- And with his hands and hips he urges him to move. ]
Please, please.
[ His hand has found its way back to the swell of Crowley's rear, holding onto him for purchase, his hips wriggling and impatient. His body is weak in its urgency, unable to do anything else but to supplicate itself to Crowley's mercy. ]
[ Gasping, Crowley buries himself into him, cock sliding as deep as it can before his hips press up against the curve of his arse. He lets Aziraphale's hand go and drops his head to nuzzle wildly into his throat, mouth dragging across the tender skin, such an urgent need to be joined with him still gripping him even though he's within him as intimately as he can be. He drinks in the sound of Aziraphale's moans, sensing them in his throat beneath the pressure of his lips, trembling a little at the almost overwhelming pleasure. When he draws back he meets Aziraphale's gaze, his own eyes hazy and impassioned, and he's desperate for the words the angel gives him, telling him it's good, all of this is so very good, pleading with him for more...
Crowley gives him what he wants, eyes closing as he moves into Aziraphale; he shudders all over, beginning to rock into him with a steady rhythm, hips catching against his again and again. Oh, they belong together, he and Aziraphale, wrapped up in one another, every part of him reaching for the love he can feel in every caress Aziraphale gives him, every word he speaks. He'll give him anything he has in return, if only Aziraphale will let him stay...he gasps as he thrusts deep into him, giving and taking pleasure, feeling the swell of it within him. It's something more than physical, the headlong delight of making love to an angel, sleeping and waking and sharing hours with him, like something that has the power to heal the old wounds on his soul. ]
Aziraphale.
[ Crowley says his name helplessly, again and again, gasping the syllables as he fucks into him, urged on by the angel's caresses. ]
Crowley gives him what he wants, eyes closing as he moves into Aziraphale; he shudders all over, beginning to rock into him with a steady rhythm, hips catching against his again and again. Oh, they belong together, he and Aziraphale, wrapped up in one another, every part of him reaching for the love he can feel in every caress Aziraphale gives him, every word he speaks. He'll give him anything he has in return, if only Aziraphale will let him stay...he gasps as he thrusts deep into him, giving and taking pleasure, feeling the swell of it within him. It's something more than physical, the headlong delight of making love to an angel, sleeping and waking and sharing hours with him, like something that has the power to heal the old wounds on his soul. ]
Aziraphale.
[ Crowley says his name helplessly, again and again, gasping the syllables as he fucks into him, urged on by the angel's caresses. ]
[ Aziraphale's love, so headily interwoven with lust, clings to the air with its thick perfume, filling up this too-small room. It moves him like poetry, hips arcing up to meet Crowley's, falling into a wondrous rhythm with him. His hands need something to hold and so they bury into Crowley's hair, fingers grasping the silky red locks at the root, pulling tight. He misses the contact of his mouth even as his hand slides to Crowley's face, resulting in a much more gentle caress.
He loves to hear his name, spilling from Crowley's lips like a fountain, like a favorite refrain from a song. And he speaks it as if gasping for his last breaths, as if it might be the last name he speaks, the most important words he might ever say. It's a sweet and simple thing that imparts to him something akin to vertigo, a kind he hasn't felt since last flying, shooting across the sky as it was new then and invited him to catch the wind on his wings and the summer in his hair.
Crowley had been there, as he had always been, waiting for Aziraphale to look his way. How many times he had looked at Aziraphale with the offer of this just on the tip of his tongue, the rare kind of love an angel shouldn't have and shouldn't desire. And as Crowley brushes across somewhere in him that makes him forget his own wanton moans, his shirt practically ruined in a mess of precome and sweat, he wants for nothing more than what Crowley does: time together. A whole life of sleep and play and each other's company to fill up the space of where alone used to be. ]
He loves to hear his name, spilling from Crowley's lips like a fountain, like a favorite refrain from a song. And he speaks it as if gasping for his last breaths, as if it might be the last name he speaks, the most important words he might ever say. It's a sweet and simple thing that imparts to him something akin to vertigo, a kind he hasn't felt since last flying, shooting across the sky as it was new then and invited him to catch the wind on his wings and the summer in his hair.
Crowley had been there, as he had always been, waiting for Aziraphale to look his way. How many times he had looked at Aziraphale with the offer of this just on the tip of his tongue, the rare kind of love an angel shouldn't have and shouldn't desire. And as Crowley brushes across somewhere in him that makes him forget his own wanton moans, his shirt practically ruined in a mess of precome and sweat, he wants for nothing more than what Crowley does: time together. A whole life of sleep and play and each other's company to fill up the space of where alone used to be. ]
[ As Aziraphale's hips arch up against his, he senses how easily they fall into a rhythm with one another, the harmony between their bodies managing to surprise him even though he's felt it several times now. It's one that seems as though it shouldn't exist between an angel and a demon, but perhaps they've known each other for so long that it's something almost instinctive, coming together with love and desire twined between them. Though he can't imagine that even if they faltered, laughed and fumbled together it would be any less wonderful, any less transforming to be with Aziraphale in the most intimate ways, loving him with all his heart and soul.
His hands grip in the shirt as he caresses restlessly over Aziraphale's waist and sides, bunching up the fabric in his hands, making even more of a mess of it. This, too, is part of the fantasy--seeing Aziraphale dressed in those beautiful clothes and then debauching him in them without apology (not in the heat of the moment, at least, but Crowley can always miracle them to rights for him later) until he's moaning and making a spectacular ruin of them with abandon. In sudden inspiration, Crowley drags at one of Aziraphale's lace-covered wrists, pinning it to the bed beneath his hand, ducking his head to kiss him when he reaches between them and rubs the heel of the other hand over Aziraphale's cock--the soft fabric of the shirt between them, damp with the angel's precome, lovely against his palm. ]
Aziraphale. Angel.
[ Crowley nips at his lips, takes him deeply with his tongue, and speaks his name between kisses as though it's reverence, as though he hasn't forgotten how to praise. He sinks deep into him, again and again, driving his cock into the tight grip of his arse and strokes Aziraphale's own length through the fabric of the shirt with a gentle hand, reveling in giving him pleasure. ]
His hands grip in the shirt as he caresses restlessly over Aziraphale's waist and sides, bunching up the fabric in his hands, making even more of a mess of it. This, too, is part of the fantasy--seeing Aziraphale dressed in those beautiful clothes and then debauching him in them without apology (not in the heat of the moment, at least, but Crowley can always miracle them to rights for him later) until he's moaning and making a spectacular ruin of them with abandon. In sudden inspiration, Crowley drags at one of Aziraphale's lace-covered wrists, pinning it to the bed beneath his hand, ducking his head to kiss him when he reaches between them and rubs the heel of the other hand over Aziraphale's cock--the soft fabric of the shirt between them, damp with the angel's precome, lovely against his palm. ]
Aziraphale. Angel.
[ Crowley nips at his lips, takes him deeply with his tongue, and speaks his name between kisses as though it's reverence, as though he hasn't forgotten how to praise. He sinks deep into him, again and again, driving his cock into the tight grip of his arse and strokes Aziraphale's own length through the fabric of the shirt with a gentle hand, reveling in giving him pleasure. ]
[ Aziraphale can hardly form a concrete thought, his hips moving of their own accord and purely on instinct against Crowley's, his body and breath feeling both never more like they were his but at the same time, never less. He cries out into Crowley's mouth when he palms his cock through the fabric, the feeling beyond intense; the cloth is too thick and his hips try to move into Crowley's touch and lose their rhythm. His kiss is desperate and impassioned but lacking in a certain finesse even as he attempts to draw that wicked tongue further inside and invite Crowley to take over all of him.
Each time that he hears his name form on the back of Crowley's tongue, he seeks to drink it down from the source, to find this font of praise and answer his prayer if he so can. Yes, Crowley, he answers in between their kisses. The name rides on his every breath, softly into the intimate space between the two of them and then bedraggled and seeking its own absolution, rising above the sound of skin on skin and his own stampeding heartbeat.
It is, most definitely, no less enjoyable that Aziraphale has lost his grace and grown clumsy with Crowley's insistent hands and slithering hips. His body and very soul are all shaken to the core of him, shirt wrecked and hair roughly tousled; he looks like he is barely surviving through a great and terrible storm. ]
Don't stop.
[ He pleads this with glassy eyes and holds onto the nape of Crowley's neck tightly, searching for anchor as his hips quiver and send shudder through the rest of him. Pinned down underneath him and with his body succumb, Aziraphale feels all the long lines of Crowley's form, the other half of his self, perfectly aligned. ]
Each time that he hears his name form on the back of Crowley's tongue, he seeks to drink it down from the source, to find this font of praise and answer his prayer if he so can. Yes, Crowley, he answers in between their kisses. The name rides on his every breath, softly into the intimate space between the two of them and then bedraggled and seeking its own absolution, rising above the sound of skin on skin and his own stampeding heartbeat.
It is, most definitely, no less enjoyable that Aziraphale has lost his grace and grown clumsy with Crowley's insistent hands and slithering hips. His body and very soul are all shaken to the core of him, shirt wrecked and hair roughly tousled; he looks like he is barely surviving through a great and terrible storm. ]
Don't stop.
[ He pleads this with glassy eyes and holds onto the nape of Crowley's neck tightly, searching for anchor as his hips quiver and send shudder through the rest of him. Pinned down underneath him and with his body succumb, Aziraphale feels all the long lines of Crowley's form, the other half of his self, perfectly aligned. ]
[ Crowley feels...he can feel Aziraphale’s need, his desperation which echoes his own as he kisses him deeply, hotly, with a wanton tongue: the angel tastes so lovely, it's an aching pleasure just to kiss him and feel his uncoordinated efforts to draw him deeper. He's a gorgeously disheveled mess beneath him, all rucked-up clothes and a wet, gasping mouth, Crowley's fingers tight around his cock, and he wants so badly to give him what he needs, the rhythm of his hips faltering but never stopping as he buries himself inside him over and over. In Crowley's voice, the angel's name becomes a plea and a prayer again and again, an echo of his heartbeat and the dearest thing he's ever uttered, more than any praise he spoke when he was still an angel himself.
Pleasure becomes a tide rising so sharply he feels choked with it. His forehead presses to Aziraphale's when the angel pleads with him not to stop, eyes closing as his whole body shudders in reaction. ]
Never. [ Crowley's voice is hoarse and almost pleading in turn, promising, oh Hell, he’d swear his entire existence to Aziraphale over and over, until the stars fell from the sky. ] Never, angel, I—
[ He'll do this for as long as Aziraphale needs, until he can't bear any more. ]
Pleasure becomes a tide rising so sharply he feels choked with it. His forehead presses to Aziraphale's when the angel pleads with him not to stop, eyes closing as his whole body shudders in reaction. ]
Never. [ Crowley's voice is hoarse and almost pleading in turn, promising, oh Hell, he’d swear his entire existence to Aziraphale over and over, until the stars fell from the sky. ] Never, angel, I—
[ He'll do this for as long as Aziraphale needs, until he can't bear any more. ]
[ Aziraphale feels like his limbs might just believe their natural state is to be coiled around Crowley, his body not erroneously thinking he should always be close to him, filled by him, smothered under this hazy intoxication. His cries cut sharply through it, but he tries to kiss Crowley and let them be swallowed up instead; he should not want to wake the neighbors with the loud and very unmistakable sound of their lovemaking in what he currently forgets isn't eighteenth-century Paris.
And his body rebels against all rational thought as he finds is becoming a pattern in Crowley's presence: eyes rolling into the back of his head, hips falling out of rhythm, breath erratic, throat feeling strained and used but refusing to rest. ]
Crowley.
[ He says it once and again, interrupts Crowley calling him as if trying to answer him but not knowing what else to say but yes, drawn out and slipping into a hiss. Aziraphale wants to accept his offer, over and over again, taking every fiber of his being into his arms and under his wings and making him understand he is loved and wanted beyond Earthly or Celestial measure, letting him know that in this vast universe and in all of Creation, there is another soul which he can call his home.
The words don't quite make it out and any thoughts that try to form together fade into wisps as Aziraphale's entire body and mind are overrun, are consumed by this act. Pinpricks of pleasure rain upon his skin and he can barely whine out a warning, just closing his mouth over the word close. He chases his release, caught squarely between Crowley's hand and his cock, brows knit in fierce concentration as he musters up the words: ]
Look at me.
And his body rebels against all rational thought as he finds is becoming a pattern in Crowley's presence: eyes rolling into the back of his head, hips falling out of rhythm, breath erratic, throat feeling strained and used but refusing to rest. ]
Crowley.
[ He says it once and again, interrupts Crowley calling him as if trying to answer him but not knowing what else to say but yes, drawn out and slipping into a hiss. Aziraphale wants to accept his offer, over and over again, taking every fiber of his being into his arms and under his wings and making him understand he is loved and wanted beyond Earthly or Celestial measure, letting him know that in this vast universe and in all of Creation, there is another soul which he can call his home.
The words don't quite make it out and any thoughts that try to form together fade into wisps as Aziraphale's entire body and mind are overrun, are consumed by this act. Pinpricks of pleasure rain upon his skin and he can barely whine out a warning, just closing his mouth over the word close. He chases his release, caught squarely between Crowley's hand and his cock, brows knit in fierce concentration as he musters up the words: ]
Look at me.
His breath shudders as Aziraphale says his name, the pleasure he takes in hearing it from his lips nearly as sharp as pain. He would wish only to be called by him, for all of the long existence of the universe, or as long as the stars hang in the heavens, at least--and only Aziraphale can capture his attention as fully as he does whenever he says his name. He imagines that he would find him anywhere he was, if the angel called out to him, as though there's some invisible tether between them that would resonate with the speaking of his name; it's only a little fancy, but he likes the thought, wrapped up in Aziraphale's arms as though there is nowhere else on earth or in Heaven or Hell he belongs, with Aziraphale beneath him, his whole body pleading for more, for all that Crowley can give...
He meets the angel's gaze when he asks, yellow eyes unconcealed and intensely vulnerable: this is something Crowley can't deny him either. Whatever Aziraphale might see in him, whatever Crowley is unable to hide, he'll let him look his fill whenever he wants, even now when he is raw and shuddering all over with the sensation of being so intimately joined. He looks at the angel and sees all the love and desire in his clear eyes reflected back at him, a love as vast as only an angel can give--and Crowley chokes out a cry, hips faltering as his own release takes hold of him, as he buries himself deep in Aziraphale and comes, the pleasure so intense that his entire body is wracked and trembling with it. He almost can't bear it, his head dropping as he mouths frantically at Aziraphale's throat, as his hips jerk in uncontrolled motions.
"Aziraphale--" Crowley gasps his name again, still shivering at the end of it, and with effort he lifts his head and meets his eyes again, his hand remembering to stroke Aziraphale's cock, keep giving him the pleasure and sensation that will bring him to release as well. "Please--"
He meets the angel's gaze when he asks, yellow eyes unconcealed and intensely vulnerable: this is something Crowley can't deny him either. Whatever Aziraphale might see in him, whatever Crowley is unable to hide, he'll let him look his fill whenever he wants, even now when he is raw and shuddering all over with the sensation of being so intimately joined. He looks at the angel and sees all the love and desire in his clear eyes reflected back at him, a love as vast as only an angel can give--and Crowley chokes out a cry, hips faltering as his own release takes hold of him, as he buries himself deep in Aziraphale and comes, the pleasure so intense that his entire body is wracked and trembling with it. He almost can't bear it, his head dropping as he mouths frantically at Aziraphale's throat, as his hips jerk in uncontrolled motions.
"Aziraphale--" Crowley gasps his name again, still shivering at the end of it, and with effort he lifts his head and meets his eyes again, his hand remembering to stroke Aziraphale's cock, keep giving him the pleasure and sensation that will bring him to release as well. "Please--"
Aziraphale asks Crowley to look at him because he can see, plain as anything, all the things where no one else gets the privilege: he beholds vulnerability, desire, and a love more infinite than all the stars in the sky. He doesn't wonder anymore how he had ever doubted, or how Crowley had ever sought to hide this from him, seeking instead just to look at him and regard him in the awe he reserves for all natural phenomenons.
And though he has only been treated to the sight of Crowley finishing only twice before, he welcomes it with his arms and his hips like an old friend. He is struck silent with how beautiful Crowley is in this moment, his body and face overcome by orgasm, and does all he can to extend this and eke out every last drop of pleasure from him.
It barely takes Crowley's plea for the telltale wave that surges through Aziraphale and floods him with release. He comes with the latter half of Crowley's name breathlessly caught on his tongue, eyes shuttered spilling hot over his stomach and leaving wet spots all over his shirt. It's strong and seems to him both endless and that it's over far too soon as thoughts start to form again and he's made to be cognizant of how loud and ragged his breathing is.
Soul settling in return to his body, he reaches for the back of Crowley's neck and pulls him forward to rest their foreheads together. After a long moment, he huffs out a laugh and in a deep voice he confesses, "I feel as if I should be thanking you again for that."
And though he has only been treated to the sight of Crowley finishing only twice before, he welcomes it with his arms and his hips like an old friend. He is struck silent with how beautiful Crowley is in this moment, his body and face overcome by orgasm, and does all he can to extend this and eke out every last drop of pleasure from him.
It barely takes Crowley's plea for the telltale wave that surges through Aziraphale and floods him with release. He comes with the latter half of Crowley's name breathlessly caught on his tongue, eyes shuttered spilling hot over his stomach and leaving wet spots all over his shirt. It's strong and seems to him both endless and that it's over far too soon as thoughts start to form again and he's made to be cognizant of how loud and ragged his breathing is.
Soul settling in return to his body, he reaches for the back of Crowley's neck and pulls him forward to rest their foreheads together. After a long moment, he huffs out a laugh and in a deep voice he confesses, "I feel as if I should be thanking you again for that."
He ducks his head down to kiss Aziraphale fervently when he comes, stealing the taste of his name from his tongue, his tattered breathing, the lust hot sweetness of his mouth. The slick heat of his seed stains the fabric of his shirt between his cock and Crowley's fingers, and he rubs his thumb tenderly over the head and gives him long, soothing strokes to coax him along to the end of his release, trailing kisses along the hot skin of his cheek and then lifting his head to meet his eyes again, Crowley's a little wider and darker, as though the angel's pleasure resonates through him as well. He's such a disheveled, gorgeous sight, debauched in his lovely clothes, and Crowley can hardly stand it: all he wanted, all he dreamt of for years is his, here in this moment, almost too perfect to bear. At last his eyes close when Aziraphale pulls him down until their foreheads press to one another, giving himself a moment to recover. "No, you shouldn't," Crowley mutters hoarsely in reply. "You're so perfect, angel. You--you're everything, you're..."
Even his imagination fails, running out of adjectives to describe what Aziraphale must be to have made him feel this way. More whole, more content than he has known since the day he Fell. Belonging to no one but his angel, and Crowley sighs as he shifts over to the side a little so that when he collapses in a boneless sprawl he won't be entirely pinning Aziraphale down beneath him, though his head pillows against Aziraphale's shoulder and one of his legs is thrown haphazardly across him. He tucks his face against the join of shoulder and neck, nuzzling blissfully. "This," he mumbles, plucking a little at Aziraphale's shirt, "this was brilliant. Can't believe you saved it all." He kisses the angel's throat, feverish with gratitude and the brilliant echoes of lust. "Want me to take care of the mess?"
Even his imagination fails, running out of adjectives to describe what Aziraphale must be to have made him feel this way. More whole, more content than he has known since the day he Fell. Belonging to no one but his angel, and Crowley sighs as he shifts over to the side a little so that when he collapses in a boneless sprawl he won't be entirely pinning Aziraphale down beneath him, though his head pillows against Aziraphale's shoulder and one of his legs is thrown haphazardly across him. He tucks his face against the join of shoulder and neck, nuzzling blissfully. "This," he mumbles, plucking a little at Aziraphale's shirt, "this was brilliant. Can't believe you saved it all." He kisses the angel's throat, feverish with gratitude and the brilliant echoes of lust. "Want me to take care of the mess?"
You're everything, Crowley says, and Aziraphale believes him. He lazily plays with Crowley's hair and runs a hand up his thigh, slightly cooling from the sweat. His smile turns into a bit of a pleased laugh as Crowley plays with his shirt, and he turns his cheek to kiss his sweet hair. "Yes, definitely, but maybe give it a minute," he answers, wanting to luxuriate a little in their mess and afterglow. It wasn't often they got to do it, and he wants to hold onto every last second. He knows it will, more often, and the thought brings the smile all the way up to his eyes.
"I love you," he says, three words that say so much and yet not enough, but where he can't find words stronger to mean the things he does mean. What he wants to say is that he is foolish, he's wrong for having denied them this inevitability, because love is stronger than he is, just a single soul out in the total of Creation, fragile and brittle in comparison. But it was the only thing that Aziraphale had to offer him, the whole of himself succumb to this feeling, and would he be so kind as to just accept it as best he could? Because he could give Crowley the world and it wouldn't be sufficient.
"I missed this," he says, instead, drawing a finger across Crowley's jawline. "I think of you all the time. I tried to will myself that it was enough." He runs the barest touch of fingertips along Crowley's shoulder and collarbone. "But it's not, now that you're here. Nothing could compare."
"I love you," he says, three words that say so much and yet not enough, but where he can't find words stronger to mean the things he does mean. What he wants to say is that he is foolish, he's wrong for having denied them this inevitability, because love is stronger than he is, just a single soul out in the total of Creation, fragile and brittle in comparison. But it was the only thing that Aziraphale had to offer him, the whole of himself succumb to this feeling, and would he be so kind as to just accept it as best he could? Because he could give Crowley the world and it wouldn't be sufficient.
"I missed this," he says, instead, drawing a finger across Crowley's jawline. "I think of you all the time. I tried to will myself that it was enough." He runs the barest touch of fingertips along Crowley's shoulder and collarbone. "But it's not, now that you're here. Nothing could compare."
Crowley makes an acknowledging sound, pushing his face against Aziraphale's shoulder. He wants to luxuriate in this too, in the addictive warmth of Aziraphale's body and the scent of his skin, the love and contentment surrounding him in the aftermath of pleasure. How strange, how wonderful that a demon could give this to him. No other angel, not even a human has seen him so replete with love, relaxed and indulging in it, his kisses and caresses returning it to Crowley until he feels as though he's glutted for a long time and is finally sated, having enough to believe that this will not be taken from him or denied again. His hand toys gently at the unfastened collar of Aziraphale's shirt, slipping beneath it as his fingertips trace the line of his collarbone, more reverently than a demon has a right to be, and he shivers when Aziraphale tells him again that he loves him, as though he hears all those hidden meanings behind the words. Or maybe it's just the words themselves that have that effect on him. So sweet as to be nearly painful, giving him more joy than his heart seems capable of holding.
"Love you, angel." Crowley presses the words against his throat, in a ragged voice. Yes, he will, he'll accept as much as he can, hear it as often as he can bear without simply combusting on the spot from the sheer pleasure of it. Which he doesn't intend to do, so Aziraphale can just go on saying it as often as he likes.
He nods in understanding, turning his head to kiss the fingertip that teases along the edge of his jaw. "You make me ache," Crowley tells him, not as an accusation, more as a simple statement of fact that he's come to accept long ago. Need consumes him in Aziraphale's presence; that it was his lot to yearn for him for so long, perhaps to yearn for him until the end of time, was something he'd accepted as well. Being able to indulge it, to find relief in Aziraphale's arms is still so new and wonderful he doesn't know what to do with it.
"Love you, angel." Crowley presses the words against his throat, in a ragged voice. Yes, he will, he'll accept as much as he can, hear it as often as he can bear without simply combusting on the spot from the sheer pleasure of it. Which he doesn't intend to do, so Aziraphale can just go on saying it as often as he likes.
He nods in understanding, turning his head to kiss the fingertip that teases along the edge of his jaw. "You make me ache," Crowley tells him, not as an accusation, more as a simple statement of fact that he's come to accept long ago. Need consumes him in Aziraphale's presence; that it was his lot to yearn for him for so long, perhaps to yearn for him until the end of time, was something he'd accepted as well. Being able to indulge it, to find relief in Aziraphale's arms is still so new and wonderful he doesn't know what to do with it.
Aziraphale doesn't think he's ever been quite so nosy with anyone's corporation as he is with Crowley's, especially if Crowley is to keep kissing him for his efforts, fondly rubbing the skin of his nape and tracing fingers down his arm. He really is a feast for the senses, doubly so that Aziraphale still feels the lingering sensation of Crowley over him and inside of him, subsided into a lightly pulsing glow but nonetheless a pleasant reminder.
His face fills with affection when Crowley tells him he aches, because it identifies whatever this feeling is, the one of sinking and drowning whenever Crowley is away from him; it's obsessive and unhealthy and Aziraphale has tried to push it away and sequester it somewhere it couldn't touch him. But they are tethered, bound to one another completely, and the harder he tries the stronger the feeling and the more he can sense something in him withering. So finally he rests his wandering hands to cradle Crowley and hold him steady and tight, as it was meant to be.
He wonders how long it will be before that menacing uncertainty goes away. Certainly they've kept it around too long, Aziraphale having used it as a shield for centuries, regretting the choice. But he also knows it's because this is so new that it's almost surreal, like it all might be a second dream he hasn't woken up from yet, layered so deeply under his first that he hopes to stay here awhile and make a home in this reality.
"I blessed it myself," he says, cutting through the moment with its suddenness. "It takes better if you really believe." That's really all it had taken, a true blessing, a little salt. Water could've come from the tap and salt could have come from the little blue canister that had the girl and her umbrella (it didn't; he'd imported both from where Eden had once stood.) "So don't you dare be careless." He doesn't know what he'll do if he's the ultimate reason for his end.
His face fills with affection when Crowley tells him he aches, because it identifies whatever this feeling is, the one of sinking and drowning whenever Crowley is away from him; it's obsessive and unhealthy and Aziraphale has tried to push it away and sequester it somewhere it couldn't touch him. But they are tethered, bound to one another completely, and the harder he tries the stronger the feeling and the more he can sense something in him withering. So finally he rests his wandering hands to cradle Crowley and hold him steady and tight, as it was meant to be.
He wonders how long it will be before that menacing uncertainty goes away. Certainly they've kept it around too long, Aziraphale having used it as a shield for centuries, regretting the choice. But he also knows it's because this is so new that it's almost surreal, like it all might be a second dream he hasn't woken up from yet, layered so deeply under his first that he hopes to stay here awhile and make a home in this reality.
"I blessed it myself," he says, cutting through the moment with its suddenness. "It takes better if you really believe." That's really all it had taken, a true blessing, a little salt. Water could've come from the tap and salt could have come from the little blue canister that had the girl and her umbrella (it didn't; he'd imported both from where Eden had once stood.) "So don't you dare be careless." He doesn't know what he'll do if he's the ultimate reason for his end.
Page 10 of 16