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.
Crowley, never one to deny himself, moans again at the sensation of Aziraphale's hand, of his lips on his neck. There is something so base, so human about sexual contact. It isn't about the cruel and debauch of the demons, and it isn't really about the heavenly and blissful of the angels----and yet it's about both. The stimulation of Aziraphale's hand is cruel in how far away it seems with the fabric between them, and debauch in how raunchy and downright naughty it all feels. And his lips against Crowley's neck is nothing short of blissful, better than any Heaven that Crowley ever experienced.
"Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?" he gasps, as his hands deftly move to undo Aziraphale's trousers. Unlike his own, which he was so polite to have removed the night before, Aziraphale's are complicated and important to him, so Crowley isn't about to go about ripping them off of the angel, like he'd like to.
Hopefully Crowley still remembers how to deal with his suspenders and his buttons, both of which are not so much complicated as they are just well-worn, very aged. "By that sin fell the angels," he chastises against Crowley's throat, helping him out with his extremely aged trousers. He does have slightly more modern undergarments, if only because they're not quite as robust as outerwear.
Not that he actually needed to do so, but he does very helpfully guide Crowley's hand to a spot between his legs, even as he dips his hands into Crowley's waistband. He almost seems too excited to say: "Flesh stays no further reason but rising at thy name."
"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.
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.
"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 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."
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.
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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.
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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.
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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."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"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."
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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."
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"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."
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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.
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"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.
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"I'll follow thee," he says. "And make a heaven of hell. To die upon the hand I love so well."
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"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.)
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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."
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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.
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"Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?" he gasps, as his hands deftly move to undo Aziraphale's trousers. Unlike his own, which he was so polite to have removed the night before, Aziraphale's are complicated and important to him, so Crowley isn't about to go about ripping them off of the angel, like he'd like to.
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Not that he actually needed to do so, but he does very helpfully guide Crowley's hand to a spot between his legs, even as he dips his hands into Crowley's waistband. He almost seems too excited to say: "Flesh stays no further reason but rising at thy name."
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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.
fyi https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nD6Of-pwKP4
"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.
omg A++
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.
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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."
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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.
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