[ Having done it himself, he finds nothing to recommend about it; and if Aziraphale had disappeared for decades as Crowley did, he might have nearly gone to pieces with worry and anxiety before he found him again. Therefore it seems plain to him that his chiding is warranted, and Aziraphale ought to be a good deal sorrier for getting himself in a position where he could be almost discorporated--and not just during the French Revolution, either.
Anyway, Crowley always enjoys an opportunity to tease him, especially when the angel practically hands it to him on a silver platter. ]
Suppose I'll have to, won't I?
[ Crowley gazes hungrily at Aziraphale's lush mouth as he takes his finger between his lips. That's a lovely sight, lovely enough to make a demon forget any ill. The sweet warmth of Aziraphale's mouth is enticing, and he lets his other fingers tease at his lips as though demanding entrance. ]
[ In Aziraphale's defense, that spot of trouble with the Nazis was absolutely not planned, and his triple agent's backstabbing was actually a big shock, so naturally he'd assumed that Crowley had figured him out and had staged something equally as ridiculous in payback. In fact, he wonders if now he might get his comeuppance, that next time he should find himself in dire need of rescuing, Crowley might jump out of nowhere and say it was all a joke.
Aziraphale, after nearly discorporating from a heart attack, would find it terribly hilarious.
But that was for a later time, and right now all he wanted to worry about was loosening his lips to allow a second digit, taking them both into his mouth and drawing them in to the last knuckle, pressing his lips together and letting them pull out slowly and suggestively. All the while, he peers at Crowley with a great curiosity, trying to follow along his every expression like reading his thoughts. He always had such an expressive face, such lovely features; it's hardly much effort. ]
[ He's beginning to think he might lose this game he started, watching Aziraphale take another finger into his mouth, feeling the wet hot suction around them as Aziraphale's lips seal at the base of his fingers and stay tight around them as they slowly withdraw. His throat tightens at the sight, the sensation of it, the way it twists heat and aching desire into him until he feels a throb deep in his stomach. Maybe he will engineer some sort of scene in which Aziraphale is the damsel in need of rescue once again, that would show him. Or...maybe he'll just wait until the chance comes along, fate working of its own accord to place Aziraphale in trouble again and Crowley in the position to get him out of it...and then when he does, he'll demand proper recompense. ]
Would you have liked it, hmm? If I'd told you back then you ought to thank me properly?
[ Crowley's voice has gone unsteady, hot and a little breathless, as he teases Aziraphale's mouth with his wet fingers. ]
'Course you'd have refused, right? Given me a good scolding over it, too, I bet.
[ Leaning down, he steals a kiss from Aziraphale's lush mouth, fingers pressing down on his lower lip to open it for him. ]
[ Crowley will honestly be the death of him, but that's what he gets for starting up this game with a demon whose entire job is meant to tempt him into glorious sin. Yet, he can hardly complain when he's managed to get Crowley to saunter down into the purest and most enlightened of all things: love. Perhaps given enough exposure to Aziraphale, Crowley can also learn to love the things he hates about himself, the things he always tries to hide. That would make him feel as if he'd won this war of wits, even as he very quickly is losing this battle.
And yet he hears the breathlessness in Crowley's voice and smiles to himself, letting it show only in the twinkle in his eyes. ]
I would've said it was inappropriate.
[ And then, against Crowley's lips as he ends the kiss, Aziraphale barely registering the question until he says "tempted," eyes busy looking at that wicked mouth wondering why they're presently so far away. Ah, yes. ]
I would've asked you to clarify what you mean just to hear you tell me how you want me, and then it would've taken nearly all my self control not to let you have exactly that.
[ Grinning absolutely wickedly for an angel, he curls a finger into Crowley's hair and says in between pressing kisses to the length of his fingers: ]
Maybe all of it, if you'd come dressed up a little nicer.
[ He can't help but to steal a kiss, thinking about all the times he'd wished for Crowley and thought there'd never be a time he could give in. It had been a long journey of love and lust and a failed attempt at separating or ignoring the both of them, and chastising himself. He had prayed, not for forgiveness but for a numbness, to make all of this go away. And even last night, he hadn't been ready to acknowledge what was between them, not really. This was a feeling he'd had and he'd guarded for so long, so much safer and closer to his heart than anything before. He reveals it, finally, all of it, nipping at Crowley's lips again and again until they're kiss-reddened and have had their fill. ]
[ If a demon could be tempted, surely an angel’s love would be the thing to do it. Crowley can imagine falling more and more in love with Aziraphale as time passes, giving more pieces himself into the angel’s care, trusting him to keep them safe. In a way he’s been falling in love with him for millennia. If he ever realized the power he has over him...but then, Crowley's not sure they haven't already come to that point.
Watching Aziraphale intently, he sees him looking at his mouth after the kiss ends, the want he hears in the angel's voice and sees in his eyes bringing an answering ache. His smile is wicked, entirely a temptation itself; Crowley's own gaze drops to it, watching him kiss his fingers, while the words Aziraphale speaks seem as though they'll scorch with delight and desire. ]
Angel. Oh, you naughty thing.
[ He groans into the kiss, thinking of all the times he'd have liked to tell Aziraphale exactly how he wanted him. Or to tempt the angel into letting Crowley please him--surely that wouldn't have been so great a sin? But Aziraphale was so guarded, always so careful to--never to refuse, only to lead them into a position where he would not have to refuse, because Crowley would always hold his tongue.
His lips feel kiss-swollen when at last Aziraphale's had enough, his heart filled with his angel, beguiled by him over and over. ]
I wish I'd done it. Told you how I'd like you--in your silk shoes and your stockings--I'd have had to have you in a bed, wouldn't have wanted to ruin your fine clothes...
[ He asks, brief laugh erupting from him before he can quell it. He did have some rather nice stockings, remembered getting them new - the sheerest of silks they'd had to offer, where putting them on had been divine and wearing them around had felt like wearing nothing at all. His coat had been an old brocade, tailored to fit him, so long and cumbersome that they were meant not for eating but only for other socializations of high society. And his lace, oh his lace was so very fine. ]
Hold that thought one second, dear.
[ With a quick kiss to Crowley's nose, he climbs out of his touch and out of the bed, grabbing a dressing gown on his way and slipping it on because of course he would find something objectionable about walking around naked in his own house with not a soul around but the one that he'd actually be comfortable looking at all of him, and who he had been naked around for the last several hours.
There's a bit of cluttering going on in the next room, but after that it's relatively quiet, maybe for about five or ten minutes, until Aziraphale knocks on the door in case Crowley had fallen asleep again, appearing in the doorway again dressed in his jacket and breeches, lace all bunched up in his throat. He'd even managed to procure an old bottle of Mühlens 4711, a scent he hasn't worn since 1836. ]
Tell me again.
[ He looks so buttoned-up, and he stands up straight, he's fixed up his hair. He's even gone so far as popped on a bit of rouge, though that is slightly more modern in production, as his old cosmetics dried up a long time ago. Aside from that, everything about him appears just as it was back then, a perfect gentleman who might have (and was), only a few years prior, welcomed into the courts of Versailles. ]
[ Crowley only reluctantly lets Aziraphale go, unwinding his coiled limbs and then lounging back against the headboard of the bed in a louche, surly way, watching him with narrowed eyes as he disappears from the room. What is his angel up to--and more to the point, what's so important about it that he has to do it right now? Nevertheless, Crowley doesn't call him back, curiosity getting the better of him as he listens to the rummaging and clattering in the next room. It isn't so hard to guess, considering their conversation...but Aziraphale can't really have saved those clothes...?
When he reappears, Crowley finds that his expectations can't match up to the reality. It stuns him speechless, everything about the cream-colored, aristocratic garments virtually the same as in his memory. He sits up slowly, staring, gaze moving from head to toe as he pushes back the blankets and climbs out of bed. Unlike Aziraphale, Crowley doesn't bother to find anything to cover himself with; he's comfortable enough like this, and besides, he has other things on his mind. ]
Turn around.
[ Approaching Aziraphale, the yellow eyes slitted and hungry, he watches him intently and reaches out a hand to brush the lace at one of his cuffs. He wants to see all of it. Swallowing, Crowley stops him when he's mid-turn, coming up against his back, nosing against his throat and hunting for the elusive set of fine cologne. ]
You look beautiful. [ His voice has gone hoarse, and he's forgotten what he meant to tell Aziraphale--something about how he would have him, but now that his hands are on him Crowley's dying for anything he can get. He rubs his face against Aziraphale's neck, nuzzling at him helplessly, entirely, absurdly enchanted by this vision of him in brocade and lace.]
I...I would have told you to...take this off first. [ His hands slide along the sleeves of the long coat. ] And the breeches. Lay them on the bed so they don't get dirty, and--leave the rest on.
[ Aziraphale is quick to do what he's told, though when Crowley stops him mid-turn his breath hitches in surprise. He's so warm behind him, voice a fine honeyed wine. He can still see those eyes in his mind, burning into his neck, preparing for the hunt. Throat dry, he swallows hard and speaks with a tremble. ]
Oh, Crowley. We really mustn't.
[ Even as he says this, he reaches a hand to still Crowley where he is and pushes his hips back against him.
They both know that this scenario isn't quite correct because there is no way that Aziraphale could have put these clothes back on until he had returned to London, but he likes to think that in this reimagining of this particular scene, that Crowley could have taken him somewhere for a little drinking after lunch and proposed that Aziraphale show a little more gratitude for having saved his corporation. Naturally he would have been too embarrassed at the time, and would've wondered if he had given himself away. And he would have acted offended and hid from Crowley and refused his audience for years, maybe a century. There would be none of this playing coy, this careful curated tension between them; he thinks it would be alright to forsake a little realism.
And because of it, he takes Crowley's hand and pretends to consider him for a moment, walking away, turning on his heel, feigning confliction all over his face. He might just be a tad too overdramatic an actor. ]
Well, you did come rescue me. At risk to your reputation.
I suppose. It's only fair.
[ Trying so hard to keep up the act, he slowly and mock-shyly undoes the buttons of his coat, neatly folds it onto the bed. And he practically has to peel off the britches, laying them aside on top of his coat. He presents himself before Crowley, taking his hands and putting them on his hips, but biting his lip as he regards Crowley's face as if sussing out his intentions. Curiously, he leans in just the slightest to ask in quiet confession: ]
[ The lace at Aziraphale’s collar is against his lips, his cheek. Crowley almost can’t bear to let go of him, even to let him do what he’s instructed, but the fantasy they’re building here is too good. It’s easy to imagine that this is a room he’s taken in Paris, above a tavern or a shop or some other, more disreputable establishment, that he’s persuaded Aziraphale to accompany him back to; he wouldn’t have worn these garments, no, but perhaps he’d miracle them back when they were safely alone, being more comfortable in them. Not having any notion of how much Crowley loves them, how delectable he looks in the lace and silk, like a creamy confection...or he’d be red with embarrassment. ]
Yesss, we must.
[ His soft consonants get away from him in his desire, his voice turning extra sibilant. ]
We really must.
[ His gaze follows Aziraphale hungrily as he walks away a couple of paces and then turns back, the grasp of their hands like a tether. Grinning briefly at the angel’s playacting, Crowley lets a cunning tender smile replace it, stepping closer as Aziraphale charmingly undoes the buttons of his coat and strips it off, followed by his breeches. He undoes the waistcoat for him, sliding it from his shoulders and folding it almost as neatly, taking care with it as he lays it atop the other garments. The tenderness isn’t feigned, or the stark desire in his gaze as he takes in Aziraphale in just shirt and stockings, the hem of the shirt covering him to the tops of his thighs, still buttoned up at the lacy collar and cuffs.
His fingers touch the collar, trailing up to Aziraphale’s chin and tipping it a little. ]
I think you ought to, angel. Before I do something far more lascivious.
[ Aziraphale has to break character a moment to grin at Crowley's hissing, much too proud of himself. But it's easy to slip back in when he does feel exposed, dressed in what essentially had been his underwear for years, stockings up to his thighs and a long shirt to cover the rest, drawers invisible underneath. A flash of ankle would've been considered scandalous, though in those days most people would still have this many clothes on during sex, and he supposes the reason he feels so uncomfortably warm is possibly the same reason that other people enjoy lingerie. He raises Crowley's hands to his neck, to help him loose his ascot, smiling beside himself. ]
You've a dirty mind, Crowley.
[ And yet he speaks so affectionately, kisses him with such ease that he would be hard-pressed to pretend he hasn't dropped this pretense entirely. With his arms around Crowley's neck, he starts to make his way back towards the bed and pulls Crowley over him in a tumble of kisses and little giggles.
There's a joyous absurdity to it all, the excitement of something new but already with a solid foundation of trust and of openness and ability to just be themselves. No more posturing needed to be made; they were already well aware of each other's many quirks and oddities, and with no secrets left between them it just led to a comfortable safety they could retire into. ]
Crowley...
[ He whispers to halt a kiss, drawing his ear nearer as if holding in a great secret. He can hardly keep from laughing as he requests: ]
[ Both his fingers and Aziraphale’s pull the knot undone, and Crowley leans in close to kiss him, stealing a taste of his lips as his hand drops to ease beneath the hem of the shirt, fingers grazing Aziraphale’s thigh. ]
I’m not the one dressed like that.
[ He says it in a low murmur, his lips at Aziraphale’s cheek, just to provoke more of his blushes. It’s all in affection and fun, letting Aziraphale tug him towards the bed with his arms linked around his neck and pull him down over him. Crowley drags up the hem of the shirt to reach beneath, kissing him hungrily among the bedsheets and the soft fabric of the clothes, his bare legs tangling with Aziraphale’s so that he can feel the silk of his stockings. Everything about him causes him a torment of delight and wanting, like nothing he’s ever known before.
Aziraphale’s request makes him groan and bury his face at his throat, heated through in spite of their pretending. Crowley slips his hand beneath his shirt and trails up his waist, then down to his front, palming his cock through the fabric of his drawers. He moves and catches Aziraphale’s mouth in a kiss again, hand slowly caressing, following the shape of him through the fine linen. ]
I’ll be good to you, angel.
[ His voice is low and husky, the words sincere in spite of the part he’s playing, and he slides down his body as he tugs the shirt up further and pushes down the waist of his drawers, exposing his cock. Reaching it with his mouth, Crowley nuzzles lightly at the head, closing his lips around it in a brief suck. ]
[ Out of instinct, Aziraphale wiggles his hips closer to Crowley when there's a nice warm hand on his hip. ]
You like it when I'm trouble.
[ It's increasingly difficult to play along as Crowley continues, his touch waking that part of Aziraphale that thinks using so little of his brain, and he thinks possibly it might just be too much effort to keep up this game. His cuffs, still with bunches of lace, brush across Crowley's shoulders and his cheek, feather soft as he eventually settles his grip into that long hair, pulling it as he gasps upon being so suddenly exposed. He can still feel the drag of fabric like a snap across his skin, and his cock stands straight and pink and jarring out of the confines of cloth, emerging from a nest of downy white curls. And as Crowley takes Aziraphale into his mouth, his back makes a sharp bridge and a strangled groan makes its way past his lips. ]
I know. You're always so good to me.
[ That's a little truth that slips in without his filter, a slightly melancholic thought. It's a feature that Aziraphale has taken advantage of over the years, and even manipulated to his will more than once or twice. He wishes for hundreds and thousands of years to do the same for him, to leave Crowley wanting for nothing, not just in a partner but in his life. There is a certain amount of empathy that they share in feeling unfulfilled in work and in what surrounds them, but all that falls away when they're alone.
He wets his lips and gently encourages Crowley with thumb on his jaw and stare through heavy-lidded eyes. But then he reminds himself of why he's dressed like this in the first place as he catches a glimpse of one stockinged leg slung over Crowley's shoulder. ]
I thought I was supposed to be the one rewarding you on a job well done, darling.
[ There's a thickness to his every breath; obviously, he doesn't mind. ]
[ He relaxes, warm and welcoming when Aziraphale's back arches up and the motion pushes his cock deeper into his mouth, taking it easily. Crowley pulls back slowly, in a wet, luxurious glide, eyes already hazy as they lift up to glimpse Aziraphale's face. He loves the weight of his thigh over his shoulder, the silk stocking dragging against his back, the brush of lace where Aziraphale's hands grip him. If this had really been Paris in the 1700s, he might have told him that this was thanks enough, and meant it: he would have taken anything he was given, any chance to touch and worship Aziraphale as he'd dreamed of for ages. Crowley can't deny how long he's yearned for him. But he's had other things to sustain him, up til now. Aziraphale, his company, his smiles, his kindness to a demon from the beginning, as if he could possibly be deserving of it.
Oh, Crowley wants to be good to him, here and always. The impulse has been in him so long that he's forgotten all about what a demon should or shouldn't do when it comes to helping an angel, except when Aziraphale reminds him by trying to attribute niceness to him. ]
Oh, I'll get mine soon, don't worry.
[ Crowley wets his lips, glances up briefly at Aziraphale when he licks around the head of his cock before taking him into his mouth again, deeper than before. He's glad Aziraphale offers no real objection to the proceedings. It's so good to do this, to taste him and feel him push deeper into his mouth with the helpless motions of his hips, to swallow him down to the pale curls and suck at him slowly and languidly, taking his time, as though there is all the time in the world for them now. ]
[ Aziraphale's eyes roll back hearing Crowley's answer, which is quite a shame because he can no longer see his cock slide into that glorious mouth, the one that makes him wonder if Crowley might be able to unhinge his jaw even in this form because his tongue and his mouth are absolutely inhuman, soft and smooth as a late summer night, just as hot and twice as lush.
But he would have balked at the other one, the answer he would've received those two hundred years ago: even Aziraphale would have found it overly-saccharine, unable to cope with his own boundless love for Crowley. He would have felt guilty that he didn't feel the same way, lying to himself, giving only into the temptation so that later his own self-flagellation and repentance would feel strong and worthy of conviction. Even Crowley's company-- his conversation, his sly humor and his longing gazes, his fraternization had almost been excessive. Aziraphale's internal conflict would have been destructive, eating him from the inside out.
Currently, the only thing that comes close to doing so is a flame, licking at his skin with desire, pulling at him like his spine were string, taking on the form of the demon nestled so wonderfully between his legs. This is not how he thought his early morning would turn out, but as his hips writhe and try to chase after that gorgeous heat, he can't be too disappointed. ]
Crowley--
[ Ragged breath trawls from deep in his chest, little noises filling up all the space in between them that may exist. His tongue is a vicious traitor, betraying all his inner thoughts and feelings, unable to form them into coherent words. ]
[ Getting lost in it, Crowley makes a low incoherent sound, a soft hum around Aziraphale's cock, his tongue pressing wickedly to the underside of its length. It's an act of devotion, as sincere as any other he's shown throughout the centuries, and he's always been a demon incapable of doing anything by half-measures, either scoffing and ignoring whatever it is he considers a waste of his time or going at it with his propensity for flash and dramatics, little else in between the two ends of the spectrum. So it is with his relationship with Aziraphale: he could never do it by half.
But before now he's always managed to pull back enough, unwilling to push Aziraphale too far in his own struggle to risk their friendship coming to an end. Whatever luck has come to him at last, whatever he's said or done that managed to convince Aziraphale to set aside his doubts--they're not gone, Crowley knows, but at least they don't hold him back at the moment--he feels fervently grateful for it.
His name in Aziraphale's ragged voice is a beautiful sound, and Crowley longs to hear him cry it out again and again. Never would he have thought that it would be like this, Aziraphale's cock buried deep in his mouth, his thighs around his shoulders--sucking deep and slow, swallowing around him, so sweet and obscene that at last he has to draw back briefly, turning to suck a tender bite into Aziraphale's thigh, just above the cinched silk. ]
Oh, I want to fuck you. In your pretty stockings.
[ He sounds drunk with pleasure, lips trailing over Aziraphale's thigh. ] We can call that my thanks.
[ No matter what, Aziraphale thinks, they will always be friends. That part was never in question for him; if he should be angry with Crowley or the other way around, then it would be for a short time in the general sense of their epochs-long relationship, swinging from enemies to friends to enemies to lovers, now, lovers and friends and everything that Aziraphale could have ever desired from this arrangement save for the blessings of God and of Satan.
He wishes for a life that the humans have, to select one person out of however many billion to love, to cherish for eternity. Why else would God have planned for the two of them to spend what amounted to their entire lives together with no one else as constants? How cruel of Her to place them as enemies. And yet, he knows better, knows that many human marriages are unhappy, that two men-shaped beings can only be together in about as much secret as they are already exercising, that romantic love is impractical as it is, historically, not a measure of a good partnership.
And yet he yearns for it, for thousands of years of Crowley discovering all the ways to taste him just as he is now, for Aziraphale to know all the corners of Crowley's body better than he does. And, afterwards, covered in the sheen and scent of their lovemaking, does Aziraphale want to curl up in Crowley's arms and tell him all the things that are reserved for those intimate moments, those words that like with drink, spill out only once one's had a satisfying amount. His moans turn into complaint when Crowley lets him go, but only briefly until he nibbles at the soft skin of his thigh. ]
You spoil me, Crowley.
[ A shiver works its way down every vertebra of his spine at the request, and through thick white lashes, Aziraphale peers at him with the utmost affection. ]
Yes. A hundred times yes.
[ He rubs one leg against Crowley's arm, tongue drawing across his teeth as he shifts a little underneath him, spreading his legs and giving Crowley a most indecent view. ]
[ The general cruel indifference of the universe to any one creature's suffering long ago forced Crowley to take a more pragmatic than romantic view, the marriage of their bodies and souls a fine fantasy to consider but not one that is ever likely to happen. Still, in its own way this is something close, each kiss and caress imparting a love as devout as reverence and a desire that scorches him to the basest pieces of his being. Crowley rubs a hand along Aziraphale's thigh, considering the lovely prospect of him with his legs spread and the affection in his gaze, waiting for him. ]
Mmm. You've shown me how an angel ought to be spoiled.
[ Trailing kisses, Crowley makes his way back up along Aziraphale's body, ducking his head to his throat when he reaches it and worrying softly with gentle teeth and an indecent tongue. The front of Aziraphale's shirt brushes him softly, the silk of his stocking grazes his palm where it still lingers at his thigh, and Crowley likes Aziraphale this way, half-dressed and appearing utterly debauched. ]
I think you'd best stay with me from now on. I'll take proper care of you. [ Reaching his mouth, Crowley nips at his lip, urging it to part from the other, a thumb stroking at the corner of his mouth as he plunders it in a brief, hot kiss. ] Keep you out of trouble. You won't need to go looking for any excuses to bring me to you. You'll have all of me you could possibly want.
[ There is something quite indescribable about being so disheveled and not worrying a stitch about it. Aziraphale is usually so buttoned up and takes great pride in being presentable, but Crowley is so determined to make a mess of him while trying to claim the things that have gone unspoken between them for so long. For the pursuit of this, Aziraphale would put aside nearly anything. And how could he dedicate any resources to thinking about such a thing when Crowley starts to move up his body, to leave kisses on his throat? It leaves Aziraphale trying and failing to move the bunches of lace around to better receive them, to greedily accept all of them while tacitly requesting more.
Crowley does him one better and delves into his mouth, and Aziraphale tries to kiss back with just as much fervor but the weight of him nestled between his legs is such a distraction; he whines when Crowley pulls away. ]
You know how badly I want that.
[ He cups Crowley's cheeks in his hands to give him a serious and searching look for a second; maybe he might be able to steal some of Crowley's boldness and madness. But for now he pulls Crowley down and crushes their mouths together in a kiss, feeling adoration surge from the depths of his core as he considers forever, as he contemplates infinity.
It doesn't seem so insurmountable now.
His legs bracketing Crowley's sides, Aziraphale reaches for his arse and pulls their hips together as they kiss, wishing for as much physical closeness as possible. The contact makes him keen and struggle for breath, but even as he ends the kiss he nips a dozen more in quick, needy succession. ]
[ The sweetness of Aziraphale’s mouth is something he wants to chase over and over, Crowley settling his weight against him with a hand still at one of his thighs, urging it around his narrow hips. He doesn’t really need to, Aziraphale seems as eager for it as he does, but he meets Aziraphale’s gaze when he cups his hands around his face, searching his eyes gravely and sweetly, in the way he has that always makes Crowley feel terribly exposed, makes him feel as though the angel sees right through him. And yet he doesn’t want to hide from him, or hold back any part of himself.
Crowley looks back at him, momentarily arrested by the words and the sincerity in them, his heart giving a violent thump as Aziraphale pulls him back down into a kiss. ]
Aziraphale.
[ He says the angel’s name in a voice wracked with need, caught between their mouths and the kisses Aziraphale demands again and again, his hips giving a helpless jerk when Aziraphale’s hand on his arse drag them closer. There’s no pretense in this, not in the impassioned kisses, his mouth all but devouring Aziraphale’s, in his unsteady breaths as he pushes up his thighs and then guides his cock to him, miracling slickness between them as he rubs it at his entrance. Aziraphale imploring him to stay will be the death of him. He’s wanted it for so long, and never expected to hear it.
He pushes his cock into him slowly, throat tight, bracing himself on an elbow when he lets go and takes Aziraphale’s hand instead, holding his palm at his mouth as he eases deeper. ]
[ The way that Crowley calls his name is the most beautiful sound, but in this moment also the most heart-wrenching. He wants nothing more than to give himself fully to Crowley, to assure him that in this world and in all the worlds that he and God are the only beings to which he would say he had ever belonged. But these two loves are the only things that he would consider to be ineffable: God and Her plans, her vast plans which no one can know but Herself; and the love he shares with Crowley, the only one that exists between Angel and Demon, the torturous and conflicted and obsessive love that is somehow also the purest and most joyous.
He's caught in an inhale as Crowley pushes himself in, and though it hasn't been a full night since they last came together this way, Aziraphale's eyes go wide as he feels like he might become split in two equal halves. Yet though he feels a burning heat and an impossible stretch, he feels no pain: there's only pleasure as his fingers take a vice grip on Crowley's and slaps his own palm over his mouth to cover his shout of a gasp and subsequent moans. And when he feels Crowley buried all the way that he can go, Aziraphale locks eyes with him and everything is good and right. He murmurs this to Crowley, that he feels so good, so, so good-- And with his hands and hips he urges him to move. ]
Please, please.
[ His hand has found its way back to the swell of Crowley's rear, holding onto him for purchase, his hips wriggling and impatient. His body is weak in its urgency, unable to do anything else but to supplicate itself to Crowley's mercy. ]
[ Gasping, Crowley buries himself into him, cock sliding as deep as it can before his hips press up against the curve of his arse. He lets Aziraphale's hand go and drops his head to nuzzle wildly into his throat, mouth dragging across the tender skin, such an urgent need to be joined with him still gripping him even though he's within him as intimately as he can be. He drinks in the sound of Aziraphale's moans, sensing them in his throat beneath the pressure of his lips, trembling a little at the almost overwhelming pleasure. When he draws back he meets Aziraphale's gaze, his own eyes hazy and impassioned, and he's desperate for the words the angel gives him, telling him it's good, all of this is so very good, pleading with him for more...
Crowley gives him what he wants, eyes closing as he moves into Aziraphale; he shudders all over, beginning to rock into him with a steady rhythm, hips catching against his again and again. Oh, they belong together, he and Aziraphale, wrapped up in one another, every part of him reaching for the love he can feel in every caress Aziraphale gives him, every word he speaks. He'll give him anything he has in return, if only Aziraphale will let him stay...he gasps as he thrusts deep into him, giving and taking pleasure, feeling the swell of it within him. It's something more than physical, the headlong delight of making love to an angel, sleeping and waking and sharing hours with him, like something that has the power to heal the old wounds on his soul. ]
Aziraphale.
[ Crowley says his name helplessly, again and again, gasping the syllables as he fucks into him, urged on by the angel's caresses. ]
[ Aziraphale's love, so headily interwoven with lust, clings to the air with its thick perfume, filling up this too-small room. It moves him like poetry, hips arcing up to meet Crowley's, falling into a wondrous rhythm with him. His hands need something to hold and so they bury into Crowley's hair, fingers grasping the silky red locks at the root, pulling tight. He misses the contact of his mouth even as his hand slides to Crowley's face, resulting in a much more gentle caress.
He loves to hear his name, spilling from Crowley's lips like a fountain, like a favorite refrain from a song. And he speaks it as if gasping for his last breaths, as if it might be the last name he speaks, the most important words he might ever say. It's a sweet and simple thing that imparts to him something akin to vertigo, a kind he hasn't felt since last flying, shooting across the sky as it was new then and invited him to catch the wind on his wings and the summer in his hair.
Crowley had been there, as he had always been, waiting for Aziraphale to look his way. How many times he had looked at Aziraphale with the offer of this just on the tip of his tongue, the rare kind of love an angel shouldn't have and shouldn't desire. And as Crowley brushes across somewhere in him that makes him forget his own wanton moans, his shirt practically ruined in a mess of precome and sweat, he wants for nothing more than what Crowley does: time together. A whole life of sleep and play and each other's company to fill up the space of where alone used to be. ]
[ As Aziraphale's hips arch up against his, he senses how easily they fall into a rhythm with one another, the harmony between their bodies managing to surprise him even though he's felt it several times now. It's one that seems as though it shouldn't exist between an angel and a demon, but perhaps they've known each other for so long that it's something almost instinctive, coming together with love and desire twined between them. Though he can't imagine that even if they faltered, laughed and fumbled together it would be any less wonderful, any less transforming to be with Aziraphale in the most intimate ways, loving him with all his heart and soul.
His hands grip in the shirt as he caresses restlessly over Aziraphale's waist and sides, bunching up the fabric in his hands, making even more of a mess of it. This, too, is part of the fantasy--seeing Aziraphale dressed in those beautiful clothes and then debauching him in them without apology (not in the heat of the moment, at least, but Crowley can always miracle them to rights for him later) until he's moaning and making a spectacular ruin of them with abandon. In sudden inspiration, Crowley drags at one of Aziraphale's lace-covered wrists, pinning it to the bed beneath his hand, ducking his head to kiss him when he reaches between them and rubs the heel of the other hand over Aziraphale's cock--the soft fabric of the shirt between them, damp with the angel's precome, lovely against his palm. ]
Aziraphale. Angel.
[ Crowley nips at his lips, takes him deeply with his tongue, and speaks his name between kisses as though it's reverence, as though he hasn't forgotten how to praise. He sinks deep into him, again and again, driving his cock into the tight grip of his arse and strokes Aziraphale's own length through the fabric of the shirt with a gentle hand, reveling in giving him pleasure. ]
[ Aziraphale can hardly form a concrete thought, his hips moving of their own accord and purely on instinct against Crowley's, his body and breath feeling both never more like they were his but at the same time, never less. He cries out into Crowley's mouth when he palms his cock through the fabric, the feeling beyond intense; the cloth is too thick and his hips try to move into Crowley's touch and lose their rhythm. His kiss is desperate and impassioned but lacking in a certain finesse even as he attempts to draw that wicked tongue further inside and invite Crowley to take over all of him.
Each time that he hears his name form on the back of Crowley's tongue, he seeks to drink it down from the source, to find this font of praise and answer his prayer if he so can. Yes, Crowley, he answers in between their kisses. The name rides on his every breath, softly into the intimate space between the two of them and then bedraggled and seeking its own absolution, rising above the sound of skin on skin and his own stampeding heartbeat.
It is, most definitely, no less enjoyable that Aziraphale has lost his grace and grown clumsy with Crowley's insistent hands and slithering hips. His body and very soul are all shaken to the core of him, shirt wrecked and hair roughly tousled; he looks like he is barely surviving through a great and terrible storm. ]
Don't stop.
[ He pleads this with glassy eyes and holds onto the nape of Crowley's neck tightly, searching for anchor as his hips quiver and send shudder through the rest of him. Pinned down underneath him and with his body succumb, Aziraphale feels all the long lines of Crowley's form, the other half of his self, perfectly aligned. ]
[ Crowley feels...he can feel Aziraphale’s need, his desperation which echoes his own as he kisses him deeply, hotly, with a wanton tongue: the angel tastes so lovely, it's an aching pleasure just to kiss him and feel his uncoordinated efforts to draw him deeper. He's a gorgeously disheveled mess beneath him, all rucked-up clothes and a wet, gasping mouth, Crowley's fingers tight around his cock, and he wants so badly to give him what he needs, the rhythm of his hips faltering but never stopping as he buries himself inside him over and over. In Crowley's voice, the angel's name becomes a plea and a prayer again and again, an echo of his heartbeat and the dearest thing he's ever uttered, more than any praise he spoke when he was still an angel himself.
Pleasure becomes a tide rising so sharply he feels choked with it. His forehead presses to Aziraphale's when the angel pleads with him not to stop, eyes closing as his whole body shudders in reaction. ]
Never. [ Crowley's voice is hoarse and almost pleading in turn, promising, oh Hell, he’d swear his entire existence to Aziraphale over and over, until the stars fell from the sky. ] Never, angel, I—
[ He'll do this for as long as Aziraphale needs, until he can't bear any more. ]
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Anyway, Crowley always enjoys an opportunity to tease him, especially when the angel practically hands it to him on a silver platter. ]
Suppose I'll have to, won't I?
[ Crowley gazes hungrily at Aziraphale's lush mouth as he takes his finger between his lips. That's a lovely sight, lovely enough to make a demon forget any ill. The sweet warmth of Aziraphale's mouth is enticing, and he lets his other fingers tease at his lips as though demanding entrance. ]
More?
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Aziraphale, after nearly discorporating from a heart attack, would find it terribly hilarious.
But that was for a later time, and right now all he wanted to worry about was loosening his lips to allow a second digit, taking them both into his mouth and drawing them in to the last knuckle, pressing his lips together and letting them pull out slowly and suggestively. All the while, he peers at Crowley with a great curiosity, trying to follow along his every expression like reading his thoughts. He always had such an expressive face, such lovely features; it's hardly much effort. ]
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Would you have liked it, hmm? If I'd told you back then you ought to thank me properly?
[ Crowley's voice has gone unsteady, hot and a little breathless, as he teases Aziraphale's mouth with his wet fingers. ]
'Course you'd have refused, right? Given me a good scolding over it, too, I bet.
[ Leaning down, he steals a kiss from Aziraphale's lush mouth, fingers pressing down on his lower lip to open it for him. ]
But--would you have been tempted?
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And yet he hears the breathlessness in Crowley's voice and smiles to himself, letting it show only in the twinkle in his eyes. ]
I would've said it was inappropriate.
[ And then, against Crowley's lips as he ends the kiss, Aziraphale barely registering the question until he says "tempted," eyes busy looking at that wicked mouth wondering why they're presently so far away. Ah, yes. ]
I would've asked you to clarify what you mean just to hear you tell me how you want me, and then it would've taken nearly all my self control not to let you have exactly that.
[ Grinning absolutely wickedly for an angel, he curls a finger into Crowley's hair and says in between pressing kisses to the length of his fingers: ]
Maybe all of it, if you'd come dressed up a little nicer.
[ He can't help but to steal a kiss, thinking about all the times he'd wished for Crowley and thought there'd never be a time he could give in. It had been a long journey of love and lust and a failed attempt at separating or ignoring the both of them, and chastising himself. He had prayed, not for forgiveness but for a numbness, to make all of this go away. And even last night, he hadn't been ready to acknowledge what was between them, not really. This was a feeling he'd had and he'd guarded for so long, so much safer and closer to his heart than anything before. He reveals it, finally, all of it, nipping at Crowley's lips again and again until they're kiss-reddened and have had their fill. ]
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Watching Aziraphale intently, he sees him looking at his mouth after the kiss ends, the want he hears in the angel's voice and sees in his eyes bringing an answering ache. His smile is wicked, entirely a temptation itself; Crowley's own gaze drops to it, watching him kiss his fingers, while the words Aziraphale speaks seem as though they'll scorch with delight and desire. ]
Angel. Oh, you naughty thing.
[ He groans into the kiss, thinking of all the times he'd have liked to tell Aziraphale exactly how he wanted him. Or to tempt the angel into letting Crowley please him--surely that wouldn't have been so great a sin? But Aziraphale was so guarded, always so careful to--never to refuse, only to lead them into a position where he would not have to refuse, because Crowley would always hold his tongue.
His lips feel kiss-swollen when at last Aziraphale's had enough, his heart filled with his angel, beguiled by him over and over. ]
I wish I'd done it. Told you how I'd like you--in your silk shoes and your stockings--I'd have had to have you in a bed, wouldn't have wanted to ruin your fine clothes...
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[ He asks, brief laugh erupting from him before he can quell it. He did have some rather nice stockings, remembered getting them new - the sheerest of silks they'd had to offer, where putting them on had been divine and wearing them around had felt like wearing nothing at all. His coat had been an old brocade, tailored to fit him, so long and cumbersome that they were meant not for eating but only for other socializations of high society. And his lace, oh his lace was so very fine. ]
Hold that thought one second, dear.
[ With a quick kiss to Crowley's nose, he climbs out of his touch and out of the bed, grabbing a dressing gown on his way and slipping it on because of course he would find something objectionable about walking around naked in his own house with not a soul around but the one that he'd actually be comfortable looking at all of him, and who he had been naked around for the last several hours.
There's a bit of cluttering going on in the next room, but after that it's relatively quiet, maybe for about five or ten minutes, until Aziraphale knocks on the door in case Crowley had fallen asleep again, appearing in the doorway again dressed in his jacket and breeches, lace all bunched up in his throat. He'd even managed to procure an old bottle of Mühlens 4711, a scent he hasn't worn since 1836. ]
Tell me again.
[ He looks so buttoned-up, and he stands up straight, he's fixed up his hair. He's even gone so far as popped on a bit of rouge, though that is slightly more modern in production, as his old cosmetics dried up a long time ago. Aside from that, everything about him appears just as it was back then, a perfect gentleman who might have (and was), only a few years prior, welcomed into the courts of Versailles. ]
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When he reappears, Crowley finds that his expectations can't match up to the reality. It stuns him speechless, everything about the cream-colored, aristocratic garments virtually the same as in his memory. He sits up slowly, staring, gaze moving from head to toe as he pushes back the blankets and climbs out of bed. Unlike Aziraphale, Crowley doesn't bother to find anything to cover himself with; he's comfortable enough like this, and besides, he has other things on his mind. ]
Turn around.
[ Approaching Aziraphale, the yellow eyes slitted and hungry, he watches him intently and reaches out a hand to brush the lace at one of his cuffs. He wants to see all of it. Swallowing, Crowley stops him when he's mid-turn, coming up against his back, nosing against his throat and hunting for the elusive set of fine cologne. ]
You look beautiful. [ His voice has gone hoarse, and he's forgotten what he meant to tell Aziraphale--something about how he would have him, but now that his hands are on him Crowley's dying for anything he can get. He rubs his face against Aziraphale's neck, nuzzling at him helplessly, entirely, absurdly enchanted by this vision of him in brocade and lace.]
I...I would have told you to...take this off first. [ His hands slide along the sleeves of the long coat. ] And the breeches. Lay them on the bed so they don't get dirty, and--leave the rest on.
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Oh, Crowley. We really mustn't.
[ Even as he says this, he reaches a hand to still Crowley where he is and pushes his hips back against him.
They both know that this scenario isn't quite correct because there is no way that Aziraphale could have put these clothes back on until he had returned to London, but he likes to think that in this reimagining of this particular scene, that Crowley could have taken him somewhere for a little drinking after lunch and proposed that Aziraphale show a little more gratitude for having saved his corporation. Naturally he would have been too embarrassed at the time, and would've wondered if he had given himself away. And he would have acted offended and hid from Crowley and refused his audience for years, maybe a century. There would be none of this playing coy, this careful curated tension between them; he thinks it would be alright to forsake a little realism.
And because of it, he takes Crowley's hand and pretends to consider him for a moment, walking away, turning on his heel, feigning confliction all over his face. He might just be a tad too overdramatic an actor. ]
Well, you did come rescue me. At risk to your reputation.
I suppose. It's only fair.
[ Trying so hard to keep up the act, he slowly and mock-shyly undoes the buttons of his coat, neatly folds it onto the bed. And he practically has to peel off the britches, laying them aside on top of his coat. He presents himself before Crowley, taking his hands and putting them on his hips, but biting his lip as he regards Crowley's face as if sussing out his intentions. Curiously, he leans in just the slightest to ask in quiet confession: ]
Would it be alright if I kissed you?
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Yesss, we must.
[ His soft consonants get away from him in his desire, his voice turning extra sibilant. ]
We really must.
[ His gaze follows Aziraphale hungrily as he walks away a couple of paces and then turns back, the grasp of their hands like a tether. Grinning briefly at the angel’s playacting, Crowley lets a cunning tender smile replace it, stepping closer as Aziraphale charmingly undoes the buttons of his coat and strips it off, followed by his breeches. He undoes the waistcoat for him, sliding it from his shoulders and folding it almost as neatly, taking care with it as he lays it atop the other garments. The tenderness isn’t feigned, or the stark desire in his gaze as he takes in Aziraphale in just shirt and stockings, the hem of the shirt covering him to the tops of his thighs, still buttoned up at the lacy collar and cuffs.
His fingers touch the collar, trailing up to Aziraphale’s chin and tipping it a little. ]
I think you ought to, angel. Before I do something far more lascivious.
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You've a dirty mind, Crowley.
[ And yet he speaks so affectionately, kisses him with such ease that he would be hard-pressed to pretend he hasn't dropped this pretense entirely. With his arms around Crowley's neck, he starts to make his way back towards the bed and pulls Crowley over him in a tumble of kisses and little giggles.
There's a joyous absurdity to it all, the excitement of something new but already with a solid foundation of trust and of openness and ability to just be themselves. No more posturing needed to be made; they were already well aware of each other's many quirks and oddities, and with no secrets left between them it just led to a comfortable safety they could retire into. ]
Crowley...
[ He whispers to halt a kiss, drawing his ear nearer as if holding in a great secret. He can hardly keep from laughing as he requests: ]
Do be gentle.
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I’m not the one dressed like that.
[ He says it in a low murmur, his lips at Aziraphale’s cheek, just to provoke more of his blushes. It’s all in affection and fun, letting Aziraphale tug him towards the bed with his arms linked around his neck and pull him down over him. Crowley drags up the hem of the shirt to reach beneath, kissing him hungrily among the bedsheets and the soft fabric of the clothes, his bare legs tangling with Aziraphale’s so that he can feel the silk of his stockings. Everything about him causes him a torment of delight and wanting, like nothing he’s ever known before.
Aziraphale’s request makes him groan and bury his face at his throat, heated through in spite of their pretending. Crowley slips his hand beneath his shirt and trails up his waist, then down to his front, palming his cock through the fabric of his drawers. He moves and catches Aziraphale’s mouth in a kiss again, hand slowly caressing, following the shape of him through the fine linen. ]
I’ll be good to you, angel.
[ His voice is low and husky, the words sincere in spite of the part he’s playing, and he slides down his body as he tugs the shirt up further and pushes down the waist of his drawers, exposing his cock. Reaching it with his mouth, Crowley nuzzles lightly at the head, closing his lips around it in a brief suck. ]
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You like it when I'm trouble.
[ It's increasingly difficult to play along as Crowley continues, his touch waking that part of Aziraphale that thinks using so little of his brain, and he thinks possibly it might just be too much effort to keep up this game. His cuffs, still with bunches of lace, brush across Crowley's shoulders and his cheek, feather soft as he eventually settles his grip into that long hair, pulling it as he gasps upon being so suddenly exposed. He can still feel the drag of fabric like a snap across his skin, and his cock stands straight and pink and jarring out of the confines of cloth, emerging from a nest of downy white curls. And as Crowley takes Aziraphale into his mouth, his back makes a sharp bridge and a strangled groan makes its way past his lips. ]
I know. You're always so good to me.
[ That's a little truth that slips in without his filter, a slightly melancholic thought. It's a feature that Aziraphale has taken advantage of over the years, and even manipulated to his will more than once or twice. He wishes for hundreds and thousands of years to do the same for him, to leave Crowley wanting for nothing, not just in a partner but in his life. There is a certain amount of empathy that they share in feeling unfulfilled in work and in what surrounds them, but all that falls away when they're alone.
He wets his lips and gently encourages Crowley with thumb on his jaw and stare through heavy-lidded eyes. But then he reminds himself of why he's dressed like this in the first place as he catches a glimpse of one stockinged leg slung over Crowley's shoulder. ]
I thought I was supposed to be the one rewarding you on a job well done, darling.
[ There's a thickness to his every breath; obviously, he doesn't mind. ]
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Oh, Crowley wants to be good to him, here and always. The impulse has been in him so long that he's forgotten all about what a demon should or shouldn't do when it comes to helping an angel, except when Aziraphale reminds him by trying to attribute niceness to him. ]
Oh, I'll get mine soon, don't worry.
[ Crowley wets his lips, glances up briefly at Aziraphale when he licks around the head of his cock before taking him into his mouth again, deeper than before. He's glad Aziraphale offers no real objection to the proceedings. It's so good to do this, to taste him and feel him push deeper into his mouth with the helpless motions of his hips, to swallow him down to the pale curls and suck at him slowly and languidly, taking his time, as though there is all the time in the world for them now. ]
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But he would have balked at the other one, the answer he would've received those two hundred years ago: even Aziraphale would have found it overly-saccharine, unable to cope with his own boundless love for Crowley. He would have felt guilty that he didn't feel the same way, lying to himself, giving only into the temptation so that later his own self-flagellation and repentance would feel strong and worthy of conviction. Even Crowley's company-- his conversation, his sly humor and his longing gazes, his fraternization had almost been excessive. Aziraphale's internal conflict would have been destructive, eating him from the inside out.
Currently, the only thing that comes close to doing so is a flame, licking at his skin with desire, pulling at him like his spine were string, taking on the form of the demon nestled so wonderfully between his legs. This is not how he thought his early morning would turn out, but as his hips writhe and try to chase after that gorgeous heat, he can't be too disappointed. ]
Crowley--
[ Ragged breath trawls from deep in his chest, little noises filling up all the space in between them that may exist. His tongue is a vicious traitor, betraying all his inner thoughts and feelings, unable to form them into coherent words. ]
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But before now he's always managed to pull back enough, unwilling to push Aziraphale too far in his own struggle to risk their friendship coming to an end. Whatever luck has come to him at last, whatever he's said or done that managed to convince Aziraphale to set aside his doubts--they're not gone, Crowley knows, but at least they don't hold him back at the moment--he feels fervently grateful for it.
His name in Aziraphale's ragged voice is a beautiful sound, and Crowley longs to hear him cry it out again and again. Never would he have thought that it would be like this, Aziraphale's cock buried deep in his mouth, his thighs around his shoulders--sucking deep and slow, swallowing around him, so sweet and obscene that at last he has to draw back briefly, turning to suck a tender bite into Aziraphale's thigh, just above the cinched silk. ]
Oh, I want to fuck you. In your pretty stockings.
[ He sounds drunk with pleasure, lips trailing over Aziraphale's thigh. ] We can call that my thanks.
Will you let me?
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He wishes for a life that the humans have, to select one person out of however many billion to love, to cherish for eternity. Why else would God have planned for the two of them to spend what amounted to their entire lives together with no one else as constants? How cruel of Her to place them as enemies. And yet, he knows better, knows that many human marriages are unhappy, that two men-shaped beings can only be together in about as much secret as they are already exercising, that romantic love is impractical as it is, historically, not a measure of a good partnership.
And yet he yearns for it, for thousands of years of Crowley discovering all the ways to taste him just as he is now, for Aziraphale to know all the corners of Crowley's body better than he does. And, afterwards, covered in the sheen and scent of their lovemaking, does Aziraphale want to curl up in Crowley's arms and tell him all the things that are reserved for those intimate moments, those words that like with drink, spill out only once one's had a satisfying amount. His moans turn into complaint when Crowley lets him go, but only briefly until he nibbles at the soft skin of his thigh. ]
You spoil me, Crowley.
[ A shiver works its way down every vertebra of his spine at the request, and through thick white lashes, Aziraphale peers at him with the utmost affection. ]
Yes. A hundred times yes.
[ He rubs one leg against Crowley's arm, tongue drawing across his teeth as he shifts a little underneath him, spreading his legs and giving Crowley a most indecent view. ]
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Mmm. You've shown me how an angel ought to be spoiled.
[ Trailing kisses, Crowley makes his way back up along Aziraphale's body, ducking his head to his throat when he reaches it and worrying softly with gentle teeth and an indecent tongue. The front of Aziraphale's shirt brushes him softly, the silk of his stocking grazes his palm where it still lingers at his thigh, and Crowley likes Aziraphale this way, half-dressed and appearing utterly debauched. ]
I think you'd best stay with me from now on. I'll take proper care of you. [ Reaching his mouth, Crowley nips at his lip, urging it to part from the other, a thumb stroking at the corner of his mouth as he plunders it in a brief, hot kiss. ] Keep you out of trouble. You won't need to go looking for any excuses to bring me to you. You'll have all of me you could possibly want.
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Crowley does him one better and delves into his mouth, and Aziraphale tries to kiss back with just as much fervor but the weight of him nestled between his legs is such a distraction; he whines when Crowley pulls away. ]
You know how badly I want that.
[ He cups Crowley's cheeks in his hands to give him a serious and searching look for a second; maybe he might be able to steal some of Crowley's boldness and madness. But for now he pulls Crowley down and crushes their mouths together in a kiss, feeling adoration surge from the depths of his core as he considers forever, as he contemplates infinity.
It doesn't seem so insurmountable now.
His legs bracketing Crowley's sides, Aziraphale reaches for his arse and pulls their hips together as they kiss, wishing for as much physical closeness as possible. The contact makes him keen and struggle for breath, but even as he ends the kiss he nips a dozen more in quick, needy succession. ]
Stay.
[ He murmurs, almost swallowed up by a kiss. ]
Please stay.
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Crowley looks back at him, momentarily arrested by the words and the sincerity in them, his heart giving a violent thump as Aziraphale pulls him back down into a kiss. ]
Aziraphale.
[ He says the angel’s name in a voice wracked with need, caught between their mouths and the kisses Aziraphale demands again and again, his hips giving a helpless jerk when Aziraphale’s hand on his arse drag them closer. There’s no pretense in this, not in the impassioned kisses, his mouth all but devouring Aziraphale’s, in his unsteady breaths as he pushes up his thighs and then guides his cock to him, miracling slickness between them as he rubs it at his entrance. Aziraphale imploring him to stay will be the death of him. He’s wanted it for so long, and never expected to hear it.
He pushes his cock into him slowly, throat tight, bracing himself on an elbow when he lets go and takes Aziraphale’s hand instead, holding his palm at his mouth as he eases deeper. ]
Tell me—if it’s too much.
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He's caught in an inhale as Crowley pushes himself in, and though it hasn't been a full night since they last came together this way, Aziraphale's eyes go wide as he feels like he might become split in two equal halves. Yet though he feels a burning heat and an impossible stretch, he feels no pain: there's only pleasure as his fingers take a vice grip on Crowley's and slaps his own palm over his mouth to cover his shout of a gasp and subsequent moans. And when he feels Crowley buried all the way that he can go, Aziraphale locks eyes with him and everything is good and right. He murmurs this to Crowley, that he feels so good, so, so good-- And with his hands and hips he urges him to move. ]
Please, please.
[ His hand has found its way back to the swell of Crowley's rear, holding onto him for purchase, his hips wriggling and impatient. His body is weak in its urgency, unable to do anything else but to supplicate itself to Crowley's mercy. ]
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Crowley gives him what he wants, eyes closing as he moves into Aziraphale; he shudders all over, beginning to rock into him with a steady rhythm, hips catching against his again and again. Oh, they belong together, he and Aziraphale, wrapped up in one another, every part of him reaching for the love he can feel in every caress Aziraphale gives him, every word he speaks. He'll give him anything he has in return, if only Aziraphale will let him stay...he gasps as he thrusts deep into him, giving and taking pleasure, feeling the swell of it within him. It's something more than physical, the headlong delight of making love to an angel, sleeping and waking and sharing hours with him, like something that has the power to heal the old wounds on his soul. ]
Aziraphale.
[ Crowley says his name helplessly, again and again, gasping the syllables as he fucks into him, urged on by the angel's caresses. ]
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He loves to hear his name, spilling from Crowley's lips like a fountain, like a favorite refrain from a song. And he speaks it as if gasping for his last breaths, as if it might be the last name he speaks, the most important words he might ever say. It's a sweet and simple thing that imparts to him something akin to vertigo, a kind he hasn't felt since last flying, shooting across the sky as it was new then and invited him to catch the wind on his wings and the summer in his hair.
Crowley had been there, as he had always been, waiting for Aziraphale to look his way. How many times he had looked at Aziraphale with the offer of this just on the tip of his tongue, the rare kind of love an angel shouldn't have and shouldn't desire. And as Crowley brushes across somewhere in him that makes him forget his own wanton moans, his shirt practically ruined in a mess of precome and sweat, he wants for nothing more than what Crowley does: time together. A whole life of sleep and play and each other's company to fill up the space of where alone used to be. ]
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His hands grip in the shirt as he caresses restlessly over Aziraphale's waist and sides, bunching up the fabric in his hands, making even more of a mess of it. This, too, is part of the fantasy--seeing Aziraphale dressed in those beautiful clothes and then debauching him in them without apology (not in the heat of the moment, at least, but Crowley can always miracle them to rights for him later) until he's moaning and making a spectacular ruin of them with abandon. In sudden inspiration, Crowley drags at one of Aziraphale's lace-covered wrists, pinning it to the bed beneath his hand, ducking his head to kiss him when he reaches between them and rubs the heel of the other hand over Aziraphale's cock--the soft fabric of the shirt between them, damp with the angel's precome, lovely against his palm. ]
Aziraphale. Angel.
[ Crowley nips at his lips, takes him deeply with his tongue, and speaks his name between kisses as though it's reverence, as though he hasn't forgotten how to praise. He sinks deep into him, again and again, driving his cock into the tight grip of his arse and strokes Aziraphale's own length through the fabric of the shirt with a gentle hand, reveling in giving him pleasure. ]
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Each time that he hears his name form on the back of Crowley's tongue, he seeks to drink it down from the source, to find this font of praise and answer his prayer if he so can. Yes, Crowley, he answers in between their kisses. The name rides on his every breath, softly into the intimate space between the two of them and then bedraggled and seeking its own absolution, rising above the sound of skin on skin and his own stampeding heartbeat.
It is, most definitely, no less enjoyable that Aziraphale has lost his grace and grown clumsy with Crowley's insistent hands and slithering hips. His body and very soul are all shaken to the core of him, shirt wrecked and hair roughly tousled; he looks like he is barely surviving through a great and terrible storm. ]
Don't stop.
[ He pleads this with glassy eyes and holds onto the nape of Crowley's neck tightly, searching for anchor as his hips quiver and send shudder through the rest of him. Pinned down underneath him and with his body succumb, Aziraphale feels all the long lines of Crowley's form, the other half of his self, perfectly aligned. ]
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Pleasure becomes a tide rising so sharply he feels choked with it. His forehead presses to Aziraphale's when the angel pleads with him not to stop, eyes closing as his whole body shudders in reaction. ]
Never. [ Crowley's voice is hoarse and almost pleading in turn, promising, oh Hell, he’d swear his entire existence to Aziraphale over and over, until the stars fell from the sky. ] Never, angel, I—
[ He'll do this for as long as Aziraphale needs, until he can't bear any more. ]
we can switch this one over to prose too if you'd like!
sounds good!
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