"No, you did that in my dream," he retorts. "You, or the man who sings that song. You know the one, two hundred degrees, that's why they call me Mr. Fahrenheit," he sings softly, off-tempo and sleep-addled but at least carrying the tune.
He can't possibly have taken that many rides in the Bentley without some of Queen's discography getting hopelessly stuck in his head from time to time.
It's still late, and Aziraphale isn't worried until dawn. He pulls away just a little, only so that he can talk while looking Crowley in the eyes. He does love to see the yellow irises, like little gold coins.
"Freddie Mercury," Crowley says. "That's Queen. It's a classic band, and it's not bebop, so don't---don't even try that."
He can't imagine being the one to make something fly. Without his wings, Crowley can't even making himself fly most days. Seems a bit too heavenly. He's the one who fell---even though he didn't mean to---and before that he was only sort of good at flying. Now, well, now he's got Aziraphale if flying is utterly necessary.
Aziraphale pulls back a little, and Crowley looks up at him. Oh, but he does love Aziraphale. It's impossible not to, and mostly really annoying, especially when he can't do simple things like run away from a fight because of him.
Aziraphale knows. Of course he knows, it's such a terrible open secret between them, has been for years. And before, heaven and hell would've intervened. And now... now, is there any reason he's holding back from just saying so? Aside from playing this endless six thousand year old game of chicken.
He caresses Crowley's cheek in the dim light, looking on at him with utmost affection.
"Alright," he says. "I won't sing anymore." But he hardly is paying attention to the words he's saying, instead focusing on this long, lingering look he gives Crowley.
Finally, he leans forward, and presses a curt kiss to his lips.
Oh, but that's too brief. When Aziraphale pulls away, Crowley will lean up, letting his lips linger against the angel's. Would this ever have happened, if the War didn't? If they didn't suddenly have no time at all and their lives were possibly ending any moment? Crowley doesn't know. He likes to think that they wouldn't have lived in this game forever, but for all he knows, they might've.
"You can sing," he murmurs in a teasing way. "But only if you don't destroy any more of Queen."
It's odd, being looked at with the kind of open affection that Aziraphale gives him. He's always looked at Crowley like he's something wonderful. No matter where they were, he was always excited to see him, always pleased. And, as a demon, harbringer of trouble and overall badness and all that, it wasn't often that anyone was pleased to see him. And never with the kind of openness and honesty of Aziraphale.
"Fine," he says, "no more Queen." And no, he hardly thinks that he would've given in anytime soon if they were still beholden to their masters who had, very clearly, disapproved of their relationship. But as Judgement is coming for the both of them, what have they got left to lose?
He takes a deep breath and thinks about eternity.
And then he thinks about an eternity of shouldering this.
And so Aziraphale leans in again, pausing less than a centimeter away from Crowley's face for a moment, just checking his eyes to see if he hasn't changed his mind. Finding he hasn't, he kisses him again. There's nothing about this one that's short or rushed or desperate, just the sweet slide and pull and catch of lips, slow and savoring. He brushes Crowley's hair back and tilts his head a little to help with the angle.
Aziraphale kisses him again, and Crowley leans up, meeting him as he leans in. He's wanted this for so long, it's sort of impossible to think it's happening now. To think that Aziraphale wants it----no, no, that isn't what's impossible. It's always been an unspoken feeling between them, a knowledge of how they felt that they just didn't act on. No, it's impossible that they've finally acted on it. Six thousand years later, finally here, in Crowley's mostly empty flat, kissing at the end of the world.
He shifts his body closer to the angel's, deepening the kiss. And, because Crowley is, at heart, a totally shameless demon, moaning just a tiny bit against the angel's mouth.
In only a short time, he has to go back to being an advocate for all of the humans on Earth. For this moment, he's just going to be himself with the only person on the planet he cares about.
The hairs on the back of his neck stand up when Crowley moans, and it prompts Aziraphale to kiss him deeper. Though, angelic as he is, that just means that he licks at the seam of Crowley's lips, barely delving into his mouth.
He hooks a hand around the back of Crowley's neck and cards it into his hair, shifts a little bit closer to him so that they're almost just up against each other.
Aziraphale finds that Crowley tastes sweet like wine with just the darkest undercurrent of spice, and he could easily drink from his lips the rest of the night.
Crowley lifts his hands up to cradle Aziraphale's face, to lead him into the kiss. Aziraphale is an angel, and his innocence is part of what Crowley finds so endearing about him. No reason for the demon to just leave him floundering about. He leads the kiss, deepening it slowly, parting his lips so that Aziraphale's licks can be met with his own tongue.
After all, lust is a pretty fantastic sin. Not Crowley's favorite sin---that is now and always will be sloth, which is the best sin of all time. But it's a good one, nonetheless. Even better in this exact moment, holding onto the person Crowley has loved for thousands of years.
Aziraphale is feeling like he might fly, so light is his heart. He smiles into their kiss, breaths pleasantly heaving outward, happy to finally make this known, to make it real.
He has both his hands on Crowley's face when he pulls away, and he lingers there, so close to him, meets his eyes with such profound earnestness and simple, uncomplicated joy. "I love you," he says, almost a breath, almost a whisper.
There's something profound about it finally being said. About it being said by Aziraphale, to Crowley. He loves him. Oh, they knew. They both knew. But it's different now, because they're here, actively loving each other. Being loved by each other. And Heaven and Hell can go stuff it for all Crowley cares. This is what he wants.
He brushes his fingertips across Aziraphale's face.
"I'm not supposed to love anything at all," he replies. "Not part of the demon gig. Don't need anything, don't care about anything. Certainly not angels." He smiles, a little crooked smile. "But I was never a very good demon."
"No," he agrees. "You are a lousy demon." He grins in a lopsided way and just sort of basks a little in the glow between the two of them. "That's something I love about you."
It's different, now that it's all laid out on the table. Six thousand years of mutual pining (well, not six thousand years' worth) had brought them to this moment, and it brings Aziraphale strength. Nothing can take this away from them, not anyone.
He throws his arms around Crowley, and embraces him with an angelic grace.
Aziraphale wraps his arms around him, and Crowley can't really do much more than return the gesture. To hold the angel close, to keep him right there, near him.
And now, somehow, he's supposed to walk Aziraphale right into danger. Right into Heaven and Hell's arms, and demand things on behalf of the human race. Well, the human race can stuff it, too, for all Crowley cares. All he wants to do is protect the angel.
Of course, that also means doing the right thing. Aziraphale would want to do the right thing and he won't be happy if they don't. And what Crowley wants is to make the angel happy.
He would want that, the right thing. But that can wait for the morning. Right now he just wants to be with Crowley, just like this. The world can come crashing down around them, they've had worse.
With his hands in Crowley's hair and on his back, he feels like he might be able to take on all of heaven and hell by himself, at this very moment.
He's feeling so brave even, at the moment, that he slides one of his hands up Crowley's shirt, laying it gently over his spine, on his skin.
Aziraphale's hand is warm against his skin, a welcome touch. He turns his head, pressing a kiss to the angel's jaw as they embrace.
This could be forever, he thinks. This, them. If they survive what they have planned. If they rebuild the Earth. They could go anywhere together. They could go back to Aziraphale's bookshop, they could stay here in Crowley's flat. Hell, they could get their own little cottage in whatever's left of the south of England for all it mattered. They just wouldn't have to be apart anymore.
They'd just have to be very, very clever.
"I should probably let you sleep," he says, though his voice makes it very clear that's not what he wants to do.
Aziraphale would love to see that little cottage they could fill up with all his books and all Crowley's plants and call their own, but for now he just has to dream with his eyes open.
He's pretty good at that.
"You know I don't like to sleep," he says, turning his face to give Crowley better access to his jaw. But of course Crowley knew that, it's why he said it. Cheeky bastard. That's alright, there are many other things that Aziraphale would like to occupy their time with before the dawn.
Aziraphale turning his head makes Crowley all the more bold. He presses another kiss to the angel's jaw, and then a little lower, to his neck.
If someone had asked him, eleven years earlier, where they would be at this moment, just after the apocalypse, he'd have said fighting. Or running (in Crowley's case, certainly running, and attempting to convince Aziraphale to come along). Or something else. But this? Certainly not. Heavens, but he wasn't complaining.
"To sleep, perchance to dream," he murmurs against his skin.
"Oh please, no Hamlet," he says, a laugh escaping his throat but turning into a gasp as Crowley finds a particularly sensitive spot on his neck.
"How about-- ah, love's stories written in love's richest books, to fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes? No?"
He racks his brain again, and places a hand, precariously, on Crowley's hip, thinking through the lines of the plays he had enjoyed. Teasingly, he settles on: "They say all lovers swear more performance than they are able."
Crowley raises an eyebrow at Aziraphale's implication. "The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact," he retorts.
Oh, but two can play at this sort of a game. There was very, very little to do in London around the time of Shakespeare, so Crowley went and saw all the comedies, some of them multiple times.
"Love is a familiar," he murmurs against Aziraphale's neck, tracing his lips lower, to where his shirt blocks him from going any further. He reaches a hand up to undo the bow-tie slowly, give it a loosen, before returning to kiss his neck again.
"Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love."
"Hah," Aziraphale remarks, tickled by this little game, and tickled by Crowley loosening his bowtie. He draws his hand back up Crowley's front, taking a scenic route, and starts on the top button of his shirt. Can't go too fast, can we.
"The course of love never did run smooth." Though Crowley's last one was quite clever, Aziraphale doesn't think he'll be able to find another one as fitting. Still. "But... for where thou art, there is the world itself."
Ah, yes, he'd almost forgotten about the second half of this line.
Oooooh, romantic there, Shakespeare. That last line Crowley knows all too well. Where Aziraphale is, he sees the world, and without him, well, the world might as well not be. He forgot even about the apocalypse when he thought he lost the angel. Desolation----yeah, that was a good word for it.
He unbuttons the first button on Aziraphale's shirt. Can't have the angel undressing him faster, after all.
"I would not wish any companion in the world but you," he recites.
"What a fool honesty is," he replies with ease, feeling touched. "But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, all losses are restored and sorrows end." But once he has enough of Crowley's shirt opened, his eyes grow just a shade darker, his mouth falling dry as his tongue darts out to lick his lips, and his mind shifts just a little.
"I will live in thy heart," he starts. "Die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes." It had taken him until the better part of the 1600s for someone to finally explain that die was supposed to be a euphemism, but as history goes, it will possibly take him until the better part of the next century until someone lets him know what exactly the teardrops and the eggplant are all about.
Crowley knows the euphemism well (and the bit about the eggplant and the teardrops, but that's only because he helped create emojis. It's not his fault what people decided a peach was, though), and he raises an eyebrow at Aziraphale's expression. Since he'd lost his trousers the night before, he is practically at the angel's mercy, now, while Aziraphale only has half his shirt unbuttoned and his jacket still on. He leans back, and moves this time to pull down Aziraphale's jacket.
"I'll follow thee," he says. "And make a heaven of hell. To die upon the hand I love so well."
Oh, he shrugs himself out of his jacket and busies himself touching Crowley's exposed torso, palming his chest and his sides and running his fingers along the little serratus muscles of his ribcage, so precious cargo they hold.
"I defy you, stars." And with that, he kisses Crowley again, impassioned and making short work of the rest of his buttons with impatient fingers. (Wondering if it's more apt to be thinking "Those who rush stumble and fall" or "Oh, I am fortune's fool!" but he is both and all these things and more, just a fool in love with his best friend on what is perhaps the last night they may live, or is just the first page of the next part of their story together.)
Aziraphale kisses him, and if Crowley could melt without the help of holy water, he probably would right about now. He cups the angel's face with one hand and the other moves to touch the bare skin above his heart. All of the time he's spent thinking about why they shouldn't, and why they couldn't (and definitely why Aziraphale wouldn't) and now, here they are. Reminiscing on Shakespeare and undressing themselves. Defying the stars, as Aziraphale so aptly put it. Certainly defying everything that the universe says they're supposed to be. Crowley wouldn't have it any other way.
He pulls back, just enough to shrug out of his shirt, tossing it to the side. "One half of me is yours," he says. "The other half yours. Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours."
He moves back to kiss Aziraphale again. "And so all yours."
Aziraphale takes a moment to just look at him, bathed in the moonlight of his ridiculously large windows, breath caught in his throat for a moment at the sight of Crowley laid before him wearing nothing but this rather thin strip of fabric.
With tentative fingers, he reaches out and palms him, his touch a whisper.
"My bounty is as boundless as the sea," he manages in between nipping at Crowley's lips. "My love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite." He moves to kissing Crowley's throat and sucks little ones underneath his jaw where it meets his ear. He has such a long column of neck, so much to discover.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He can't possibly have taken that many rides in the Bentley without some of Queen's discography getting hopelessly stuck in his head from time to time.
It's still late, and Aziraphale isn't worried until dawn. He pulls away just a little, only so that he can talk while looking Crowley in the eyes. He does love to see the yellow irises, like little gold coins.
no subject
He can't imagine being the one to make something fly. Without his wings, Crowley can't even making himself fly most days. Seems a bit too heavenly. He's the one who fell---even though he didn't mean to---and before that he was only sort of good at flying. Now, well, now he's got Aziraphale if flying is utterly necessary.
Aziraphale pulls back a little, and Crowley looks up at him. Oh, but he does love Aziraphale. It's impossible not to, and mostly really annoying, especially when he can't do simple things like run away from a fight because of him.
no subject
He caresses Crowley's cheek in the dim light, looking on at him with utmost affection.
"Alright," he says. "I won't sing anymore." But he hardly is paying attention to the words he's saying, instead focusing on this long, lingering look he gives Crowley.
Finally, he leans forward, and presses a curt kiss to his lips.
no subject
"You can sing," he murmurs in a teasing way. "But only if you don't destroy any more of Queen."
It's odd, being looked at with the kind of open affection that Aziraphale gives him. He's always looked at Crowley like he's something wonderful. No matter where they were, he was always excited to see him, always pleased. And, as a demon, harbringer of trouble and overall badness and all that, it wasn't often that anyone was pleased to see him. And never with the kind of openness and honesty of Aziraphale.
no subject
He takes a deep breath and thinks about eternity.
And then he thinks about an eternity of shouldering this.
And so Aziraphale leans in again, pausing less than a centimeter away from Crowley's face for a moment, just checking his eyes to see if he hasn't changed his mind. Finding he hasn't, he kisses him again. There's nothing about this one that's short or rushed or desperate, just the sweet slide and pull and catch of lips, slow and savoring. He brushes Crowley's hair back and tilts his head a little to help with the angle.
no subject
He shifts his body closer to the angel's, deepening the kiss. And, because Crowley is, at heart, a totally shameless demon, moaning just a tiny bit against the angel's mouth.
In only a short time, he has to go back to being an advocate for all of the humans on Earth. For this moment, he's just going to be himself with the only person on the planet he cares about.
no subject
He hooks a hand around the back of Crowley's neck and cards it into his hair, shifts a little bit closer to him so that they're almost just up against each other.
Aziraphale finds that Crowley tastes sweet like wine with just the darkest undercurrent of spice, and he could easily drink from his lips the rest of the night.
no subject
After all, lust is a pretty fantastic sin. Not Crowley's favorite sin---that is now and always will be sloth, which is the best sin of all time. But it's a good one, nonetheless. Even better in this exact moment, holding onto the person Crowley has loved for thousands of years.
no subject
He has both his hands on Crowley's face when he pulls away, and he lingers there, so close to him, meets his eyes with such profound earnestness and simple, uncomplicated joy. "I love you," he says, almost a breath, almost a whisper.
no subject
He brushes his fingertips across Aziraphale's face.
"I'm not supposed to love anything at all," he replies. "Not part of the demon gig. Don't need anything, don't care about anything. Certainly not angels." He smiles, a little crooked smile. "But I was never a very good demon."
no subject
It's different, now that it's all laid out on the table. Six thousand years of mutual pining (well, not six thousand years' worth) had brought them to this moment, and it brings Aziraphale strength. Nothing can take this away from them, not anyone.
He throws his arms around Crowley, and embraces him with an angelic grace.
no subject
And now, somehow, he's supposed to walk Aziraphale right into danger. Right into Heaven and Hell's arms, and demand things on behalf of the human race. Well, the human race can stuff it, too, for all Crowley cares. All he wants to do is protect the angel.
Of course, that also means doing the right thing. Aziraphale would want to do the right thing and he won't be happy if they don't. And what Crowley wants is to make the angel happy.
no subject
With his hands in Crowley's hair and on his back, he feels like he might be able to take on all of heaven and hell by himself, at this very moment.
He's feeling so brave even, at the moment, that he slides one of his hands up Crowley's shirt, laying it gently over his spine, on his skin.
no subject
This could be forever, he thinks. This, them. If they survive what they have planned. If they rebuild the Earth. They could go anywhere together. They could go back to Aziraphale's bookshop, they could stay here in Crowley's flat. Hell, they could get their own little cottage in whatever's left of the south of England for all it mattered. They just wouldn't have to be apart anymore.
They'd just have to be very, very clever.
"I should probably let you sleep," he says, though his voice makes it very clear that's not what he wants to do.
no subject
He's pretty good at that.
"You know I don't like to sleep," he says, turning his face to give Crowley better access to his jaw. But of course Crowley knew that, it's why he said it. Cheeky bastard. That's alright, there are many other things that Aziraphale would like to occupy their time with before the dawn.
no subject
If someone had asked him, eleven years earlier, where they would be at this moment, just after the apocalypse, he'd have said fighting. Or running (in Crowley's case, certainly running, and attempting to convince Aziraphale to come along). Or something else. But this? Certainly not. Heavens, but he wasn't complaining.
"To sleep, perchance to dream," he murmurs against his skin.
no subject
"How about-- ah, love's stories written in love's richest books, to fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes? No?"
He racks his brain again, and places a hand, precariously, on Crowley's hip, thinking through the lines of the plays he had enjoyed. Teasingly, he settles on: "They say all lovers swear more performance than they are able."
no subject
Oh, but two can play at this sort of a game. There was very, very little to do in London around the time of Shakespeare, so Crowley went and saw all the comedies, some of them multiple times.
"Love is a familiar," he murmurs against Aziraphale's neck, tracing his lips lower, to where his shirt blocks him from going any further. He reaches a hand up to undo the bow-tie slowly, give it a loosen, before returning to kiss his neck again.
"Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love."
no subject
"The course of love never did run smooth." Though Crowley's last one was quite clever, Aziraphale doesn't think he'll be able to find another one as fitting. Still. "But... for where thou art, there is the world itself."
Ah, yes, he'd almost forgotten about the second half of this line.
"And where though art not, desolation."
no subject
He unbuttons the first button on Aziraphale's shirt. Can't have the angel undressing him faster, after all.
"I would not wish any companion in the world but you," he recites.
no subject
"I will live in thy heart," he starts. "Die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes." It had taken him until the better part of the 1600s for someone to finally explain that die was supposed to be a euphemism, but as history goes, it will possibly take him until the better part of the next century until someone lets him know what exactly the teardrops and the eggplant are all about.
no subject
"I'll follow thee," he says. "And make a heaven of hell. To die upon the hand I love so well."
no subject
"I defy you, stars." And with that, he kisses Crowley again, impassioned and making short work of the rest of his buttons with impatient fingers. (Wondering if it's more apt to be thinking "Those who rush stumble and fall" or "Oh, I am fortune's fool!" but he is both and all these things and more, just a fool in love with his best friend on what is perhaps the last night they may live, or is just the first page of the next part of their story together.)
no subject
He pulls back, just enough to shrug out of his shirt, tossing it to the side. "One half of me is yours," he says. "The other half yours. Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours."
He moves back to kiss Aziraphale again. "And so all yours."
no subject
With tentative fingers, he reaches out and palms him, his touch a whisper.
"My bounty is as boundless as the sea," he manages in between nipping at Crowley's lips. "My love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite." He moves to kissing Crowley's throat and sucks little ones underneath his jaw where it meets his ear. He has such a long column of neck, so much to discover.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
fyi https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nD6Of-pwKP4
omg A++
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)