lunchbreaks | rp with me!

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.

Oh, that was an excellent reaction.

"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.

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.

"Share something," he murmurs.

"What?" he mutters, halfway lost into the sensation of Crowley being inside of him, eyes glazed over in lust and moans tumbling out of his mouth like snowfall.

But he gathers up what he has in his shaking hands, cups Crowley's face, and shares with him a little angelic warmth, like being wrapped up in a blanket on a cold day, holding a mug of coffee in your hands on a brisk morning, coming home from a long journey to your own bed.

He illuminates just this part of the bed, giving them a glimmer of daylight in an otherwise dark room, to better look at him.

That's nothing like what Crowley had expected. Pleasure, sin, danger, all of those things are pleasurable sensations Crowley is used to, but something so sweet and angelic, that's----well, that's Aziraphale. The feelings slide through him as he moves inside of the angel, and suddenly there is light, illuminating his face and body beneath him.

Time could stand still for all Crowley cares. Aziraphale is beautiful. Eyes dark with lust, face flushed, moaning beneath him. A picture of ecstasy, and still so very much himself.

"I love you." The words come from Crowley's mouth before he really has a chance to properly stop them, to tell them that how dare they, they are too busy for such words right now.

Aziraphale smiles at Crowley with a fluttering of his heart, looking so innocent for someone being gently debauched at the current time. He turns his face to kiss whatever skin of Crowley's he finds there, thinks better of it and pulls him down to kiss him sweetly.

"You're not supposed to feel love," he murmurs into it, soft like a babbling brook, turning again into moans as Crowley hits a spot within him that makes him see stars in the back of his eyes. But he knows that Crowley is no mere demon, that he does all the things that demons shouldn't be capable of in the same vein that Aziraphale is quite possibly, the worst angel to still be on Heaven's payroll.

"And yet," he says against Aziraphale's lips. "Here I am."

Crowley lets out his own moan as his movements speed up slightly, thrusting just a little deeper into the angel. No, he's not supposed to feel love. He's not supposed to want love or make love or do any of those things, and yet here he is. The end of the world? Not hopeless. How lost Crowley is for Aziraphale? Yeah, that's a bit hopeless.

He reaches his hand between them to stroke the angel as he moves, keeping in time with his thrusts.

Oh, that's too much. Crowley finds a spot within Aziraphale that makes him practically sing, notes of pleasure punctured by gasps when Crowley takes him into his hands and he won't last much longer after this.

He wants to warn Crowley but he doesn't get too much of it himself, pleasure striking him suddenly and spilling over, Crowley's name half-caught in his throat, hands digging into his arse and trying to hold him as he comes. The light turns too bright and flickers, and he accidentally spreads that satisfying angelic warmth to everyone in the entire building.

Aziraphale blinks his eyes back open and tries so very hard to catch his breath and paradoxically pull Crowley into a kiss at the same time.

The warmth of Aziraphale's orgasm, the feeling of him around him, holding onto him, within him, it's all too much----or, really, exactly enough. Crowley cries out as he comes, gripping onto the pillow by the angel's head as he does, and thrusting deep inside of him.

It's like a very tight coil that has been inside of him for a very long time has finally loosened, and every muscle in his body gets very tight, and then just as quickly relaxes.

Aziraphale pulls him into a kiss, and Crowley leans up easily to catch his lips with his own.

Once his breathing slows and the colors around him return to normal from the surreal radiance of a moment ago, he cradles Crowley in his arms and plays with his hair. It's a gentle moment, light fading and leaving them once again in darkness, Aziraphale having the phantom sensation not unlike being in a boat rocked by a small current.

"I love you," he says, finally to break the silence. "So much." They may never get another chance to say so but it hardly matters now. Everything that Aziraphale wants, he is currently in possession of. He can't complain if it should be to much to allow him to have for more than these fleeting moments.

Crowley has no real reason to dance around it, now. He's told Aziraphale he loves him while they were making love---and dammit if that wasn't actually making love for all that the term makes Crowley cringe inside---and he certainly won't take it back now. No reason to.

He reaches up to touch Aziraphale's face. His soft cheeks, cherubic and angelic. None of the hard angles that Crowley has. No, Aziraphale is soft. Exactly the way that Crowley wants him.

"Oh, angel," he murmurs. "I love you, too."

What is he going to do if they decide to take him down to Hell? He certainly can't give up Aziraphale now, not that he was exactly willing before.

He just luxuriates in their shared afterglow, all his softness curving to fit inside Crowley's angles, a perfect complement. They fit together like the swirls of milk as it mixes into coffee, and Aziraphale wouldn't have it any other way.

"I don't want this to end," he confesses, despite all his worries to the contrary that it will. He has never known happiness like this - it must come at a price.

"It doesn't have to," Crowley says. There are lots of ways to keep this. They could flee----always an option. Flee together, stay in each others' arms in the stars, never look back. Crowley doesn't need anyone else, and he certainly doesn't need to put Aziraphale in danger. That thought of running away comes back, and it comes back fiercely.

But then there is what Aziraphale needs. He needs his hope. What is an angel who can't help people?

"Protectors of the word, remember?" he adds, giving the angel a smile. "We'll make it right. Besides, I'm fairly certain they can't smell which of us is which now."

He wrinkles his nose at that. "Oh, don't say that, I think that's even worse." But he laughs, imagining Gabriel taking a whiff and finding something demonic about the way he smells. But, dark as he is, he doesn't quite smell demonic. No, he smells of warm spices and dark woods and a tendril of mystery, but nothing sulfuric or off-putting.

And his kisses taste like splendor, like being wrapped in the most sumptuous velvet-- Okay, yes. Best not to get too carried away.

"Should I try again? To reach Her?"

"Do you think that would work?" Crowley asks, relaxing his head, resting it against the angel's shoulder. "Do you think She'd listen? We basically royally ruined Her Plan."

Crowley thinks of all the times he tried to talk to Her all alone. Speaking up to the Heavens on his own, asking for guidance or answers or even just some sort of forgiveness. Nothing. She never gave him the time of day. But then again, he's one of the Fallen-with-a-capital-F. Maybe Aziraphale will get better reception.

"Isn't there a lot of red tape to go through to get to God Herself?"

"Yes," he replies. "I'd probably have to talk to the Metatron instead, so you couldn't be around when I do it." But he had to talk to her, it was urgent. It was about his judgment, and why wouldn't she be there to do it? Why would she leave it to some other angels, who were not privy to her plan?

"And I keep telling you, the plan is ineffable. This could have been part of the plan. But so could we be two sacrificial pawn pieces in it." Just a six-thousand year story that comes to an end tomorrow. One, not two, because it's not Aziraphale's story without Crowley in it.

"But I'll have to try it. She must have mercy." He was always the idealist, the optimist. Despite it all, he still loved Her, how could he not? She made him, she made this Earth, she made Crowley. And if they were a disappointment then Aziraphale would take responsibility, would offer to make them better instead of wiping the slate clean. And they could do it, together, they could remake the world and be allowed to keep it. Why wouldn't she want that?

Crowley leans back a little, looking at Aziraphale. "You really believe that? That She'll be merciful of us? Of someone you, maybe. But me?" There's no judgement in Crowley's voice. He's more charmed by the fact that Aziraphale still believes this. Crowley has tried to talk to Her so long he can't possibly believe She cares about him at all. He thinks the only being in the whole universe who does is holding him right now, and that's enough for him.

But if Aziraphale thinks it's worth it...

"Isn't the Metatron just another angel?" Crowley asks. "Speaking for God?"

"Yes, and I don't want to speak to him, I don't really care for him," he says, in the Aziraphale kind of way where he would like to add an insult to the end of his statement but won't.

"I really think it's worth a try. After all, we are to be tried already, why not appeal to the judge?" He runs his hands up Crowley's arms, making little circles. "And if her response is unkind, we don't have to stay."

"What to do if God's response is less than kind?" Crowley muses. Aziraphale is right, of course. There's no point in not trying. In making the appeal to the judge, in trying for some sort of forgiveness, or asking for some part of Her plan.

Aziraphale's touch is comforting. If judgement does come to them, then at least they have each other. At least they've had this, this night together. At least they saved the world. Or, at least, the humans saved the world, with them helping. Crowley's imagination and Aziraphale's leadership. Who knew they could do it?

"Then we're already done for, Crowley. We pack up and we leave and we try to outrun her." But he doesn't see how that would be any use at all, and then they'd spend their last moments alive trying to escape the inevitable. Scared, tortured, but with each other til the bitter end, at least.

"But I'll know we tried our best to do the right thing. And we saved this Earth, and they'll be prepared for when Heaven and Hell return. And that's all we could hope for." He smiles weakly, and buries his face into Crowley's chest.

Crowley doesn't want to imagine a God who isn't more forgiving. It's why he's asked for all sorts of guidance, even 6000 years after falling. Even after all of the silence. Even after turning his back on Heaven. He doesn't think She's like that, not really. And, most importantly, Aziraphale doesn't think she's like that.

And the angel needs his faith.

"We've still got the chance that she's better than, well, I think," he says. "More like how you think."

rp with me!

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