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"Most dangerous is that temptation that doth goad us on to sin in loving virtue," he replies, his hips moving towards Aziraphale's touch, basically of its own volition.
His own hand moves to cup the angel, to caress him carefully, no small amount of gentleness in his touch. This isn't some minor temptation he's undertaking right now, this is Aziraphale, the one person in the universe that Crowley loves, and he's not about to be, well, too hasty. No matter how hasty he'd like to be.
"This is the very ecstasy of love," he adds.
His own hand moves to cup the angel, to caress him carefully, no small amount of gentleness in his touch. This isn't some minor temptation he's undertaking right now, this is Aziraphale, the one person in the universe that Crowley loves, and he's not about to be, well, too hasty. No matter how hasty he'd like to be.
"This is the very ecstasy of love," he adds.
Aziraphale lets out a little hiss, as he's not very used to being touched so intimately by someone, and he has never had anything longer than a short fling (though short, in some cases to Aziraphale, might've been very long affairs to a human.) But certainly, he has never felt the kind of love he has for Crowley, for anyone in existence. The only one who might hold a candle to the sheer amount of love he has is God herself. And, certainly, God is not welcome in Aziraphale's bed, particularly not in this moment.
"I am giddy; expectation whirls me round. The imaginary relish is so sweet that it enchants my senses." And as Crowley's hips lift, he pulls the elastic down and over his thin hips, biting back a moan as he takes in the sight of him. "Oh," he says, eyes dark, finding he doesn't have a quote for that.
"I am giddy; expectation whirls me round. The imaginary relish is so sweet that it enchants my senses." And as Crowley's hips lift, he pulls the elastic down and over his thin hips, biting back a moan as he takes in the sight of him. "Oh," he says, eyes dark, finding he doesn't have a quote for that.
"Not stepping over the bounds of modesty," Crowley says, leaning back to preen under Aziraphale's gaze, just for a moment. He's always rather liked his own form. So lanky and interesting, easily made male or female depending on his whim or whatever he needed at the time. He settled into the male form as preference some time back, just because it meant his trousers always had pockets. It's nice to see Aziraphale approves. Crowley certainly approves of the angel, though he doesn't approve of the fact that he still has any clothing on whatsoever.
He leans forward, pressing his lips to the angel's sternum, and then a little lower, just above his stomach as he lowers the angel's pants down, undressing them both.
He leans forward, pressing his lips to the angel's sternum, and then a little lower, just above his stomach as he lowers the angel's pants down, undressing them both.
He feels a little nervous at having gotten undressed, if only because he hasn't done so in another's presence in quite some time, but he slips out of his pants and presents himself before Crowley, only insofar as he slings his legs over Crowley's, slotting their forms together like puzzle pieces.
He runs an appreciative hand down Crowley's torso, clearly enamored with this form. When at last he reaches Crowley's cock, he takes him into his hands and starts to stroke, watching him, witnessing him.
Teasingly, and on a laugh, he says: "Love hath made thee a tame snake."
He runs an appreciative hand down Crowley's torso, clearly enamored with this form. When at last he reaches Crowley's cock, he takes him into his hands and starts to stroke, watching him, witnessing him.
Teasingly, and on a laugh, he says: "Love hath made thee a tame snake."
Crowley lets out a bark of a laugh at that. A tame snake, indeed. He hasn't been much of a snake since that day in Eden, when he first met Aziraphale. The angel had intrigued him, then, and now----well, now he was completely at his mercy. Normally, in temptations, it is the demon who leads the way. Who does the initial touches, who pulls the other towards sin and lust. And here they are, Aziraphale pulling Crowley along into bliss.
He reaches between them, taking Aziraphale's shaft with his own hand, curling his fingers and stroking, keeping in time with the angel's touch to him.
"My heart is ever at your service," he says, before kissing him again.
He reaches between them, taking Aziraphale's shaft with his own hand, curling his fingers and stroking, keeping in time with the angel's touch to him.
"My heart is ever at your service," he says, before kissing him again.
He thrusts his hips upward into Crowley's touch and his hand trembles against him, so sweet and distracting is his hand. He can't think of Shakespeare any more in this moment as he shifts closer with every arc of his hips, jaw slack and eyes boring holes into Crowley's with an intense wonder, only to be shuttered closed when Crowley comes to claim his lips.
He lies back and pulls Crowley over top of him, hips falling open to accommodate him, legs curling and lazily draped, hands more active and seeking, exploring. There is very much left for Aziraphale to find and he's spoiled for choice on where to begin.
He lies back and pulls Crowley over top of him, hips falling open to accommodate him, legs curling and lazily draped, hands more active and seeking, exploring. There is very much left for Aziraphale to find and he's spoiled for choice on where to begin.
[ His jaw shifts when Aziraphale says that it's wrong, the two of them together, the only sign of a physical reaction to the stab of pain it provokes under his ribs. As if Crowley hasn't known all along that a demon has no business falling in love with an angel--no, not just falling, but loving him for six thousand years, keeping all that secret lonely passion buried deep within him, until the night that Aziraphale reached out to him and told him he knows that he loves, that Crowley alone of all demons has never forgotten how to love. All that happened that night ruined him, made him anew. He's spent the last decade in a haze of pain and joy and longing, not knowing who he is except when he's with Aziraphale, when it seems to him as though the entire purpose of his creation was to be made to love him.
And now Aziraphale tells him that it's all wrong, and clasps Crowley's hand between his mercilessly, while Crowley can't help but stare at him with such yearning he's surprised it doesn't burn up one of them on the spot. ]
Of course we can. [ he says insistently, speaking purely in terms of the drink, ignoring that Aziraphale may have meant anything else. He steps in closer, and the hand Aziraphale isn't holding lifts to touch him, his thumb giving a subtle stroke at the edge of his jaw. ]
One drink, angel, what's the harm?
[ Oh, Aziraphale. He wants to make it impossible. How can he even think of leaving--how can he think they'll ever be free of one another? ]
Come with me. You're just going home anyway, might as well let me drive.
And now Aziraphale tells him that it's all wrong, and clasps Crowley's hand between his mercilessly, while Crowley can't help but stare at him with such yearning he's surprised it doesn't burn up one of them on the spot. ]
Of course we can. [ he says insistently, speaking purely in terms of the drink, ignoring that Aziraphale may have meant anything else. He steps in closer, and the hand Aziraphale isn't holding lifts to touch him, his thumb giving a subtle stroke at the edge of his jaw. ]
One drink, angel, what's the harm?
[ Oh, Aziraphale. He wants to make it impossible. How can he even think of leaving--how can he think they'll ever be free of one another? ]
Come with me. You're just going home anyway, might as well let me drive.
[ Crowley looks at Aziraphale with the kind of earnest longing that could bring a mountain to its knees, and he is just not that strong. He should have kept walking, because he can feel his resolve crumbling from stone to sand.
He knows it won't be one drink, not with the way that Crowley looks at him now. He can't see his own face, but he is doubtless that there writ is the truth. He never really was good at lying, and how could he even have made the attempt when Crowley always saw right through to the heart of him? Neither does he want to send the message that he doesn't want to salvage this friendship, the most important of things that Aziraphale has collected in this world of excess. No, he has gone about this the wrong way and he knows he has lost. He knows there is no small part of him that's glad for it, but that part would, with reckless abandon, gather Crowley into his arms and declare his love right there; that part had cunningly held him back just long enough for this self sabotage. ]
One drink. Nothing more.
[ The last part is said like a warning but there's really no bite behind it; Aziraphale believes it's a foregone conclusion that he should be unable to chase Crowley away this night, that he might, himself in his weakness, instigate something wholly stupid. Because the most honestly that Aziraphale had ever lived was that night, and try as he might, he has always been a terrible liar.
He starts to head toward the Bentley, wondering how long he can keep this up. An hour? Ten minutes? One, even? ]
He knows it won't be one drink, not with the way that Crowley looks at him now. He can't see his own face, but he is doubtless that there writ is the truth. He never really was good at lying, and how could he even have made the attempt when Crowley always saw right through to the heart of him? Neither does he want to send the message that he doesn't want to salvage this friendship, the most important of things that Aziraphale has collected in this world of excess. No, he has gone about this the wrong way and he knows he has lost. He knows there is no small part of him that's glad for it, but that part would, with reckless abandon, gather Crowley into his arms and declare his love right there; that part had cunningly held him back just long enough for this self sabotage. ]
One drink. Nothing more.
[ The last part is said like a warning but there's really no bite behind it; Aziraphale believes it's a foregone conclusion that he should be unable to chase Crowley away this night, that he might, himself in his weakness, instigate something wholly stupid. Because the most honestly that Aziraphale had ever lived was that night, and try as he might, he has always been a terrible liar.
He starts to head toward the Bentley, wondering how long he can keep this up. An hour? Ten minutes? One, even? ]
[ For a breath of time he thinks it’s possible that Aziraphale will refuse, and the bleakness of that thought doesn’t bear following; to imagine a world in which they would no longer allow themselves the love that has, perhaps, been between them since the dawn of the earth, even one in which they are no more than occasional co-conspirators (fraternizing, he thinks with revulsion) is to imagine one in which there will be little happiness ever again. Perhaps Crowley has no right to expect to be happy, even less to experience the almost unbearable joy he feels when Aziraphale holds him in his arms, love wrapped around him like wings. But he is greedy for it. He’s gotten a taste for it now, and he won’t surrender so easily.
Crowley decides not to answer the warning in Aziraphale’s voice: he suspects only agreement would make the angel feel better, and to agree would be to lie, because Crowley has no intention of letting this go at one drink. Instead he only squeezes Aziraphale’s hand briefly, as a form of assurance, and then lets go, indicating with a motion of his head the car.
Once they’re in he reaches over to the glove box, making sure the holy water in its thermos is still there. He can’t help being jumpy about it, starting the car without comment and peeling away from the curb.
After a little while, though, he can’t help but speak up. ]
What made you change your mind? Just the heist?
Crowley decides not to answer the warning in Aziraphale’s voice: he suspects only agreement would make the angel feel better, and to agree would be to lie, because Crowley has no intention of letting this go at one drink. Instead he only squeezes Aziraphale’s hand briefly, as a form of assurance, and then lets go, indicating with a motion of his head the car.
Once they’re in he reaches over to the glove box, making sure the holy water in its thermos is still there. He can’t help being jumpy about it, starting the car without comment and peeling away from the curb.
After a little while, though, he can’t help but speak up. ]
What made you change your mind? Just the heist?
Edited 2019-07-25 12:41 (UTC)
[ Of all the cruel things he could do, and that he has done to Crowley -- pretending like Aziraphale doesn't still think of him and love him as the whole of his parts, the snake and the troublemaker yes, but the creator, the hanger of stars, the being who couldn't forget how to love -- denying him their friendship would be one step far too cruel.
The drive is excruciatingly long, and marked so deeply with silence. Aziraphale tries and fails several times to come up with something to fill up the space with something besides the music, because not to do so means being alone with his thoughts and with possessing an imagination so wild as to compete with Crowley's, it's certainly dangerous territory. He's glad to have Crowley punctuate the silence, and give him something else to think about besides the grip of his fingers on the wheel and the pattern on his new shirt. ]
I thought maybe you had changed your mind, you never mentioned it again. It wasn't until I found out about the heist that I realized you were still looking.
[ There's a bit of a pause, and Aziraphale holding his hands as fists on his thighs, but he speaks up. ]
I couldn't let you go through with it. I still don't like it, but I can't let you cause your own destruction out of desperation, especially not for something I can provide.
[ Is he really talking about just the holy water anymore? He supposes he never really was, hiding behind things to say for the things he would really like to say instead. But he also really hopes it shouldn't come to that, that they can make another Arrangement in which they understand that love just doesn't conquer all, and haven't they been on this Earth long enough to know it? Hasn't Crowley, who has already fallen once, who has already seen God punish temptation when she herself was the one who placed the apple, ripe for picking, in the middle of Eden?
In actuality, it's a very short drive to the bookshop, and even though it's a busy night, there is miraculously a space to park right out front. Aziraphale gets out of the car and fumbles with the keys, something he hasn't done since the shop opened. ]
The drive is excruciatingly long, and marked so deeply with silence. Aziraphale tries and fails several times to come up with something to fill up the space with something besides the music, because not to do so means being alone with his thoughts and with possessing an imagination so wild as to compete with Crowley's, it's certainly dangerous territory. He's glad to have Crowley punctuate the silence, and give him something else to think about besides the grip of his fingers on the wheel and the pattern on his new shirt. ]
I thought maybe you had changed your mind, you never mentioned it again. It wasn't until I found out about the heist that I realized you were still looking.
[ There's a bit of a pause, and Aziraphale holding his hands as fists on his thighs, but he speaks up. ]
I couldn't let you go through with it. I still don't like it, but I can't let you cause your own destruction out of desperation, especially not for something I can provide.
[ Is he really talking about just the holy water anymore? He supposes he never really was, hiding behind things to say for the things he would really like to say instead. But he also really hopes it shouldn't come to that, that they can make another Arrangement in which they understand that love just doesn't conquer all, and haven't they been on this Earth long enough to know it? Hasn't Crowley, who has already fallen once, who has already seen God punish temptation when she herself was the one who placed the apple, ripe for picking, in the middle of Eden?
In actuality, it's a very short drive to the bookshop, and even though it's a busy night, there is miraculously a space to park right out front. Aziraphale gets out of the car and fumbles with the keys, something he hasn't done since the shop opened. ]
[ It’s an interminable drive for Crowley, too, with all his fears and anxieties writhing within him. If only Aziraphale would let him feel that love, the love for the whole of his parts, the love that Crowley knows in his soul was never once imagined or feigned. With Aziraphale guarding it away so carefully he feels like a creature starving, dying for the only love that has been given to him for six thousand years. Yet if he wants the proof that it is still there, that Aziraphale still feels it for him, he has only to think of the thermos in the glove box. It keeps him from going to pieces, giving in to bewilderment and pain.
He considers what Aziraphale says, and what things are left unsaid, fingers tapping restlessly on the steering wheel. ]
But you can’t know that it would have ended in destruction, can you?
[ Crowley reaches over and switches off the radio, the low music beneath their words and their silences getting on his nerves. ]
Do you think anything that would drive a person to desperation can never be worth it? That there couldn’t be any reason worth risking one’s life for?
[ Yes, he’s fallen, he knows what there is to lose. But isn’t it Aziraphale who’s always spoken of the Plan, the divine will that moves the universe in ways they can’t comprehend or even imagine? Who is to say what their place in it is—if their love must be forbidden? They have been with one another in the most intimate ways known to creation, and no fire has rained down from the sky, no earth has shattered beneath their feet. No sign of punishment.
He pulls up to the curb, slotting the Bentley into the open space and switching off the engine. Following Aziraphale to the front door, Crowley notices him fumble with the keys but pretends to take an interest in some old volume displayed in a shop window, not wanting to make him self-conscious. Once Aziraphale gets the door open he follows him in, standing beside him for a moment and touching his shoulder lightly. ]
Drink? [ They both very much need it, he suspects. ]
He considers what Aziraphale says, and what things are left unsaid, fingers tapping restlessly on the steering wheel. ]
But you can’t know that it would have ended in destruction, can you?
[ Crowley reaches over and switches off the radio, the low music beneath their words and their silences getting on his nerves. ]
Do you think anything that would drive a person to desperation can never be worth it? That there couldn’t be any reason worth risking one’s life for?
[ Yes, he’s fallen, he knows what there is to lose. But isn’t it Aziraphale who’s always spoken of the Plan, the divine will that moves the universe in ways they can’t comprehend or even imagine? Who is to say what their place in it is—if their love must be forbidden? They have been with one another in the most intimate ways known to creation, and no fire has rained down from the sky, no earth has shattered beneath their feet. No sign of punishment.
He pulls up to the curb, slotting the Bentley into the open space and switching off the engine. Following Aziraphale to the front door, Crowley notices him fumble with the keys but pretends to take an interest in some old volume displayed in a shop window, not wanting to make him self-conscious. Once Aziraphale gets the door open he follows him in, standing beside him for a moment and touching his shoulder lightly. ]
Drink? [ They both very much need it, he suspects. ]
[ Aziraphale goes to pull out a bottle of wine, an old vintage from the 1800s, shiny from how often he drinks from this one, drinking and refilling and drinking once more. He pours them both glasses, and takes a seat in his favorite squashy chair surrounded by all his favorite things. He has lived a life of excess instead of a life of austerity, and no one had complained, that's true. But if God asked him to give all this up, claimed that it was clouding his judgment and his service, then he would do so for her Love. True, that he had not remained chaste as a servant of God does, and he had known gluttony very well, and pride, and greed. True, that he does not love his neighbor, that he wears mixed fabric, that he has lied -- and God had never asked him not to do these things, had not even been disappointed when he'd lost the thing bestowed to him by her. ]
No.
[ He says, in finality, but seemingly out of the blue. ]
I can't know what will end in destruction, it is not my place.
But neither would I ask The Almighty for her permission, and isn't that the same thing as knowing the result?
[ Honestly, she doesn't even take his calls anymore. He does not want to be rerouted to The Metatron, or Gabriel. It isn't as if he has anything of import to bother her with, this being too intimate and too personal to warrant a face to face meeting. ]
How do you propose we keep this a secret? To keep ourselves in check?
[ He doesn't mean to ask this as if chiding him, because he wants an honest answer. He wants a plan, he wants Crowley and his pleasant company and delightful mind. Would he keep a candle, unlit, and have it with him always, or burn it and enjoy its warmth for a few scant hours until there is none left? He looks at Crowley, desperate for an answer, any answer, because he'd like to believe there is hope in this. He just needs a stronger reason to defy Heaven than love; only madness lies that way. ]
No.
[ He says, in finality, but seemingly out of the blue. ]
I can't know what will end in destruction, it is not my place.
But neither would I ask The Almighty for her permission, and isn't that the same thing as knowing the result?
[ Honestly, she doesn't even take his calls anymore. He does not want to be rerouted to The Metatron, or Gabriel. It isn't as if he has anything of import to bother her with, this being too intimate and too personal to warrant a face to face meeting. ]
How do you propose we keep this a secret? To keep ourselves in check?
[ He doesn't mean to ask this as if chiding him, because he wants an honest answer. He wants a plan, he wants Crowley and his pleasant company and delightful mind. Would he keep a candle, unlit, and have it with him always, or burn it and enjoy its warmth for a few scant hours until there is none left? He looks at Crowley, desperate for an answer, any answer, because he'd like to believe there is hope in this. He just needs a stronger reason to defy Heaven than love; only madness lies that way. ]
Crowley leans over the angel, looking down at him with no small amount of pleasure. Oh, but there's so many places they could go, so much they could do right now. They've got all night----and who the hell knows what will happen tomorrow. They'll work that bit out when they get there.
He presses his mouth to Aziraphale's neck, then lower, to his chest, and lower again, tracing his mouth down to his stomach, to his hips.
He presses his mouth to Aziraphale's neck, then lower, to his chest, and lower again, tracing his mouth down to his stomach, to his hips.
Each kiss, each press of Crowley's lips draws gasps and moans from the angel, clutching haplessly at Crowley's waist and his shoulders and that pretty red hair of his. He might, if they should survive all this, ask if he wouldn't mind growing it out again.
"Crowley--" he interjects as Crowley goes lower, surprised as if he really supposed that Crowley wasn't totally aware of what he was doing to him at this exact second. His legs, meanwhile, fall open as if there had been some secret passcode for which even Aziraphale was unaware.
"Crowley--" he interjects as Crowley goes lower, surprised as if he really supposed that Crowley wasn't totally aware of what he was doing to him at this exact second. His legs, meanwhile, fall open as if there had been some secret passcode for which even Aziraphale was unaware.
Crowley would do anything for Aziraphale. Grow his hair out? Oh, absolutely. Make a tragedy one of the greatest plays of all time? Only for you. Stand up against Heaven and Hell and possibly die in the process? No question about it. It's annoying, when Crowley thinks about it, how devoted he is to Aziraphale. Annoying, but really, he wouldn't change it for anything.
"Mhmm?" Crowley answers, as if there was some sort of question asked, or as if he had any intention to stop. He presses his lips to Aziraphale's thigh as his legs open, then the inside of his thigh, and then to the side of his shaft. A slow progression around, carefully watching every motion of the angel, every reaction.
He traces his tongue up Aziraphale's shaft, slow and careful. Now, Crowley's tongue is not forked, not like a snake, but he does know what he's doing.
"Mhmm?" Crowley answers, as if there was some sort of question asked, or as if he had any intention to stop. He presses his lips to Aziraphale's thigh as his legs open, then the inside of his thigh, and then to the side of his shaft. A slow progression around, carefully watching every motion of the angel, every reaction.
He traces his tongue up Aziraphale's shaft, slow and careful. Now, Crowley's tongue is not forked, not like a snake, but he does know what he's doing.
Aziraphale blushes all the way to his chest, huffing moans through his bitten lip, clutching tightly at Crowley's hair. The meandering serves to drive him insane, his hips already arcing up with piqued interest, nerves getting ahead of his thoughts.
Crowley's breath is hot against him and his tongue as nimble, as devious as the rest of him. His cock twitches impatiently, impossibly hard. "Yes," he urges, this time his turn to hiss as he forgets himself.
Crowley's breath is hot against him and his tongue as nimble, as devious as the rest of him. His cock twitches impatiently, impossibly hard. "Yes," he urges, this time his turn to hiss as he forgets himself.
There's something incredibly, unbelievably arousing at having Aziraphale's hands in his hair like this. Gripping tightly, holding onto him. Needing something to hold on to. He could tease like this all day if it gave this kind of reaction, if he could watch Aziraphale like this.
Of course, he won't, because as impatient as the angel is, Crowley is just as impatient. He wants more of this, wants to see what else they can do. He takes the angel into his mouth, carefully bobbing his head as he moves his hands down the angel's side. His fingertips he makes warm, almost hot with just a little touch of fire, tracing down both sides of him.
Of course, he won't, because as impatient as the angel is, Crowley is just as impatient. He wants more of this, wants to see what else they can do. He takes the angel into his mouth, carefully bobbing his head as he moves his hands down the angel's side. His fingertips he makes warm, almost hot with just a little touch of fire, tracing down both sides of him.
[ Crowley takes the glass of wine and drinks about half of it down rather quickly, with a sinful lack of attention to the quality of the vintage. It's extremely good, and ordinarily he would be impressed, but his mind is somewhere else at the moment. He watches Aziraphale make his way over to his arm chair, feeling rooted to the spot himself. Then when Aziraphale has seated himself, and has sat in silence for a while (Crowley watching him hungrily from where he stands, almost pleadingly) and then at last speaks up, then Crowley moves, striding towards the couch where he usually sprawls out, but turning restlessly away from it at the last moment. ]
How could you ask Her even if you wanted to?
[ Bitterness lashes from his voice, but it's not directed at Aziraphale, not particularly. But what he wants to say is, what gives God any business in their affairs, his and Aziraphale's? When was the last time She spoke to either of them? It's been longer for Crowley than Aziraphale, surely, far longer. He used to wonder--not pray, but wonder--if forgiveness would ever be granted him. He used to fear to ask. Now he thinks, God can keep Her forgiveness and permission and all the rest. He doesn't want it: he only wants Aziraphale.
He moves towards him a step or two, but then checks that motion as well. Turning back to the couch, Crowley perches moodily on one of its arms. ]
We could go on as we have done.
[ He finishes off the wine in his glass before he continues, and grabs the bottle to pour another. All the while he's aware of Aziraphale's eyes on him, the way the angel looks at him with desperation, and Crowley can't meet that look, he can't, otherwise he'd seize Aziraphale in his arms and never let him go. ]
We'll meet, we'll talk business, we'll--we'll spend the night together if we want. No one needs to know. They don't know anything up there, do they? No one has a clue down below.
[ It sounds awful, he thinks. Cold and transactional. He swallows wine down a painfully tight throat. ]
How could you ask Her even if you wanted to?
[ Bitterness lashes from his voice, but it's not directed at Aziraphale, not particularly. But what he wants to say is, what gives God any business in their affairs, his and Aziraphale's? When was the last time She spoke to either of them? It's been longer for Crowley than Aziraphale, surely, far longer. He used to wonder--not pray, but wonder--if forgiveness would ever be granted him. He used to fear to ask. Now he thinks, God can keep Her forgiveness and permission and all the rest. He doesn't want it: he only wants Aziraphale.
He moves towards him a step or two, but then checks that motion as well. Turning back to the couch, Crowley perches moodily on one of its arms. ]
We could go on as we have done.
[ He finishes off the wine in his glass before he continues, and grabs the bottle to pour another. All the while he's aware of Aziraphale's eyes on him, the way the angel looks at him with desperation, and Crowley can't meet that look, he can't, otherwise he'd seize Aziraphale in his arms and never let him go. ]
We'll meet, we'll talk business, we'll--we'll spend the night together if we want. No one needs to know. They don't know anything up there, do they? No one has a clue down below.
[ It sounds awful, he thinks. Cold and transactional. He swallows wine down a painfully tight throat. ]
Aziraphale feels hot all over, but underneath Crowley's touch he just blooms, each point of contact searing, branding Crowley's name everywhere on Aziraphale's skin. His body constricts with pleasure when Crowley stops teasing, moans so long and low that he turns his head to the side into a pillow to cover his embarrassment.
Oh, yes, he would have been a fool indeed not to have partaken in any of this pleasure before they went to meet their doom. Crowley's hands, warm and teasing, and his tongue, wicked and cunning, make his knees tremble and grow weak. He begs for morning's delay.
Oh, yes, he would have been a fool indeed not to have partaken in any of this pleasure before they went to meet their doom. Crowley's hands, warm and teasing, and his tongue, wicked and cunning, make his knees tremble and grow weak. He begs for morning's delay.
[ That sounds so clinical, so very official. It reminds him of those big white halls of Heaven, with their dress code patternless and devoid of color, airy and light and highly exalted as beautiful. Meanwhile, Aziraphale filled every nook and cranny of his living space with the creations of man, books stacked high filled with their knowledge. He consumes their cuisines, so lovingly crafted. He loves to tend their gardens, to ponder the brushstrokes of their paintings, to let their notes and their declarations move him to emotion. Aziraphale loves to see beauty in the imperfection, uninspired by perfection. Bored by it.
Here he was before Crowley, who was both the most imperfect and yet, because of it, the most beautiful thing in all of Creation: tempter of man, quite possibly the only demon who could make an angel sin. He, the angel, captivated in his attention, enraptured with his every word, even if they're not remotely the kind of things either of them want to hear. ]
Do you really think that will work, Crowley?
[ Aziraphale doubts it, because even now as his eyes rake over Crowley in consideration, there's no greater desire he has than to push him back from his perch, to slot himself between long, limber legs and make love to him again and again until Crowley asks him to stop. Or, perhaps, he could ask Crowley to teach him how to take the full of him into his mouth, ask for a demonstration, and practice until he gets it just so.
He clears his throat and decides to pointedly look at something else. Anything else. Definitely not how Crowley's throat bobs as he swallows. No, not his fingers, absolutely not those ridiculously tight trousers and good God what in Heaven is the new fashion of the 1960s? ]
--They don't know, but they're not idiots. We can't meet with any more frequency than we had before.
Yes?
Here he was before Crowley, who was both the most imperfect and yet, because of it, the most beautiful thing in all of Creation: tempter of man, quite possibly the only demon who could make an angel sin. He, the angel, captivated in his attention, enraptured with his every word, even if they're not remotely the kind of things either of them want to hear. ]
Do you really think that will work, Crowley?
[ Aziraphale doubts it, because even now as his eyes rake over Crowley in consideration, there's no greater desire he has than to push him back from his perch, to slot himself between long, limber legs and make love to him again and again until Crowley asks him to stop. Or, perhaps, he could ask Crowley to teach him how to take the full of him into his mouth, ask for a demonstration, and practice until he gets it just so.
He clears his throat and decides to pointedly look at something else. Anything else. Definitely not how Crowley's throat bobs as he swallows. No, not his fingers, absolutely not those ridiculously tight trousers and good God what in Heaven is the new fashion of the 1960s? ]
--They don't know, but they're not idiots. We can't meet with any more frequency than we had before.
Yes?
Crowley would like to recant his earlier statement about sins. He had originally thought that lust was a good sin, but not nearly as much fun or wonderful as sloth, which was pretty great and fantastic all by itself. Gluttony (especially that of wine) was up there too, almost above lust. But that sound that Aziraphale just made? That low moan he's trying to hide away? That makes Crowley completely change his mind on sins. Because he'd give up Heaven all over again to hear a noise like that come from the angel. Oh, yes.
He traces his tongue along the head, then delicately traces his teeth----oh, just enough to tease---before resuming his work, bobbing his head, working his lips.
They'd never talked about lovers or temptations or flings at all---but surely Aziraphale had...? It would have been impossible for him not to. Far too desirable an angel, far too good and charming. Probably had loads of poets in the 1800s following him around, doting after his perfect hair and bowtie. Such a pity there was always the line between them, then. They always met like covert spies, sharing drinks and information, but never touches. Never this.
He traces his tongue along the head, then delicately traces his teeth----oh, just enough to tease---before resuming his work, bobbing his head, working his lips.
They'd never talked about lovers or temptations or flings at all---but surely Aziraphale had...? It would have been impossible for him not to. Far too desirable an angel, far too good and charming. Probably had loads of poets in the 1800s following him around, doting after his perfect hair and bowtie. Such a pity there was always the line between them, then. They always met like covert spies, sharing drinks and information, but never touches. Never this.
[ He can feel Aziraphale looking, even as Crowley stares into his wine glass behind the dark lenses that conceal his eyes, and oh--he'll ruin him, his angel will, looking at him like that, the way he can always do with just a glance, a word, a caress. He shifts uncomfortably, willing away the very physical reaction his body takes to Aziraphale's scrutiny. Memories of being beneath Aziraphale on this very couch scald him. Why is it that he can undo him so easily, why is it his very nearness makes Crowley shake with longing, like something within him is shattering apart? And yet it's so beguiling, every moment of it. He drinks more wine, his tongue feeling numbed to taste; it has no savor, nothing does, now that he's tasted Aziraphale's kisses, his cock, everything they have shared in intimacy--the brightness of his love, which Crowley starved for for so many long millennia. ]
Suppose not.
[ His voice is tight with misery. Seeing Aziraphale now and again is better than not seeing him at all. Things will go on much as they always have, all the time they've known one another. Except Crowley knows now, because he can feel it already, how much this will hurt: to pretend away the soul-searing love that makes him ache to be with Aziraphale all the time, or to lock it within except for the times it feels safe enough to bring it out--
Nothing, nothing about this is safe. Aziraphale's right, it's a madness. What can he offer, to ask an angel to defy Heaven? ]
Aziraphale, I--
[ Crowley looks at him now, voice catching in his throat, longing like something that will burn him up from within. ]
Will it make you happy, to do that? Is it what you want?
[ He has himself to offer, he thinks, it's all he's ever had--whatever a demon like him is worth. ]
Suppose not.
[ His voice is tight with misery. Seeing Aziraphale now and again is better than not seeing him at all. Things will go on much as they always have, all the time they've known one another. Except Crowley knows now, because he can feel it already, how much this will hurt: to pretend away the soul-searing love that makes him ache to be with Aziraphale all the time, or to lock it within except for the times it feels safe enough to bring it out--
Nothing, nothing about this is safe. Aziraphale's right, it's a madness. What can he offer, to ask an angel to defy Heaven? ]
Aziraphale, I--
[ Crowley looks at him now, voice catching in his throat, longing like something that will burn him up from within. ]
Will it make you happy, to do that? Is it what you want?
[ He has himself to offer, he thinks, it's all he's ever had--whatever a demon like him is worth. ]
Aziraphale would admonish Crowley if he knew he was considering his other lovers (which, yes, most of them had been 19th-century writers, who were very romantic and also had written some very devastating breakup letters, thank you). If Crowley mentioned it, then Aziraphale would be quick to say that none of them measured up to him, even if that wasn't the intended inquiry. Though, most of his lovers had been celebrated authors and great orators, ant naturally had been very clever with their tongues, none of them had ever rendered that particular sound from Aziraphale. That was Crowley's to keep.
He writhes under Crowley, feels his breath hang heavy like cobwebs as he exhales honey-sweet moans and curls his fingers wherever he can have contact with Crowley's skin. He feels, in this moment, so lucky that he could walk outside and take his chances again with Heaven. But he won't move from this spot so long as Crowley's mouth is so eager.
He writhes under Crowley, feels his breath hang heavy like cobwebs as he exhales honey-sweet moans and curls his fingers wherever he can have contact with Crowley's skin. He feels, in this moment, so lucky that he could walk outside and take his chances again with Heaven. But he won't move from this spot so long as Crowley's mouth is so eager.
Oh, he's not about to stop. Not about to stop, but instead to speed up the pace, moving ever quicker, just enough to bring Aziraphale as much pleasure as he can, and then slow down again, keeping him from going too far over the edge.
After all, they do have all night. And while Crowley doesn't have the ability to stop time for more than a few minutes, he can make this last as long as they want it for.
After all, they do have all night. And while Crowley doesn't have the ability to stop time for more than a few minutes, he can make this last as long as they want it for.
[ He doesn't take another moment to think, because he doesn't need one. ]
No. Of course not, nothing could make me happy but to be with you.
[ There, he's spoken his truth, and it feels like he's been slapped in the face. The expression that he wears is pained, as if it is the most difficult thing to just get Crowley to see that yes, it's about their love, it's about him and Aziraphale both, and how they are so deeply intertwined that should one of them sink, the other one would be sure to follow. He is moored to Crowley's heart, would carve his own out just to make a space for him. The trouble is not how little he feels but how profoundly he does, how close he is to forsaking Heaven and all the rest that he is, for what else is he but an Angel? ]
But we are not free agents. We don't have the liberty to love each other. If I could recreate this world, and we could do what we wished with it, a hundred, a million times over I would choose that we could be together.
[ And what a shameful, what an unkind game God plays, to know the two of them would love like this. To know that Aziraphale would question a faith that wouldn't allow him this, that would look at these two halves of one whole and tell them they must be apart like a head with no shoulders or a tree with no roots. It's insane, and it's eating him from the inside out until he's hollow. God must know, how he craves for Crowley's mouth and the fit of his embrace, the timbre of his laughter, the curve of his hips. And God had loved him once, to create him, to breathe life into him; how could she have stopped? It isn't something that Aziraphale can understand or cares to, but in this disagreement he knows that she is wrong not to love him, not to forgive him, to turn a blind to his good. ]
No. Of course not, nothing could make me happy but to be with you.
[ There, he's spoken his truth, and it feels like he's been slapped in the face. The expression that he wears is pained, as if it is the most difficult thing to just get Crowley to see that yes, it's about their love, it's about him and Aziraphale both, and how they are so deeply intertwined that should one of them sink, the other one would be sure to follow. He is moored to Crowley's heart, would carve his own out just to make a space for him. The trouble is not how little he feels but how profoundly he does, how close he is to forsaking Heaven and all the rest that he is, for what else is he but an Angel? ]
But we are not free agents. We don't have the liberty to love each other. If I could recreate this world, and we could do what we wished with it, a hundred, a million times over I would choose that we could be together.
[ And what a shameful, what an unkind game God plays, to know the two of them would love like this. To know that Aziraphale would question a faith that wouldn't allow him this, that would look at these two halves of one whole and tell them they must be apart like a head with no shoulders or a tree with no roots. It's insane, and it's eating him from the inside out until he's hollow. God must know, how he craves for Crowley's mouth and the fit of his embrace, the timbre of his laughter, the curve of his hips. And God had loved him once, to create him, to breathe life into him; how could she have stopped? It isn't something that Aziraphale can understand or cares to, but in this disagreement he knows that she is wrong not to love him, not to forgive him, to turn a blind to his good. ]
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