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.
Aziraphale kisses Crowley back with a fervent, unmistakable lust. And the stretch of his fingers burn more than he'd intended or anticipated, but the feel of them is entirely pleasurable and as his body adjusts, he finds he wants more. He wants Crowley so badly to hold him down and take his pleasure, or draw this out slowly and make him feel every single blessed inch of him.
He wants all of it.
His hand reaches for Crowley's, encouraging him. And he goes nearly lightheaded with breathlessness, sharing only Crowley's air, sucking down a lungful of him. His hips shift against Crowley's fingers and he feels he is overcome with greed.
Two fingers move slowly, then more firmly, faster, stretching. Aziraphale's hand moves to encourage him, and he increases his movement, timing it with the way he strokes him. He thinks, they don't have to really do it this way, do they? They are occult creatures, they could just make their bodies fit whatever way they want and then just fit, and it could be an automatic process. No stretching, no touching, no arousal. They could just put A into B and have pleasure. But there's something wonderfully sinful about doing it the human way, about having the touch and having the slowness and the movement of bodies. It's the way Crowley wants it.
All the same, the thought sparks something in Crowley, and he leans in, pressing a kiss to Aziraphale's neck that comes with more than just a kiss, but a shot of pure demonic pleasure with it. Just pleasure, something unchaste and devilish, straight from his veins to the angel's.
Oh, what in the world was that? He shouts in pleasure, unexpectedly, and grinds his hips down on Crowley's fingers, hands clutching him so tightly Crowley might have imparted snake onto him.
Distractedly, he pants into Crowley's hair, keening, eyebrows knit in both arousal and actual confusion. He finds it doesn't much matter, as he reaches for Crowley's cock and strokes it in both his hands, delightedly running his fingers along him, thumbs taking careful consideration of his tip.
"Shall we do that again?" he murmurs against Aziraphale's neck. Another feeling, from him to Aziraphale. Pure bliss from doing something dangerous, like driving 90 down the middle of Londontown. Pleasure, to the angel, as he touches him, as he strokes him.
He moans against Aziraphale's neck at his touch. The touch of his hands shoots warmth down his legs, to his spine. It feels amazing.
Aziraphale lets out a shock of a moan, but lets it ride out into a contented laugh when he catches onto what's going on. "Oh, yes, do that again," he requests into the air of the bedroom, his voice dripping with humidity.
And at Crowley's statement, he guides him forward, since he is an angel and he can cheat a little bit. He won't, because he'll want to feel a little bit of a burn, so that he can take the memory of this night with him with every step he takes. Maybe just a little bit.
He spreads his legs a little further, and tries to navigate Crowley through this mass of arms they're making.
Crowley moves between them, and moves his hand aside to guide himself inside Aziraphale. He lets out a gasp at the sensation, at finally being here, being with him like this. The intense pleasure of being inside the man he loves, being with him at last.
"Again?"
He presses pleasure to Aziraphale again, another shot of it, this one directly from Crowley to Aziraphale. His excitement, the intensity of his emotions and love. How very incredible it all feels. Just a taste of it, to the angel.
He groans when Crowley finally enters him, looking up at him like he's surprised that they're still in these bodies and haven't entered a more celestial form, like Crowley is the beginning and the end of everything. He wraps his arms around Crowley's neck and pulls him down for a kiss, desperate and searching, yearning to be as close to Crowley as physically and metaphysically possible.
A jolt of pleasure courses through him, manifests in what is almost a tangible ripple through his entire body, and he almost curses and nearly comes already; he should be careful what he asks of Crowley. His hips shift upward, urging him on, trying to get him to move.
Crowley kisses him back with fervor. Aziraphale, the only person in the universe he cares for, and here they are, together. At last.
He moves his hips, thrusting into him at first cautiously, carefully, but then slowly building in speed. He presses his face into the angel's neck, letting out a short cry of pleasure. He thinks about the things he could share with Aziraphale, all the little pleasures of being a demon, all of the pleasures that he is feeling in this moment right now.
But part of Crowley is also greedy. He takes Aziraphale's hand and moves it up to touch his face.
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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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He wants all of it.
His hand reaches for Crowley's, encouraging him. And he goes nearly lightheaded with breathlessness, sharing only Crowley's air, sucking down a lungful of him. His hips shift against Crowley's fingers and he feels he is overcome with greed.
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All the same, the thought sparks something in Crowley, and he leans in, pressing a kiss to Aziraphale's neck that comes with more than just a kiss, but a shot of pure demonic pleasure with it. Just pleasure, something unchaste and devilish, straight from his veins to the angel's.
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Distractedly, he pants into Crowley's hair, keening, eyebrows knit in both arousal and actual confusion. He finds it doesn't much matter, as he reaches for Crowley's cock and strokes it in both his hands, delightedly running his fingers along him, thumbs taking careful consideration of his tip.
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"Shall we do that again?" he murmurs against Aziraphale's neck. Another feeling, from him to Aziraphale. Pure bliss from doing something dangerous, like driving 90 down the middle of Londontown. Pleasure, to the angel, as he touches him, as he strokes him.
He moans against Aziraphale's neck at his touch. The touch of his hands shoots warmth down his legs, to his spine. It feels amazing.
"I want you," he says.
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And at Crowley's statement, he guides him forward, since he is an angel and he can cheat a little bit. He won't, because he'll want to feel a little bit of a burn, so that he can take the memory of this night with him with every step he takes. Maybe just a little bit.
He spreads his legs a little further, and tries to navigate Crowley through this mass of arms they're making.
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"Again?"
He presses pleasure to Aziraphale again, another shot of it, this one directly from Crowley to Aziraphale. His excitement, the intensity of his emotions and love. How very incredible it all feels. Just a taste of it, to the angel.
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A jolt of pleasure courses through him, manifests in what is almost a tangible ripple through his entire body, and he almost curses and nearly comes already; he should be careful what he asks of Crowley. His hips shift upward, urging him on, trying to get him to move.
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He moves his hips, thrusting into him at first cautiously, carefully, but then slowly building in speed. He presses his face into the angel's neck, letting out a short cry of pleasure. He thinks about the things he could share with Aziraphale, all the little pleasures of being a demon, all of the pleasures that he is feeling in this moment right now.
But part of Crowley is also greedy. He takes Aziraphale's hand and moves it up to touch his face.
"Share something," he murmurs.
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