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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Always the tease, Aziraphale's body reacts to every little change in tempo, every lick, every drag of his lips and press of his fingers. Crowley is ever so attentive, so very talented to make him this way, his body taking control where his mind usually sits squarely at the helm.
Quietly, he speaks into a full body sigh, barely making out the words: "Make love to me."
He's not entirely sure Crowley heard.
In the dreamlike haze, he's not even really entirely sure he said it.
Had it been literally anyone else in the entire universe asking him to "make love", Crowley would probably have laughed. After all, he was a demon, and while he was a pretty terrible demon and awful at being everything a demon was, he still didn't do something like make love. That was, well, it was something that teenagers did when they were trying to make an excuse for their hormones, or that married people did after a fight or whatever.
But this is Aziraphale asking. And Crowley would do anything for Aziraphale.
He releases the angel's shaft with his lips and kisses upwards this time, moving up to capture his mouth with his own. He kisses him soundly before murmuring against his mouth: "Tell me what you want."
Aziraphale watches Crowley slither up his body trailing kisses and momentarily gets distracted pulling him downward for a long, messy kiss of lips and his own tongue, clumsy and artless but so very earnest.
He remembers, suddenly, that he was asked a question, and he stares Crowley in the eyes with a pleading and a wonderment, reaches for his wrist and guides it downward between his legs, past his cock, settling where he would like Crowley's touches to go.
"I want you," comes the answer, on the bated, sighing breath of a once-cherub.
Crowley raises an eyebrow, and his fingertips move delicately where they have been placed. Long, thin fingers, sliding carefully in circles, tracing around. As before, one big tease---everywhere but where he was instructed. Crowley knows what Aziraphale wants, of course, but that doesn't mean he's not going to make him work for it, just a little bit.
"I want you to tell me," he says again. He places one fingertip right at the edge of his arsehole, but doesn't move any further.
Aziraphale could burn up like this, cheeks bright red and somehow too ashamed to say the words though he could beg, all he likes, for Crowley to actually do it. He wets his lips with his tongue and smiles that sweet, sheepish smile of his.
They saved the world today, he could be a bit more bold in this department.
"You just want to hear me say the word," he protests, but lightheartedly. "Alright then." He tips his head and looks at Crowley through half-lidded eyes that are sinfully dark and intense, his smile sliding to mischief. "Fuck me."
Oh, there is nothing more delightfully delicious than pulling Aziraphale from his good nature. A little sloth here, a little gluttony there. A little too much of this, a little too much of that. It's been a favored game of Crowley's over these long years that they have been companions. Could he get him to do the tempting as well as the blessing? Could he get him to do another shot of tequila? And now, lustfully clinging to him in his darkened bedroom and hearing him curse like this, his eyes lustful and dark, it is basically all Crowley can do not to cum right on the fucking spot.
He kisses Aziraphale deeply, desperately, as he slides his finger carefully, slowly inside of him. One, and then two. His other hand returns down to the angel's shaft, to stroke.
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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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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.
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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.
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"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.
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"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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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Quietly, he speaks into a full body sigh, barely making out the words: "Make love to me."
He's not entirely sure Crowley heard.
In the dreamlike haze, he's not even really entirely sure he said it.
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But this is Aziraphale asking. And Crowley would do anything for Aziraphale.
He releases the angel's shaft with his lips and kisses upwards this time, moving up to capture his mouth with his own. He kisses him soundly before murmuring against his mouth: "Tell me what you want."
After all, Crowley is a flexible demon, as well.
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He remembers, suddenly, that he was asked a question, and he stares Crowley in the eyes with a pleading and a wonderment, reaches for his wrist and guides it downward between his legs, past his cock, settling where he would like Crowley's touches to go.
"I want you," comes the answer, on the bated, sighing breath of a once-cherub.
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"I want you to tell me," he says again. He places one fingertip right at the edge of his arsehole, but doesn't move any further.
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They saved the world today, he could be a bit more bold in this department.
"You just want to hear me say the word," he protests, but lightheartedly. "Alright then." He tips his head and looks at Crowley through half-lidded eyes that are sinfully dark and intense, his smile sliding to mischief. "Fuck me."
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He kisses Aziraphale deeply, desperately, as he slides his finger carefully, slowly inside of him. One, and then two. His other hand returns down to the angel's shaft, to stroke.
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