[ How Aziraphale hates to see Crowley this way, broken and coming apart at the seams, his body insufficient to hold this firebrand of a soul threatening to burn the both of them up. And he indulges, breathing in the scent closest to his skin, a fond memory that washes over him now and fills him with warmth. His arms, so tight, anchor themselves on him. And as he calms, he begins to rub Crowley's back, soothingly, placatingly.
He thinks there is truth in this, that God would not be so cruel, that he was always meant to love, and so why wouldn't he? But he hasn't been good - he's meant to be thwarting Crowley, not co-conspiring with him. He isn't supposed to do temptations, and he certainly isn't supposed to entrust his blessings to a demon. He has given way to sloth and gluttony and greed and lust, those are his sins. He is trying to deny himself to Crowley, who he loves so dearly, who trembles before him like a leaf begging him to stay, desperately holding onto something good. That feels like a greater sin, to have turned away from Crowley, to be telling him that they can't and that Aziraphale won't. ]
Lord, forgive me.
[ It's a rush of air more than words, and out of his lungs leaves a void he seeks to fill with this embrace. ]
What if they come for us?
[ It's not an unfounded fear, but it is an acquiescence. He doesn't want to break both their hearts, not like this. But neither can he stand the unknowing, staying in the shadows. It will be a painful punishment to bear, but he thinks right now that nothing could be more painful than watching Crowley crumble like this. Nothing could compare. ]
[ He holds Aziraphale breathlessly close in his arms, unwilling to loosen his grasp or let go of the desperate need to have him there; he thinks please, please don’t leave, please don’t tell me to go, the fiercest and most earnest prayer he’s ever offered. To lose this would be beyond bearing. Aziraphale in his arms, his hand beginning to stroke over his back, gentling him, soothing his fears—the kindness and goodness of him, all the qualities that Crowley loves so fiercely about him and has done from the moment they met. Something in his chest eases just the littlest bit when Aziraphale breathes out that prayer for forgiveness. Trembling, Crowley holds onto him, swallowing when he speaks again. The rush of relief is dizzying. They may have some way to go to reach an understanding, but it isn’t a refusal.
It’s a moment or two before he trusts himself to speak. ]
That’s what the insurance is for.
[ The holy water—they’ll need it now more than ever. ]
I...I can possibly get something for your side as well.
[ Crowley’s reluctant to say it, but it’s only pragmatic. The more they’re together, the more likely it is that they’ll eventually be found out. ]
Maybe they won’t notice. And if they do we could—we could find someplace safe to go.
[ He sounds offended, as he often does when someone makes an outlandish implication. ]
I won't kill an angel.
[ Even the ones he has no love for, which, in all honesty, is most of them. He has particular distaste for the likes of Gabriel and Sandalphon, the angels who truly believe they're above the others, as if Heaven's hierarchy were about something so humane as that. Still, he does not want to destroy anyone's soul; he never has before, never even killed a human. It was an odd thing to think about, a contingency plan. It left a bad taste in his mouth to have to discuss something so horrible.
But then, there was Crowley. And Aziraphale would not let any harm befall him, not if he could help it. He knows that much, having procured the holy water for him, having so carefully and tightly screwed the lid and toweled the rest. Here now, unable to resist giving him all the love he can and patching up all the wounds his love might cure. As if he could hear Crowley's prayer and as if he had the power to answer it, he clings onto him and vows to himself never to let Crowley feel abandoned ever again. Aziraphale wouldn't want to so much as insinuate such a betrayal.
Still, he has questions. The plan is very important, he would need to think about it. ]
And where would we go? We aren't that difficult to track.
[ At least, Aziraphale wasn't. But Aziraphale was not meant for espionage, for stowing away or turning from the light. He would, as punishment, possibly accept his end were it not for Crowley. No, he vowed it unto himself; and so, if it came down to it, he would leave everything and run with Crowley as fast as he could, as far away where no one would think to look for them. Living, as he had, these past few years -- pushing Crowley out of his shop, holding back his kisses-- that wasn't living at all. ]
[ An edge of anxiety in his voice, his hands tightening a little where he clutches Aziraphale, unwilling and afraid to let him go. Oh, please don’t let him say the wrong thing, please don’t turn Aziraphale from this now. ]
Look—I can take care of the details. Whatever happens. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I would never—
[ He won’t let harm befall Aziraphale either. Including that which he could do with his own hands; whatever happens, if harm becomes necessary, it would be better for Crowley to do it. All he has to lose is Aziraphale.
He feels the angel holding onto him just as tightly, as if to communicate that they are indeed in this together, and it eases him a little, or at least stops him from fearing that he’s stepped over a line. Crowley shifts around carefully, until he’s leaning back against a leg of the armchair and can guide Aziraphale into the curve of his arm, to rest against his shoulder if he wants. ]
I hear Alpha Centauri’s nice this time of year.
[ It’s a joke, but a weak one. Maybe not entirely a joke, either. He’d flee to the stars with Aziraphale, if they had to—he’d go anywhere Heaven or Hell wouldn’t find them, at least not for a while. Crowley sighs. ]
I...I haven’t figured it all out yet, angel. It might take me a little time, but I will.
[ But he says it with a pout, knowing that if it came down to it, he wouldn't stop Crowley. In fact, he would, on instinct, kill any angel that came for him, because they could easily destroy him. No, now calm, he moves away from his resting spot on Crowley's arm, only far enough to bring his chin down and kiss his lips, sweet like spring and leaving him bubbly as champagne. To think about a future where they are each other's main component, even if it's to run away to the stars, it makes Aziraphale dizzy with vertigo to consider.
He imagines a little cottage house someday, out in the country, with stone walls that Aziraphale loves but the big windows that Crowley does, waking up with him after trying sleep again, making coffee and getting distracted from the news as Crowley places a hand on the paper and climbs into his lap. There's a brief glimpse of them, walking hand in hand, Aziraphale leading the way up a mountain and having to stop for lack of regular exercise, finally making it to the top and overlooking the gorgeous expanse below, a perfect spot for a light picnic of fruits and cheeses. And, perhaps, there's a night drive in the Bentley, windows rolled down and music low so they can hear the forest around them, the hoot of an owl, all alone with just stretches of road before them.
He blinks away a wetness in his eyes from imagining a life so beautiful: coming out of a movie with a half-eaten popcorn bag animatedly debating the characters. Going to a nursery with an industrial-sized cart and filling it up with all sorts of plants to stick in the back garden. A ring, that he places in a little velvet box and procures from his pocket, one day, and officially offers to Crowley his everything. These are the snippets of a life impossible, which is now pulling up just out of view ahead.
The road ahead is scary, but it's worth paving.
Lingering by Crowley, Aziraphale looks all around his face as if he could discern an answer, but finally comes out and says: ]
[ Perhaps it's best, he thinks, that they don't go into what Crowley would do for Aziraphale, if he had to kill angels or demons, if he had to abandon this world or see the stars he hung in the sky burned to ash. He doesn't say any of it, only watches Aziraphale with a devotion that he's no longer capable of hiding, and when he comes near enough to kiss him Crowley thinks this might nearly shatter him with relief and wanting. There's a sweetness in it, reminiscent of the first night they came together, love confessed and returned--no more doubting, no more caution. He gives himself headlong to it, as he did that night.
And perhaps Aziraphale's imaginings cast a glow around them, for he feels--nothing so concrete as the hope of a future in which they spend their days wandering together and their nights in the lovely cottage in Aziraphale's mind's eye, but a sense of warmth and comfort and familiarity, a feeling of being at home and at peace. It's the exact opposite of what Crowley was contemplating a moment ago, but he lets it sink into him, embracing it wholeheartedly--so much better than envisioning the agents of Heaven and Hell against them, or desperate efforts for survival. He holds Aziraphale as desperately as he did all those years ago, eager to drink in and give as much love as he can, a being of raw longing and joy.
Crowley looks back at Aziraphale with his unguarded eyes, unable to speak for a moment, though he nods in answer. They have one another. The details can wait to be sorted out--surely they can wait one night, at least. Or maybe a week. ]
Aziraphale.
[ The angel's name comes out as a sigh. Crowley brings his hand to his mouth and kisses his palm devoutly. ]
I've missed you. I've missed--everything about you.
[ Aziraphale pushes hope and love and warmth into his kiss; his lips were made for praise and joy and lightness. His hands were made to hold, to raise, to comfort. He can't be cruel because he doesn't understand it, can't bring himself to do it. But love, he has endlessly, all his stores of it earmarked with Crowley's name. He looks at Crowley taking his hand and kissing his palm, and his breath hitches. They'd been so close together all these years, yet with artificial distance between them that it felt as if they might be on different solar systems. That was Aziraphale's fault. ]
I missed you too.
[ Every night when the moon came out, every time he saw a pair of yellow eyes in the darkness, every time he heard the clack and drag of sauntering feet behind him, passing by any shop window with fancy sleek trinkets and rows and rows of inky sunglasses. The bed still smelt of Crowley, cleaned of sweat but holding onto him the same way that the food in Crowley's refrigerator always stayed fresh. And sometimes Aziraphale would climb into bed, miracle away the fade, and tempt himself to sleep, because whenever he awoke he could almost feel a phantom brush along his cheek and a firm chest pillowed under his head. No one could come for his dreams. ]
Every day.
[ He confesses so sadly, thinking of all the time he'd wasted being haunted by the ghost of a friend he could have held in his arms instead. He's always been making a right mess of things, which is perhaps how he got demoted to this position in the first place. But how lucky that was, and how lucky he was that six thousand years later, Crowley is still here and still accepting of him, cock-ups and all. ]
[ How can it be possible, he wonders, to have spent days and nights away from Aziraphale after Crowley had known the light of his love, the shivering joy of feeling all of that love centered on him? He, too, has wandered the world seeing Aziraphale everywhere he went, turning at an imagined rustle of feathers to look for him. Throwing himself into long sleeps and waking longing for the taste of his kisses, the sensation of his fine hands on his skin, that he felt in his dreams. It felt like a madness, an illness, or perhaps the best thing that ever happened to him, to have his soul so awakened, and even now, even sitting before Aziraphale on the floor of his bookshop, Crowley feels as though he misses him. Aches for him, every touch between them a balm for pain and an echo of his desire for more, more.
He presses his face down briefly to Aziraphale's hands. The sadness in his voice is something that he never wants to be the cause of. His kisses to the angel's fingers offer absolution, in whatever form a demon could possibly give; they offer his love, his devotion in its entirety. Looking up again, Crowley feels his breath halt, because Aziraphale is so lovely, so wanted. ]
Come here, angel?
[ Please come to him, please kiss him again, take him into his arms. He needs to feel Aziraphale over him, his bare skin, his beautiful wings, the intimacy he longs for and can't bear to be without since he first tasted it. ]
[ Aziraphale too, feels a sort of madness swell in him, for he is a renegade angel with a demon for a lover who encompasses the very fiber of his being. It is so that he wonders if he hasn't slipped into a dream just now, that Crowley's soft requests are just imaginings of an overactive, obsessed imagination. But Crowley's gaze is a questioning one, as if he is still not sure if Aziraphale might just call this whole thing off, as if he might too be dreaming the ending he wants to this story.
He hasn't exactly given Crowley any reason to place a confidence in him that he will not change his mind in the morning, and so he drops down to his knees to the ancient rugs of his bookshop. He is afraid of what he might find in Crowley when he looks at him: a being left out too long in the snow that even standing next to a fire there's still a chill deep-set in his bones; a pain so stark and so wretched, wrought by Aziraphale's own hand. ]
I'm sorry.
[ He arches up into Crowley and kisses him artlessly, ashamed of having hurt him so, of healing his own wounds with this love that is too good for him. Because for all Crowley thinks he deserves and thinks he himself is not, Aziraphale knows better. He would like for Crowley to see his worth the way that Aziraphale does: a boundless font of cunning and imagination and humor. A sharp mind and sharper wit, a carefree spirit and innovator, dangerous and thrilling. And then there's the side that only Aziraphale sees: the way he still craves for love, the good he is capable of doing, the horrors he won't associate with his name or his kind. ]
I don't want you to change, Crowley.
[ He never wants Crowley to think that, to think that there's something in him that is wrong, that is unloveable, that is imperfect to Aziraphale. ]
It's Heaven and Hell I want to change, I need you to understand.
[ Even as Aziraphale comes close, dropping to his knees on the rugs with him, Crowley reaches out as if to a necessary, vital part of his being. With an urge to wrap himself fully around him he drags Aziraphale into his arms, fingers clutching tightly in his clothes when the angel presses up into him and kisses him again, every part of him reaching out for the love in Aziraphale's touch. ] Stop that. [ he mutters between kisses, meaning the apology, he doesn't need apologies, he just needs Aziraphale, the boundless warmth and acceptance in him. ] Just stay, angel, just...
[ He could drown like this; it would be lovely to, losing himself in the light in Aziraphale and the feeling within himself that when he is with him, he's worthy of it, somehow made more in his angel's eyes.
Crowley looks at him questioningly when he says he doesn't want him to change. ]
I can't. You know I can't.
[ There's no going back for a demon. And, he thinks, nothing forward either--Hell is no place for creatures to evolve, only to stay mired in their meanness or despair. But humans change all the time, they reshape themselves, their world, over and over again...if either of them has changed over the last six thousand years, Crowley or Aziraphale, it's because they've been here, on earth. And because they've been with one another. ]
I do feel different, with you. But--still me. Like you see me, only me. [ Crowley looks at him, trying to explain. ] That's--no one's ever done that, Aziraphale, except you.
[ He runs his fingers through Crowley's hair ever-changing, long or short or tied up or down. Every time he sees him, it's like seeing him anew for the first time and falling in love all over again. Even in this, to be frank, quite dreadful hairstyle he's picked out for the moment. But past all the bells and whistles is the same Crowley, the one who was ashamed at finding nothing to tempt about Caligula, the one who offered to show Jesus the many wonders of the world simply because it was hard-pressed he'd ever otherwise see them; the one who wondered if it was right for God to be the one killing everyone around them. ]
I think everyone should. But if they did, I imagine I'd have to fight off quite a few more suitors.
[ He imagines that Crowley's broken a few hearts in his lifetime, though perhaps not on Aziraphale's behalf. But he has always been very physically attractive for sure, stylish, clouded in mystery, enticing. And beyond that, once someone really got to know him, there was just a depth, a wealth of everything else he had to offer. And Aziraphale basks in it, revels in all that he is and can do; he smiles with their noses practically still touching and eyes still trained on Crowley's mouth, proudly as if Crowley is a prize to be won and Aziraphale his lucky champion.
Wine forgotten, Aziraphale brings Crowley's lips to his and finds a more appetizing drink in his breath and his kiss, notes and accords indescribable but enchanting nonetheless. He climbs into Crowley's lap just to make them a more comfortable distance, and though Aziraphale means nothing lewd by the gesture, the angle of Crowley's knees does cause him to have to reach out for the back of his neck as he nearly topples them fully to the ground. ]
[ The truth of it is, he's only ever wanted to be looked at that way in Aziraphale's eyes. It's one of those things about him that Crowley loves, along with all the other habits and quirks that make him so fond: the way Aziraphale looks at him as though he is so worthy of love, no matter that he's fallen, no matter what he's done. The changing facade he wears (including the latest one, with this very cool, not at all regretted hair style, thank you) doesn't matter when they're together: it's only ever been what's on the surface. Aziraphale knows him, sees through him. It's not always comfortable, but he couldn't really bear it any other way. ]
You're ridiculous, angel.
[ He tries to scoff, but it comes out like Crowley absolutely adores him. There's no hiding it anymore, especially not with Aziraphale gazing at him like that, with so much pride and affection that it brings a twist of pleasure into his stomach, and Aziraphale's eyes on his mouth are making him ache to be kissed again, making him ache other places, too--
Crowley kisses him back hungrily, drags at Aziraphale when he clambers determinedly into his lap, and lets himself be toppled backwards, sinking all the way to the floor and pulling the angel over him. It makes his breath catch, his hips arch up instinctively. ]
What about you--
[ He seeks Aziraphale's mouth again, in between the words. ]
--I see how the humans look at you. Like you're delicious.
[ He laughs as they fall to the ground, careful that there isn't anything present that might cause injury, but bites back a low moan when Crowley's hips come up to meet his, suddenly feeling hot and that they are both wearing far too many clothes. Yet he raises an eyebrow at the posed question, because while it's true that he hasn't remained chaste and pure all these years, he has to wonder how many people Crowley might think would elicit this sort of response from him. The answer, of course, is just the one, the one underneath of him who would possibly make him reconsider his entire life, just take it all apart and restructure it, for Aziraphale is conservative: he doesn't like change, takes them little pieces at a time. He's a slow soul, prefers to pore over old texts and linger endlessly over thoughts of the author; Crowley has him feeling like he might enjoy a little adventure outside of his comforts. Homer, perhaps, or Wilde, might have had a chance if they'd only had six thousand years' of time to make an attempt. ]
Are you really asking after old paramours at a time like this?
[ His surprise is mocked, as he nips more kisses at Crowley's lips and moves to do so under the juncture of his neck to his jaw. Honestly, he thinks Crowley might be exaggerating a bit as Aziraphale has never noticed any untoward lust in his direction. There was, of course, interest, both real and feigned, as his standards had never allowed him to appear any less than a perfect gentleman, but nothing so openly desiring. Not at first, anyway. He does recall lovers looking to devour him, if only after an established connection was made. ]
If you must know, I have had several dalliances over the years, most of whom I loved.
None of them touch you. They don't even come close.
[ Certainly, there were none that Aziraphale still mourns, none that he'd visit now that they've passed, even if they were to happen to get to Heaven. And, of course, none of them had known he was an angel; they just thought him slightly ageless, that he'd gotten to this point and plateaued. Crowley is the only one who knows, the only one who looks at him as if he's the one thing they couldn't bear to be without, the only one who really ever mattered. ]
[ Crowley's head arches back as Aziraphale's mouth comes to his jaw, his throat. He's in agreement--they're both wearing far too many clothes, and his trousers especially are beginning to feel rather too tight, but rather than do something about it his hands come up to Aziraphale--one caressing with rough affection along his collar, his throat for a moment--and tug that tartan necktie undone, letting it slip away as he undoes his waistcoat and begins on the buttons of his shirt. It would be easier, certainly, to miracle the whole lot away, but there's something about taking the time to undress Aziraphale that Crowley finds charming. All those buttons. ]
I mean I've taken notice, that's all. Seen them look at you--
[ Perhaps there's some bias, perhaps Crowley sees so much to adore in Aziraphale that he can't imagine anyone else wouldn't, certainly not hapless humans, anyway, but there's been at least interest if not untoward lust. Not that Crowley is jealous. Not enough to make a fuss about it. It's--well, Aziraphale can do what he likes, and it's not as if Crowley hasn't had his dalliances over the years either. It doesn't really surprise him to hear that Aziraphale had some that he loved, either. Aziraphale is...he is made to love.
Crowley looks at him, surprised by the reassurance, his fingers lingering to stroke Aziraphale's hip for a moment. ]
I know that.
[ Spoken softly, it's a reassurance of his own: not since they confessed to one another years ago has Crowley doubted how much Aziraphale loves him, how there is no one else he has ever loved as much as him. ]
[ He feels Crowley's trousers grow against him and places a curious hand there to still him, but thinking better of it, rubs his hand there over the cloth a little and feigns an anticipatory look as if Crowley has presented him with a package and he is excited to unwrap his gift to discover what's underneath. And even though his own trousers are getting a bit tight, he can't help but to feel a little complimented that he should have this effect on Crowley; he'd always thought of him as the more desirable and the more experienced of the pair.
Aziraphale's lovers had ranged from the obscure to the celebrated, and he had been primarily attracted to their minds and wouldn't have cared for a physical relationship to never develop. But even as Aziraphale found all of them comely and beautiful, any remarkable physical traits in his lovers had not been by conscious selection. He imagines, on the contrary, that people of all shapes and creeds and colors have lain across Crowley's mattress, beautiful and brilliant and eager. He holds no delusions that he is either the most becoming or the most beguiling creature who has ever known Crowley in a biblical sense, every little physical reaction going straight to his cock via his ego. ]
I never want you to doubt it.
[ It's said gently as a lover does, as he sets on getting Crowley out of the restraints of his clothing; if he could resist touching him, Aziraphale would like to take a good look at him. There's poetry in his body, slender wrists giving way to broad hands, hips sharp but supple in kinetic movement, and he drapes as if made of a fabric, loose-limbed and unapologetically sensual. He undoes Crowley's buttons but doesn't move to take his shirt off of him, instead reaching for his belt, slowly undoing it and sliding the slacks down his hips. ]
Do I ever tell you how beautiful you are?
[ He languidly snakes a hand up his front, touch light but warm, resting eventually as he cups Crowley's chest and draws a thumb over his nipple. ]
[ He goes still, breath hissing a little as his angel cups his hand just so. Crowley gazes up at him, the yellow slit-pupiled eyes going hazy and expectant, teeth dragging at his lower lip as Aziraphale gives him that anticipatory glance, and he pushes his hips up shamelessly, begging for more. If only Aziraphale knew how much of an effect he has. How hopelessly enticed Crowley is by his clever hands and mouth, his sweet words, his kindness--it never entirely stops astonishing Crowley that he can be so kind towards the likes of him, even now that he knows how much Aziraphale loves him.
As for becoming--oh, Aziraphale has no idea. Crowley looks at him with a hunger, with ravenous desire, the way he's never looked on any other lover in all his thousands of years; and as Aziraphale undoes his clothing he's breathless with need, too, stretched out on the floor beneath him as though in torment. His eyes fall briefly closed, head tipping back as though to expose himself for Aziraphale's gaze; the gentle voice pierces him through, the hands undoing his belt and sliding his trousers down his hips will surely be the end of him. And when Aziraphale calls him beautiful his eyes fly open and look at him helplessly, breath catching in his throat. ]
You--
[ Even the lightest touch makes him want to writhe, Aziraphale's hand drawing languidly up his chest and leaving fire beneath his skin where it goes. A low moan comes from his throat as he thumbs over a nipple. Crowley looks at him restlessly, arching up just a little, inviting more. ]
Angel, fuck.
[ Swearing for him always feels like an unholy delight. Crowley's legs fall open easily. He does tell him these things, Aziraphale does, and it always makes him feel a little bit stunned, a little like he doesn't know what to do with himself when Aziraphale praises him. He loves it. ]
[ Aziraphale crawls in between Crowley's legs and finishes slipping off his trousers, leaving him naked but for the shirt, and can't begin to describe the vision lay before him. He feels caught in suspension as if he had just unveiled a masterpiece for the first time, carved out of brimstone but smooth as marble, everything about him a marvel. He forgets to breathe, just for a second, his eyes so dark heaven's light couldn't reach. This is a sin. This is absolutely a sin, to even witness. And Crowley is all his, to consume, to devour, to please mercilessly until he begs for Aziraphale to stop.
He kisses hungrily at Crowley's neck and chest, settling upon a nipple which he teases as his hands re-accustom themselves to familiar places, thoroughly checking Crowley over with his hands to see if anything's changed or if he still responds to a press in between his ribs, to a feather-light brush behind the knees. He vows to have no part of Crowley unmapped by the time they're through, discover every single piece of him that other lovers may have left behind, waiting for Aziraphale.
He slides his hand down Crowley's front and grasps his cock with delighted fingers, but on some sudden realization, comes down slightly from this decadent fantasy. ]
You may have to miracle a little...
[ He can't exactly show up to report why he needed to miracle a little lubricant. He may just have to purchase some from an actual store - it's much easier now than it had been in the old days. But he's sure that if Heaven were to ever check his records, he wouldn't want this showing up. ]
--Nevermind.
[ He says this immediately and almost scrambles just as quickly down, aching for a taste, to position his face between Crowley's legs. He starts by sucking little kisses on the soft parts of his thigh, careful to leave a mark to remind him of the one he'd made underneath Aziraphale's collar, the one he saw in the mirror every time he undressed for a week, and delayed all his plans for about ten minutes so he could go take care of a little predicament that happened to arise without fail. ]
[ If he were still an angel perhaps he'd pray for mercy, but there would be no deliverance from such sinful pleasure as this. How could he ever want to be delivered, anyway, from Aziraphale's hands mapping out the skin he's uncovered, taking his time with him the way Crowley imagines he must with his books--to study at his leisure, to learn every secret and hidden meaning. No, if he were the praying type, he'd only beg that this might continue, and the only voice he'd care to be answered by would be Aziraphale's. Crowley shudders and arches to the brush of a caress at the inside of his knee, buries his own fingers in Aziraphale's soft feather-light hair as he scatters kisses across his throat and chest, lingering where he's most sensitive. His grasp encourages, his harsh breaths and low moans reveal how eager he is, how breathlessly wanton, savoring every moment.
Crowley's eyes open, his dazed mind trying and utterly failing to comprehend what Aziraphale asks for, because his fingers are around his cock and it makes him groan in a rough aching voice, hips jerking up, needy and desperate for more. Miracle...miracle--oh. Crowley tries to pull his thoughts together, tries to summon enough concentration away from the pleasure of Aziraphale's hand on his cock to do as he's asked, but then-- ]
Aziraphale.
[ He can't do that when he's trying to miracle, some dazed part of Crowley's mind insists, that's cheating, that's... ]
Oh don't stop. [ He begs, as Aziraphale gets between his thighs and sucks an insistent bruise into the inside of his thigh, marking him in a way that Crowley's sure he'll be absolutely gone for every time he sees it, and that he'll make his body resist healing away for as long as possible. He reaches down to caress restlessly through Aziraphale's hair again. ] How do you do that, how can you be so perfect--
[ Oh, the way that Crowley calls his name is sweeter than any melody he's ever heard. He should like for his name to be the only one that Crowley will ever use again, captivate him the way that Crowley does in return, let nothing else pass his lips but for what conversation should revolve around the two of them. And he's selfish to want to keep Crowley all to himself, the kind of love he isn't supposed to have, a possessive love. But how can he ignore it, when Crowley is asking so sweetly to belong to him and him only?
Aziraphale only murmurs a satisfied hum for response as Crowley cards through his hair, as he moves up Crowley's cock to leave kisses along his shaft, heated and deliberate and teasing. Occasionally he stops to take a little lick instead, taking a slow and meandering journey up. He is no less thorough here than he is with his fingers, poring over Crowley as he does a manuscript, tongue as attentive and studious as his favorite pens.
Once he reaches the top, he closes his mouth over Crowley's tip, hollows his cheeks, and makes little whorls with his restless tongue. His hands clutch at Crowley's thighs as his breath grows jagged with lust, making a keening noise as his body protests with him to get on with it. He's unable to put his impatience at check and swallows Crowley down as best he can, nose flaring as he overestimates his own ability and readjusts to breathing. But he is nothing if not stubborn, and starts up as soon as he is able, his mouth greedy for it.
With his eyebrows knit together and moans low and insistent, he reaches into his trousers to procure his own cock, already slick with pre-come so he can properly touch himself. There's something electrifying about being able to pleasure Crowley like this, something thrilling about being a bad angel, and yet something so incredibly gratifying about just making Crowley feel good. He deserves to feel good, and desired, and loved: these are all the things that Aziraphale has felt for him for years, things he'd like another six thousand years' time to try and make up for, fill up all the spaces of him that ever wiled away time thinking this might never be. ]
[ His thighs tremble as Aziraphale lingers over his cock, with sweet kisses and enticing little licks that make him ache and gasp and long to be buried in the heat of the angel's mouth. If it surprised him at all in the beginning how adventurous Aziraphale is, how enthusiastically he went about sucking his cock and turning Crowley into an incoherently gratified mess the first night they made love, the surprise has faded now, but not his appreciation for either Aziraphale's aptitude for teasing and torment or his eagerness when at last he does take Crowley all the way in. Crowley's trembling fingers touch his cheek to feel how it hollows when he sucks--caresses with a moment's anxiety when Aziraphale has to pull back to breathe, oh angel, didn't anyone ever tell you there's such a thing as too much enthusiasm--but any protest in his throat, any word to tell Aziraphale to be more careful dies away and becomes a moan instead as he loses himself in Aziraphale's greedy sucking.
Like this it's easy to sense the possessiveness Aziraphale feels for him, the angel's intent to captivate him in pleasure and love so that Crowley will never want any other. And he doesn't, he is so very over allegiances and people to answer to, or past lovers for that matter; let him have only Aziraphale, let him belong to his angel completely and he will drown in happiness.
Aziraphale's low moan around his cock makes him shiver and look down, seeing the angel fumble open his own trousers, and he can't really see much more than that but Crowley imagines it: Aziraphale's fingers around his own cock, slicking beads of precome over the shaft as he strokes, and it makes him moan too, anticipation and desire twisting in him. ]
Angel, angel...
[ He writhes and arches up to Aziraphale's mouth, and wishes that he was in reach, that Crowley could touch his cock too, could have a taste. ]
[ The feeling of Crowley underneath him is a glorious one, a sight that Aziraphale looks up from where he is to see, over a gorgeous terrain of skin, those yellow eyes, that clever mouth. He surprises himself with how possessive he feels in this moment, raw current coursing through him wanting to just make a way to have Crowley all ways at once, leave him delirious with pleasure such that he can be, for awhile, numb to all else and forgetting the worlds around them.
He is not so surprised with his enthusiasm, because even though these thoughts are few and far enough between to give the angel a lack of practice which may very well show through in his technique, he has never been able to place Crowley in a category with any other, why should he love Crowley as he has loved another? No, no one else would seek him out over a course of six millenia, no one else would come back to save him from discorporation so that the body he is in now is the one Crowley has always known, and no one else has a rightful stake in Aziraphale's life or livelihood as Crowley does.
With a loud, wet pop, he pulls off of Crowley and replaces his tongue with his hand, though his eyes linger a moment. ]
How?
[ He asks, and clarifies: ]
How do you want me? Just say it and I'm yours.
[ There is no question over what he would or wouldn't do or try for Crowley, whose pleasure is of utmost importance, though of course "don't stop" is a valid option for which he would gladly comply. But with the rough sound at the back of his throat creeping into his words, back of his hand brushing away any stray saliva, maybe he's curious for what other things that Crowley might enjoy, hungry for a taste of what he's been missing since last he found Crowley in this position. ]
[ Crowley makes a strangled sound somewhere between protest and delirium as Aziraphale pulls off of his cock. He probably needs the reprieve, gasping and nearly overcome by the sweet obscenity of watching Aziraphale suck his cock, his tongue plenty clever and eager enough for Crowley, whatever his level of experience may be. Meeting Aziraphale’s gaze, he opens his mouth and then shuts it again, a little dazed as he considers all of the possibilities. Oh Hell, he’d take anything, let Aziraphale claim any part of him for his own and touch him any way he wanted; but all that generosity offered between them gets his thoughts churning, all sorts of delicious, vulgar images and long-dreamt-of desires coming to the fore...
He shuts his eyes briefly and groans, rolling his head a little as though in physical pain. When he opens them again, the sight of Aziraphale above him is so perfect, so delectable, that he finds his mouth running away from him. ]
You could ride me.
[ His voice is roughened and breathless, his eyes staring at Aziraphale with stark need. ]
Here, just like this. Straddle me and—ride my cock.
[ Aziraphale watches Crowley with a great curiousity, wondering just how many fantasies he has of the two of them and when they could possibly find the time so that Aziraphale can make each and every one of them a reality, so carried away is he by this feeling he's found himself completely immersed in up to the tips of his curls. He knows Crowley feels the same, so unbelievably sweetly doing anything he possibly could for Aziraphale's comfort and for his happiness. And though he had fallen into bed with romantics who had offered him the same before, never had he felt it so demonstratively. Never had he believed it to be true, and if he had, he wouldn't have felt comfortable accepting someone's unconditional devotion.
With Crowley, he presses one last lingering kiss to the side of his cock, and crawls back up him, hand flat on his chest and climbing onto straddle that trim waist, leaning back towards those sinful hips of his. He gives into this dangerous path they're on because to deny this would be who he is supposed to be but to accept this is to be who he truly is: an angel whose only fall was for a demon who would move the sunrise to where Aziraphale would prefer, never asking for but knowing that Aziraphale would do the same.
He takes one of Crowley's hands, and guides it around his waist, guiding it gently down the swell of his arse. ]
You really will need to be doing a bit of miracling, I'm afraid.
[ Somehow he thinks Beezlebub wouldn't exactly care to check or even care why Crowley needed anything of this sort. But he shivers, peering down through heavy lidded eyes and with his mouth parted, back arched just the slightest into Crowley's touch. ]
[ He thinks--he might simply die, seeing Aziraphale crawl over him and straddle his waist, his pretty thighs spread apart, his arse seated almost directly over Crowley's cock. He might discorporate right here, or at the very least suddenly combust, burn himself up in the fire of need and obscene pleasure. His shaking hand comes to Aziraphale's hip, and caresses up to his waist and then down again, and he lets the angel take the other hand and guide it behind him, to his backside--Crowley groans, his head falling back, palming the round swell of a cheek. ]
Fuck. You're so--
[ Crowley doesn't know what he's done to deserve Aziraphale so open and generous and giving in to his desire, to one of the many, many ways Crowley would like him, or like to give himself to him--all of it sounds wonderful, but he has this now and he doesn't intend to squander it, miracling away Aziraphale's unfastened trousers without a thought--he's right, Beelzebub won't care, if anyone ever even bothers to check, which he doubts--and then losing track of what he intended to do next as he takes in the sight of Aziraphale naked above him. He's so beautiful, Crowley aches to touch him. He wraps his hand around the angel's cock, stroking for a moment, the shaft hot and slick against his palm. Then he lets go and reaches again behind him, the other hand grasping Aziraphale's thigh as his fingers seek between his buttocks and press gently to his hole, miracling them slick as he begins to ease inside-- ]
Say if it's too much.
[ There's a pleading edge to the words, Aziraphale can--he can just talk to him, he can say whatever he likes, Crowley would drink it all in like he's never tasted anything so sweet. He works two fingers inside Aziraphale, breathless with how fucking tight he feels. ]
[ This part is so easy, letting Crowley gets what he wants, because they're all the things that Aziraphale wants: to give himself fully to Crowley, any which way he pleases. And the angel is, of course, ethereal, his hair shockingly white like this, his cheeks shimmering with both celestial glow and a sheen of sweat.
It's such a lovely view from here, with the light of the moon streaming in and filtered through the curtains and the stacks of books, illuminating Crowley just so in a way that makes him look almost delicate. It makes Aziraphale's heart ache, just getting to see how absolutely breathtaking he is like this, as if the night were specifically crafted to caress him, and moonbeams born for the sole purpose of playing off his skin.
His view is obstructed as Crowley takes his cock and his head is instinctively thrown back, hand on Crowley's chest clutching into a claw as he lets out a hiss. And then when Crowley breaches him, for a moment it is too much, but only in the rawest and most carnal of ways. A moan works its way from the pit of Aziraphale's stomach as Crowley opens him up for the first time in what might have been, God, centuries now. Even with just digits he feels stretched, but not uncomfortable so, with no burn and only a gentle smolder he seeks to stoke. ]
Oh, Crowley--
[ Aziraphale's hips move downward onto his fingers as his body pleads for more, to be filled by him, to be taken and totally, utterly taken apart by his slender fingers and thick cock. And oh, what a lovely cock it is, he thinks, reaching behind him and giving Crowley a few strokes, rough with want and abandon. ]
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He thinks there is truth in this, that God would not be so cruel, that he was always meant to love, and so why wouldn't he? But he hasn't been good - he's meant to be thwarting Crowley, not co-conspiring with him. He isn't supposed to do temptations, and he certainly isn't supposed to entrust his blessings to a demon. He has given way to sloth and gluttony and greed and lust, those are his sins. He is trying to deny himself to Crowley, who he loves so dearly, who trembles before him like a leaf begging him to stay, desperately holding onto something good. That feels like a greater sin, to have turned away from Crowley, to be telling him that they can't and that Aziraphale won't. ]
Lord, forgive me.
[ It's a rush of air more than words, and out of his lungs leaves a void he seeks to fill with this embrace. ]
What if they come for us?
[ It's not an unfounded fear, but it is an acquiescence. He doesn't want to break both their hearts, not like this. But neither can he stand the unknowing, staying in the shadows. It will be a painful punishment to bear, but he thinks right now that nothing could be more painful than watching Crowley crumble like this. Nothing could compare. ]
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It’s a moment or two before he trusts himself to speak. ]
That’s what the insurance is for.
[ The holy water—they’ll need it now more than ever. ]
I...I can possibly get something for your side as well.
[ Crowley’s reluctant to say it, but it’s only pragmatic. The more they’re together, the more likely it is that they’ll eventually be found out. ]
Maybe they won’t notice. And if they do we could—we could find someplace safe to go.
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[ He sounds offended, as he often does when someone makes an outlandish implication. ]
I won't kill an angel.
[ Even the ones he has no love for, which, in all honesty, is most of them. He has particular distaste for the likes of Gabriel and Sandalphon, the angels who truly believe they're above the others, as if Heaven's hierarchy were about something so humane as that. Still, he does not want to destroy anyone's soul; he never has before, never even killed a human. It was an odd thing to think about, a contingency plan. It left a bad taste in his mouth to have to discuss something so horrible.
But then, there was Crowley. And Aziraphale would not let any harm befall him, not if he could help it. He knows that much, having procured the holy water for him, having so carefully and tightly screwed the lid and toweled the rest. Here now, unable to resist giving him all the love he can and patching up all the wounds his love might cure. As if he could hear Crowley's prayer and as if he had the power to answer it, he clings onto him and vows to himself never to let Crowley feel abandoned ever again. Aziraphale wouldn't want to so much as insinuate such a betrayal.
Still, he has questions. The plan is very important, he would need to think about it. ]
And where would we go? We aren't that difficult to track.
[ At least, Aziraphale wasn't. But Aziraphale was not meant for espionage, for stowing away or turning from the light. He would, as punishment, possibly accept his end were it not for Crowley. No, he vowed it unto himself; and so, if it came down to it, he would leave everything and run with Crowley as fast as he could, as far away where no one would think to look for them. Living, as he had, these past few years -- pushing Crowley out of his shop, holding back his kisses-- that wasn't living at all. ]
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[ An edge of anxiety in his voice, his hands tightening a little where he clutches Aziraphale, unwilling and afraid to let him go. Oh, please don’t let him say the wrong thing, please don’t turn Aziraphale from this now. ]
Look—I can take care of the details. Whatever happens. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I would never—
[ He won’t let harm befall Aziraphale either. Including that which he could do with his own hands; whatever happens, if harm becomes necessary, it would be better for Crowley to do it. All he has to lose is Aziraphale.
He feels the angel holding onto him just as tightly, as if to communicate that they are indeed in this together, and it eases him a little, or at least stops him from fearing that he’s stepped over a line. Crowley shifts around carefully, until he’s leaning back against a leg of the armchair and can guide Aziraphale into the curve of his arm, to rest against his shoulder if he wants. ]
I hear Alpha Centauri’s nice this time of year.
[ It’s a joke, but a weak one. Maybe not entirely a joke, either. He’d flee to the stars with Aziraphale, if they had to—he’d go anywhere Heaven or Hell wouldn’t find them, at least not for a while. Crowley sighs. ]
I...I haven’t figured it all out yet, angel. It might take me a little time, but I will.
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[ But he says it with a pout, knowing that if it came down to it, he wouldn't stop Crowley. In fact, he would, on instinct, kill any angel that came for him, because they could easily destroy him. No, now calm, he moves away from his resting spot on Crowley's arm, only far enough to bring his chin down and kiss his lips, sweet like spring and leaving him bubbly as champagne. To think about a future where they are each other's main component, even if it's to run away to the stars, it makes Aziraphale dizzy with vertigo to consider.
He imagines a little cottage house someday, out in the country, with stone walls that Aziraphale loves but the big windows that Crowley does, waking up with him after trying sleep again, making coffee and getting distracted from the news as Crowley places a hand on the paper and climbs into his lap. There's a brief glimpse of them, walking hand in hand, Aziraphale leading the way up a mountain and having to stop for lack of regular exercise, finally making it to the top and overlooking the gorgeous expanse below, a perfect spot for a light picnic of fruits and cheeses. And, perhaps, there's a night drive in the Bentley, windows rolled down and music low so they can hear the forest around them, the hoot of an owl, all alone with just stretches of road before them.
He blinks away a wetness in his eyes from imagining a life so beautiful: coming out of a movie with a half-eaten popcorn bag animatedly debating the characters. Going to a nursery with an industrial-sized cart and filling it up with all sorts of plants to stick in the back garden. A ring, that he places in a little velvet box and procures from his pocket, one day, and officially offers to Crowley his everything. These are the snippets of a life impossible, which is now pulling up just out of view ahead.
The road ahead is scary, but it's worth paving.
Lingering by Crowley, Aziraphale looks all around his face as if he could discern an answer, but finally comes out and says: ]
We'll figure it out.
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And perhaps Aziraphale's imaginings cast a glow around them, for he feels--nothing so concrete as the hope of a future in which they spend their days wandering together and their nights in the lovely cottage in Aziraphale's mind's eye, but a sense of warmth and comfort and familiarity, a feeling of being at home and at peace. It's the exact opposite of what Crowley was contemplating a moment ago, but he lets it sink into him, embracing it wholeheartedly--so much better than envisioning the agents of Heaven and Hell against them, or desperate efforts for survival. He holds Aziraphale as desperately as he did all those years ago, eager to drink in and give as much love as he can, a being of raw longing and joy.
Crowley looks back at Aziraphale with his unguarded eyes, unable to speak for a moment, though he nods in answer. They have one another. The details can wait to be sorted out--surely they can wait one night, at least. Or maybe a week. ]
Aziraphale.
[ The angel's name comes out as a sigh. Crowley brings his hand to his mouth and kisses his palm devoutly. ]
I've missed you. I've missed--everything about you.
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I missed you too.
[ Every night when the moon came out, every time he saw a pair of yellow eyes in the darkness, every time he heard the clack and drag of sauntering feet behind him, passing by any shop window with fancy sleek trinkets and rows and rows of inky sunglasses. The bed still smelt of Crowley, cleaned of sweat but holding onto him the same way that the food in Crowley's refrigerator always stayed fresh. And sometimes Aziraphale would climb into bed, miracle away the fade, and tempt himself to sleep, because whenever he awoke he could almost feel a phantom brush along his cheek and a firm chest pillowed under his head. No one could come for his dreams. ]
Every day.
[ He confesses so sadly, thinking of all the time he'd wasted being haunted by the ghost of a friend he could have held in his arms instead. He's always been making a right mess of things, which is perhaps how he got demoted to this position in the first place. But how lucky that was, and how lucky he was that six thousand years later, Crowley is still here and still accepting of him, cock-ups and all. ]
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He presses his face down briefly to Aziraphale's hands. The sadness in his voice is something that he never wants to be the cause of. His kisses to the angel's fingers offer absolution, in whatever form a demon could possibly give; they offer his love, his devotion in its entirety. Looking up again, Crowley feels his breath halt, because Aziraphale is so lovely, so wanted. ]
Come here, angel?
[ Please come to him, please kiss him again, take him into his arms. He needs to feel Aziraphale over him, his bare skin, his beautiful wings, the intimacy he longs for and can't bear to be without since he first tasted it. ]
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He hasn't exactly given Crowley any reason to place a confidence in him that he will not change his mind in the morning, and so he drops down to his knees to the ancient rugs of his bookshop. He is afraid of what he might find in Crowley when he looks at him: a being left out too long in the snow that even standing next to a fire there's still a chill deep-set in his bones; a pain so stark and so wretched, wrought by Aziraphale's own hand. ]
I'm sorry.
[ He arches up into Crowley and kisses him artlessly, ashamed of having hurt him so, of healing his own wounds with this love that is too good for him. Because for all Crowley thinks he deserves and thinks he himself is not, Aziraphale knows better. He would like for Crowley to see his worth the way that Aziraphale does: a boundless font of cunning and imagination and humor. A sharp mind and sharper wit, a carefree spirit and innovator, dangerous and thrilling. And then there's the side that only Aziraphale sees: the way he still craves for love, the good he is capable of doing, the horrors he won't associate with his name or his kind. ]
I don't want you to change, Crowley.
[ He never wants Crowley to think that, to think that there's something in him that is wrong, that is unloveable, that is imperfect to Aziraphale. ]
It's Heaven and Hell I want to change, I need you to understand.
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[ He could drown like this; it would be lovely to, losing himself in the light in Aziraphale and the feeling within himself that when he is with him, he's worthy of it, somehow made more in his angel's eyes.
Crowley looks at him questioningly when he says he doesn't want him to change. ]
I can't. You know I can't.
[ There's no going back for a demon. And, he thinks, nothing forward either--Hell is no place for creatures to evolve, only to stay mired in their meanness or despair. But humans change all the time, they reshape themselves, their world, over and over again...if either of them has changed over the last six thousand years, Crowley or Aziraphale, it's because they've been here, on earth. And because they've been with one another. ]
I do feel different, with you. But--still me. Like you see me, only me. [ Crowley looks at him, trying to explain. ] That's--no one's ever done that, Aziraphale, except you.
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I think everyone should. But if they did, I imagine I'd have to fight off quite a few more suitors.
[ He imagines that Crowley's broken a few hearts in his lifetime, though perhaps not on Aziraphale's behalf. But he has always been very physically attractive for sure, stylish, clouded in mystery, enticing. And beyond that, once someone really got to know him, there was just a depth, a wealth of everything else he had to offer. And Aziraphale basks in it, revels in all that he is and can do; he smiles with their noses practically still touching and eyes still trained on Crowley's mouth, proudly as if Crowley is a prize to be won and Aziraphale his lucky champion.
Wine forgotten, Aziraphale brings Crowley's lips to his and finds a more appetizing drink in his breath and his kiss, notes and accords indescribable but enchanting nonetheless. He climbs into Crowley's lap just to make them a more comfortable distance, and though Aziraphale means nothing lewd by the gesture, the angle of Crowley's knees does cause him to have to reach out for the back of his neck as he nearly topples them fully to the ground. ]
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You're ridiculous, angel.
[ He tries to scoff, but it comes out like Crowley absolutely adores him. There's no hiding it anymore, especially not with Aziraphale gazing at him like that, with so much pride and affection that it brings a twist of pleasure into his stomach, and Aziraphale's eyes on his mouth are making him ache to be kissed again, making him ache other places, too--
Crowley kisses him back hungrily, drags at Aziraphale when he clambers determinedly into his lap, and lets himself be toppled backwards, sinking all the way to the floor and pulling the angel over him. It makes his breath catch, his hips arch up instinctively. ]
What about you--
[ He seeks Aziraphale's mouth again, in between the words. ]
--I see how the humans look at you. Like you're delicious.
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Are you really asking after old paramours at a time like this?
[ His surprise is mocked, as he nips more kisses at Crowley's lips and moves to do so under the juncture of his neck to his jaw. Honestly, he thinks Crowley might be exaggerating a bit as Aziraphale has never noticed any untoward lust in his direction. There was, of course, interest, both real and feigned, as his standards had never allowed him to appear any less than a perfect gentleman, but nothing so openly desiring. Not at first, anyway. He does recall lovers looking to devour him, if only after an established connection was made. ]
If you must know, I have had several dalliances over the years, most of whom I loved.
None of them touch you. They don't even come close.
[ Certainly, there were none that Aziraphale still mourns, none that he'd visit now that they've passed, even if they were to happen to get to Heaven. And, of course, none of them had known he was an angel; they just thought him slightly ageless, that he'd gotten to this point and plateaued. Crowley is the only one who knows, the only one who looks at him as if he's the one thing they couldn't bear to be without, the only one who really ever mattered. ]
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I mean I've taken notice, that's all. Seen them look at you--
[ Perhaps there's some bias, perhaps Crowley sees so much to adore in Aziraphale that he can't imagine anyone else wouldn't, certainly not hapless humans, anyway, but there's been at least interest if not untoward lust. Not that Crowley is jealous. Not enough to make a fuss about it. It's--well, Aziraphale can do what he likes, and it's not as if Crowley hasn't had his dalliances over the years either. It doesn't really surprise him to hear that Aziraphale had some that he loved, either. Aziraphale is...he is made to love.
Crowley looks at him, surprised by the reassurance, his fingers lingering to stroke Aziraphale's hip for a moment. ]
I know that.
[ Spoken softly, it's a reassurance of his own: not since they confessed to one another years ago has Crowley doubted how much Aziraphale loves him, how there is no one else he has ever loved as much as him. ]
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Aziraphale's lovers had ranged from the obscure to the celebrated, and he had been primarily attracted to their minds and wouldn't have cared for a physical relationship to never develop. But even as Aziraphale found all of them comely and beautiful, any remarkable physical traits in his lovers had not been by conscious selection. He imagines, on the contrary, that people of all shapes and creeds and colors have lain across Crowley's mattress, beautiful and brilliant and eager. He holds no delusions that he is either the most becoming or the most beguiling creature who has ever known Crowley in a biblical sense, every little physical reaction going straight to his cock via his ego. ]
I never want you to doubt it.
[ It's said gently as a lover does, as he sets on getting Crowley out of the restraints of his clothing; if he could resist touching him, Aziraphale would like to take a good look at him. There's poetry in his body, slender wrists giving way to broad hands, hips sharp but supple in kinetic movement, and he drapes as if made of a fabric, loose-limbed and unapologetically sensual. He undoes Crowley's buttons but doesn't move to take his shirt off of him, instead reaching for his belt, slowly undoing it and sliding the slacks down his hips. ]
Do I ever tell you how beautiful you are?
[ He languidly snakes a hand up his front, touch light but warm, resting eventually as he cups Crowley's chest and draws a thumb over his nipple. ]
You are devastating.
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As for becoming--oh, Aziraphale has no idea. Crowley looks at him with a hunger, with ravenous desire, the way he's never looked on any other lover in all his thousands of years; and as Aziraphale undoes his clothing he's breathless with need, too, stretched out on the floor beneath him as though in torment. His eyes fall briefly closed, head tipping back as though to expose himself for Aziraphale's gaze; the gentle voice pierces him through, the hands undoing his belt and sliding his trousers down his hips will surely be the end of him. And when Aziraphale calls him beautiful his eyes fly open and look at him helplessly, breath catching in his throat. ]
You--
[ Even the lightest touch makes him want to writhe, Aziraphale's hand drawing languidly up his chest and leaving fire beneath his skin where it goes. A low moan comes from his throat as he thumbs over a nipple. Crowley looks at him restlessly, arching up just a little, inviting more. ]
Angel, fuck.
[ Swearing for him always feels like an unholy delight. Crowley's legs fall open easily. He does tell him these things, Aziraphale does, and it always makes him feel a little bit stunned, a little like he doesn't know what to do with himself when Aziraphale praises him. He loves it. ]
Keep touching me. Please.
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He kisses hungrily at Crowley's neck and chest, settling upon a nipple which he teases as his hands re-accustom themselves to familiar places, thoroughly checking Crowley over with his hands to see if anything's changed or if he still responds to a press in between his ribs, to a feather-light brush behind the knees. He vows to have no part of Crowley unmapped by the time they're through, discover every single piece of him that other lovers may have left behind, waiting for Aziraphale.
He slides his hand down Crowley's front and grasps his cock with delighted fingers, but on some sudden realization, comes down slightly from this decadent fantasy. ]
You may have to miracle a little...
[ He can't exactly show up to report why he needed to miracle a little lubricant. He may just have to purchase some from an actual store - it's much easier now than it had been in the old days. But he's sure that if Heaven were to ever check his records, he wouldn't want this showing up. ]
--Nevermind.
[ He says this immediately and almost scrambles just as quickly down, aching for a taste, to position his face between Crowley's legs. He starts by sucking little kisses on the soft parts of his thigh, careful to leave a mark to remind him of the one he'd made underneath Aziraphale's collar, the one he saw in the mirror every time he undressed for a week, and delayed all his plans for about ten minutes so he could go take care of a little predicament that happened to arise without fail. ]
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Crowley's eyes open, his dazed mind trying and utterly failing to comprehend what Aziraphale asks for, because his fingers are around his cock and it makes him groan in a rough aching voice, hips jerking up, needy and desperate for more. Miracle...miracle--oh. Crowley tries to pull his thoughts together, tries to summon enough concentration away from the pleasure of Aziraphale's hand on his cock to do as he's asked, but then-- ]
Aziraphale.
[ He can't do that when he's trying to miracle, some dazed part of Crowley's mind insists, that's cheating, that's... ]
Oh don't stop. [ He begs, as Aziraphale gets between his thighs and sucks an insistent bruise into the inside of his thigh, marking him in a way that Crowley's sure he'll be absolutely gone for every time he sees it, and that he'll make his body resist healing away for as long as possible. He reaches down to caress restlessly through Aziraphale's hair again. ] How do you do that, how can you be so perfect--
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Aziraphale only murmurs a satisfied hum for response as Crowley cards through his hair, as he moves up Crowley's cock to leave kisses along his shaft, heated and deliberate and teasing. Occasionally he stops to take a little lick instead, taking a slow and meandering journey up. He is no less thorough here than he is with his fingers, poring over Crowley as he does a manuscript, tongue as attentive and studious as his favorite pens.
Once he reaches the top, he closes his mouth over Crowley's tip, hollows his cheeks, and makes little whorls with his restless tongue. His hands clutch at Crowley's thighs as his breath grows jagged with lust, making a keening noise as his body protests with him to get on with it. He's unable to put his impatience at check and swallows Crowley down as best he can, nose flaring as he overestimates his own ability and readjusts to breathing. But he is nothing if not stubborn, and starts up as soon as he is able, his mouth greedy for it.
With his eyebrows knit together and moans low and insistent, he reaches into his trousers to procure his own cock, already slick with pre-come so he can properly touch himself. There's something electrifying about being able to pleasure Crowley like this, something thrilling about being a bad angel, and yet something so incredibly gratifying about just making Crowley feel good. He deserves to feel good, and desired, and loved: these are all the things that Aziraphale has felt for him for years, things he'd like another six thousand years' time to try and make up for, fill up all the spaces of him that ever wiled away time thinking this might never be. ]
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Like this it's easy to sense the possessiveness Aziraphale feels for him, the angel's intent to captivate him in pleasure and love so that Crowley will never want any other. And he doesn't, he is so very over allegiances and people to answer to, or past lovers for that matter; let him have only Aziraphale, let him belong to his angel completely and he will drown in happiness.
Aziraphale's low moan around his cock makes him shiver and look down, seeing the angel fumble open his own trousers, and he can't really see much more than that but Crowley imagines it: Aziraphale's fingers around his own cock, slicking beads of precome over the shaft as he strokes, and it makes him moan too, anticipation and desire twisting in him. ]
Angel, angel...
[ He writhes and arches up to Aziraphale's mouth, and wishes that he was in reach, that Crowley could touch his cock too, could have a taste. ]
Want you so much.
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He is not so surprised with his enthusiasm, because even though these thoughts are few and far enough between to give the angel a lack of practice which may very well show through in his technique, he has never been able to place Crowley in a category with any other, why should he love Crowley as he has loved another? No, no one else would seek him out over a course of six millenia, no one else would come back to save him from discorporation so that the body he is in now is the one Crowley has always known, and no one else has a rightful stake in Aziraphale's life or livelihood as Crowley does.
With a loud, wet pop, he pulls off of Crowley and replaces his tongue with his hand, though his eyes linger a moment. ]
How?
[ He asks, and clarifies: ]
How do you want me? Just say it and I'm yours.
[ There is no question over what he would or wouldn't do or try for Crowley, whose pleasure is of utmost importance, though of course "don't stop" is a valid option for which he would gladly comply. But with the rough sound at the back of his throat creeping into his words, back of his hand brushing away any stray saliva, maybe he's curious for what other things that Crowley might enjoy, hungry for a taste of what he's been missing since last he found Crowley in this position. ]
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He shuts his eyes briefly and groans, rolling his head a little as though in physical pain. When he opens them again, the sight of Aziraphale above him is so perfect, so delectable, that he finds his mouth running away from him. ]
You could ride me.
[ His voice is roughened and breathless, his eyes staring at Aziraphale with stark need. ]
Here, just like this. Straddle me and—ride my cock.
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With Crowley, he presses one last lingering kiss to the side of his cock, and crawls back up him, hand flat on his chest and climbing onto straddle that trim waist, leaning back towards those sinful hips of his. He gives into this dangerous path they're on because to deny this would be who he is supposed to be but to accept this is to be who he truly is: an angel whose only fall was for a demon who would move the sunrise to where Aziraphale would prefer, never asking for but knowing that Aziraphale would do the same.
He takes one of Crowley's hands, and guides it around his waist, guiding it gently down the swell of his arse. ]
You really will need to be doing a bit of miracling, I'm afraid.
[ Somehow he thinks Beezlebub wouldn't exactly care to check or even care why Crowley needed anything of this sort. But he shivers, peering down through heavy lidded eyes and with his mouth parted, back arched just the slightest into Crowley's touch. ]
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Fuck. You're so--
[ Crowley doesn't know what he's done to deserve Aziraphale so open and generous and giving in to his desire, to one of the many, many ways Crowley would like him, or like to give himself to him--all of it sounds wonderful, but he has this now and he doesn't intend to squander it, miracling away Aziraphale's unfastened trousers without a thought--he's right, Beelzebub won't care, if anyone ever even bothers to check, which he doubts--and then losing track of what he intended to do next as he takes in the sight of Aziraphale naked above him. He's so beautiful, Crowley aches to touch him. He wraps his hand around the angel's cock, stroking for a moment, the shaft hot and slick against his palm. Then he lets go and reaches again behind him, the other hand grasping Aziraphale's thigh as his fingers seek between his buttocks and press gently to his hole, miracling them slick as he begins to ease inside-- ]
Say if it's too much.
[ There's a pleading edge to the words, Aziraphale can--he can just talk to him, he can say whatever he likes, Crowley would drink it all in like he's never tasted anything so sweet. He works two fingers inside Aziraphale, breathless with how fucking tight he feels. ]
i forgot he was even still wearing pants LMAO
It's such a lovely view from here, with the light of the moon streaming in and filtered through the curtains and the stacks of books, illuminating Crowley just so in a way that makes him look almost delicate. It makes Aziraphale's heart ache, just getting to see how absolutely breathtaking he is like this, as if the night were specifically crafted to caress him, and moonbeams born for the sole purpose of playing off his skin.
His view is obstructed as Crowley takes his cock and his head is instinctively thrown back, hand on Crowley's chest clutching into a claw as he lets out a hiss. And then when Crowley breaches him, for a moment it is too much, but only in the rawest and most carnal of ways. A moan works its way from the pit of Aziraphale's stomach as Crowley opens him up for the first time in what might have been, God, centuries now. Even with just digits he feels stretched, but not uncomfortable so, with no burn and only a gentle smolder he seeks to stoke. ]
Oh, Crowley--
[ Aziraphale's hips move downward onto his fingers as his body pleads for more, to be filled by him, to be taken and totally, utterly taken apart by his slender fingers and thick cock. And oh, what a lovely cock it is, he thinks, reaching behind him and giving Crowley a few strokes, rough with want and abandon. ]
what are miracles for?
definitely getting rid of your husband's pants
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we can switch this one over to prose too if you'd like!
sounds good!
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