The feeling of Crowley nestled underneath of his body is a glorious one, their hips slotted together like two pieces of a puzzle, aligned like stars in the night sky, and Aziraphale gasps at the contact. He caresses Crowley's cheek and pulls him into another kiss, this one just as slow as the last, just as unhurried. A hand slips up Crowley's sheer gown and lifts it just the slightest. He means to get more of the cloth but is easily distracted by Crowley's arse and hips and sides, slender as is fashionable but with tantalizing curves exactly where Aziraphale wants them.
He arcs his hips, a relaxed grind, every little bit of friction seeming to spark something in him. He lights up like a match but his body is a smolder, less flickering flame and more tendrils of smoke with leisurely wend. This is how he decides to kiss Crowley, with the idea that they have forever in between them, with lips like sun warming an early spring field, tongue a sweep of thunderclouds rolling across the sky. Something about it just feels so deep, so connected. He wants to kiss Crowley like this everywhere, and so he sets about doing so: he starts at the pulse in his neck, and the lovely bob of his throat, pushing the gown aside to bare his chest and kissing him there too, arced over as if he had cupped water in his hands and was drinking water from a spring.
Kisses as soft and slow and heady as a long summer rain, Aziraphale's hand rucking up the silk along his side, exploring his thin waist and the sharp jut of his hip and the curve of his arse, making Crowley shiver and ache for more. The languid press of their hips, the way Aziraphale rocks leisurely against him as if they have all of eternity for pleasure, is so different to Crowley from the ways he's fucked in the past, almost perfunctorily as though it was something to get over and done with. With Aziraphale he doesn't want anything to be over with, anxious to take and give as much pleasure as there is to be had, to glut on it like the angel enjoying a sumptuous meal, but Aziraphale kisses him so slowly and sweetly that he finds himself clutching at him with fingers that tremble slightly, unsure of what to do other than follow his lead at the pace he's set.
His lips feel swollen, feel well-kissed by the time Aziraphale moves to his throat and Crowley feels drunk from his tongue, sprawled beneath him like something laid out and offered up for pleasure. "Oh...Aziraphale..." He groans deeply when the angel works his way down his throat and pushes aside the indecent gown to expose a great deal of his chest to his mouth. "Angel," he sighs, his body roused again, arching up beneath Azirphale's, hungry for contact. Fingers run anxiously through Aziraphale's soft pale hair, catching in his curls.
Aziraphale looks up at him as fingers rake through his hair, his tongue flat on Crowley's nipple before he closes his mouth around it and sucks while he pinches the other between two fingers, hand all the way up Crowley's nightgown. In fact, it's barely a nightshirt anymore, pushed all the way upward, exposing him entirely. Yes, laid out as Aziraphale is meant to please and to take pleasure from him, this gorgeous body of his.
His free hand ghosts down Crowley's front, touch so light it wouldn't disturb a mouse; he then takes Crowley's cock into his hand and touches it like gossamer at first, but building up in speed and pressure. A thumb swipes over the top of his cock and he whines with pleasure directly onto Crowley's heart, agape as he mouths his way excitedly to between Crowley's legs. He licks the tip at first, and having not done this for several hundred years, he isn't sure what to expect. But this, like Crowley's everything else, is wondrous, with his tip sitting so heavy on his tongue, intoxicating musk announcing his, quite frankly, rather imposing sex. He invites himself to a taste, and fills his mouth with it, again, and again.
It feels so indecent to be spread beneath an angel in such a state of dishabille, mouth and fingers attending to his exposed chest, silk riding all the way up to expose him. Even if Crowley was fucking into that angel not long ago...but then Aziraphale has always had a wicked way about him, capable of being teased out. Tormented pleasure sparks along his nerves, his fingers fitfully raking through Aziraphale's hair as one of the angel's hands seeks out his cock and touches it so finely at first, making him gasp and arch up in demand for more. Aziraphale's passionate kisses making their way down his body have Crowley tense with anticipation when he reaches the juncture of his legs, glancing down and licking his lips briefly before his head falls back as he delicately licks the head of his cock. Oh, it should be sinful, an angel's mouth taking him in, seeming so eager for the taste of him.
"Aziraphale," Crowley gasps, sounding shocked even to his own ears. "F-ffuck, your mouth--" He wonders hazily, would he like it if Crowley told him just obscene he was, and then he gasps again and arches his hips up helplessly. "Oh angel, your mouth on my cock, it's a fucking sin--suck me, yesss..."
Aziraphale, in fact, does have a little streak of bad in him, as if perhaps Crowley had rubbed his sin off just a tad, and so he does enjoy hearing Crowley tell him what a naughty angel he's being. It serves to make his mouth more urgent on Crowley, to try and take more and more of him in with each pull of his lips and hollow of his cheek. He does, of course, have to hold Crowley's hips gently still to keep himself from overexerting his limits for now, but all he really needs and all he really wants is a little more practice.
Crowley underneath him is delectable, a decadence he wouldn't mind consuming nightly, with straining hips dashed with gasps and drizzled honey moans adorning his bed and driving him mad with lust. He hums a satisfied noise against Crowley's cock as he sucks, and with both his hands he lifts Crowley's legs and folds his knees to his chest. He attempts to get Crowley to take one of them as he needs a free hand, first just to rap against one exposed cheek with an open hand, but then he meanders a finger lower, circling Crowley's entrance before pressing into him, digit miraculously slick.
Aziraphale gasps with Crowley still buried in his mouth; he's tight and hot and Aziraphale has to pause and catch his breath before resuming.
His groans spill into the darkened bedroom even after he loses the thread of his words, his fingers clutching urgently as Aziraphale's lovely mouth sinks down around him, tormenting him with wet sucking and heat. "Sorry, sorry," Crowley whispers in penitence when Aziraphale pins his hips with gentle hands, keeping him from thrusting up too far or demanding more than the angel can comfortably give. He’s anxious not to lose himself too far, like he did before—fucking Aziraphale so deep and urgently, losing himself in pleasure and need and want. Though it seems it had been welcome, judging by the Aziraphale's reactions.
And this is welcome to him, too, anything his angel wants to do with him, any way he wants to manipulate his body--Crowley obediently grips the leg Aziraphale guides him to, and then the other one as well for good measure, holding himself decadently spread. His head falls back as that slick finger slides into him, a shocked, urgent groan coming from his throat. "Oh please angel," he begs with his eyes shut tight, please give him more, suck his cock, fuck him on his fingers--anything, he'll take any pleasure he can get. Even knowing they have all night together, and countless other nights spilling out before them like stars across the sky, doesn't dim the need in him.
Crowley need not be sorry because Aziraphale takes it in stride as a high compliment, lips sweetly around his cock, Crowley poised and ready for him to practically devour. When he seems ready, Aziraphale slips a second finger into him, fucking Crowley on them and watching him come unfurled. It's a beautiful sight to behold, his demon in pleasure under the soft velvet of night with candlelight and sex to warm his skin, red hair spilled like vines around the pillow.
By the time he adds a third, he crooks them forward as he pulls them back, trying to locate where it is in Crowley a bundle of nerves that might really make his body sing. He licks several more stripes up the underside of Crowley's cock before his hand takes its place, and relocates his mouth to suck kisses at Crowley's perineum, sharp tongue drawing along the edge of where his fingers continually drive into Crowley.
When Aziraphale withdraws his fingers at last, he means to move from this spot and back to settle his weight over Crowley again, so nice a thought the little hairs on the back of his neck stand to rise, but he's caught entranced by the view of how dark and endless Crowley looks once dilated; he can't help but to take a taste.
Ripples of pleasure move through his body as Aziraphale's fingers stretch him open so tenderly and sweetly, fucking into him with all the patience one could imagine from him while he sucks his cock as though he could stay like this for an eternity. Crowley is the offering laid out for him to feast on, the current through which pleasure sparks, its intensity spiking once Aziraphale has fit three of his fingers into him and is crooking them in him, pressing to that spot that makes his hips jerk and a shocked moan spill from his throat. The angel's mouth draws off his cock but his hand takes its place as he presses kisses beneath his balls, and every part of Crowley feels awakened, intoxicated by the intimacy between them and the exquisite sensations driven into him by Aziraphale's fingers and mouth.
"Angel, fuck," he moans aloud when Aziraphale tastes him, dipping into him with his tongue. It's so hot and good, making him breathless, wanton, his hips writhing to Aziraphale's hands and mouth.
Aziraphale's tongue prods into Crowley, tries to fill him where his fingers once were, though he doesn't quite have the abilities with it that one might if he were a snake. Though through dogged breaths and exploratory tongue, he tries his best, delving into Crowley against sensitive skin which really has no other purpose but to be a channel for Aziraphale to try and place parts of himself in to see which of them Crowley finds most pleasurable. And, fully equipped with all the answers, he would still try it again and again. To make sure.
Eventually, he trails off to suck quick kisses on the inside of Crowley's thigh and momentarily lets go of his cock to hold his legs in place. He places himself over Crowley, rests the full of his body on top of those slender hips, and looks him in the eyes. Aziraphale breathes his name, and peppers hot kisses on his neck as he aligns himself and reaches in between them to guide himself to where his tongue and fingers have opened Crowley up. "Let me," he whispers, as if there might be a slim chance Crowley might decide not to allow him this.
If it could be more perfect than this, Crowley imagines he might discorporate from it: his cock flushed and heavy and wet from Aziraphale's attentions, his angel so wickedly trying to open him with his tongue, lathing him where he aches to be filled. Oh yes, he'd take any part of Aziraphale he could get. Let him experiment again and again until they were both replete with satisfaction, barely able to move in the aftermath of their efforts. He hisses out a harsh breath as Aziraphale moves to suck biting little kisses at the inside of his thigh, as his legs fall wantonly apart and his hands reach for Aziraphale instead as he moves up over him, settling intimately against his hips.
"Please, yes," he groans the words in an impassioned voice, an urgency to feel Aziraphale inside him making him wrap his long slim legs around Aziraphale's waist and arch into the press of his cock as it eases into him. He feels an aching pleasure as he's filled, the sense of joining again that is so brilliant and so very wanted. Nearly overwhelming, in fact--to be one with an angel, his grace and light a part of him.
He wouldn't, of course, dare dream to let his body hurt Crowley's, either from physicality or from the sheer fact that he is blessed. But as he moves into Crowley, with quick and shallow thrusts, he has to really fight back the urge to slide all the way in at once; his jaw falls slack and his breath hitches with lust. Eventually, when he is connected to Crowley as far as his body will physically allow, he has to take a moment of pause and look Crowley's face over once, twice, scanning him as if trying to solve a puzzle.
"How are you so perfect?" he asks, hands on Crowley's hips and just taking a moment to enjoy the static coursing down his spine, flooding all his senses with a rush that is somehow neither and both cold and hot. His head is braced against Crowley's neck and his kiss turns into a bite that will definitely leave a mark over the neckline of Crowley's dresses in the morning. He will have to wear a white powder for perhaps the next week or so as it heals, though Aziraphale can't find it in him to be very sorry at the moment.
He murmurs to Crowley, asking him if it's good, if he's alright, if he knows how incredible he is. And only once he's attained affirmation, he starts to move in earnest, draw of his hips measured like a bowstring but slide as quick as a loosed arrow; he works up a rhythm this way, hands on either side of Crowley's legs and pressing them still, locking them into place.
The shallow thrusts of Aziraphale's cock light every nerve, a sensation as brilliant as anything Crowley has ever felt, and he aches to feel it deeper, tormented and wracked with need: for his angel to be within him, not only their bodies joined but to be woven in him in his most essential self. It feels as though this is possible now, since their union and the way it felt to be one with Aziraphale before, as though he might never need to feel fallen and alone again. Eventually he's buried in him as far as he can be, every moment of connection more perfect than the last, but it feels as though he's so much deeper than this. That he is a part of Crowley now in such a way that can never be undone.
"I'm--" His voice comes shakily; I'm not is what he means to say, not perfect, he can't be perfect, he is by definition the opposite, but it gets lost in the absolute love he feels from Aziraphale, not to mention the sweet stinging bite at his throat that has him arching up with a hiss. Won't it be scandalous, the young bride marked by the tender greedy attentions of her husband, though at the moment Crowley can only think it will be Aziraphale's mark he sees every time he looks in a mirror, proof on an angel's desire--such an amazing, rare, precious thing. He nods frantically when Aziraphale asks him if he's all right, if it's good, if he knows he's incredible--so much more tolerable, somehow, to be complimented when the angel is inside of him--and urges him on with a hissed, "Please, Aziraphale," until he starts to fuck him in earnest at last. Words become moans and other, obscene sounds at the snap of Aziraphale's hips, his cock driving into him as he holds Crowley still as though to make him take what he is given.
His breaths push out with each thrust, with honey-heavy steam against Crowley's neck, sinking into him as one might into a dream, fully entranced in their haze. They are as one as they ever might hope to be, with Aziraphale's love and lust up against Crowley's-- their bodies and their spirits may be impermeable, but if they are, he doesn't feel it at the moment. He could feel the edge of his soul bleed into Crowley's and take some of it back.
Crowley may not believe himself to be perfect, but Aziraphale had a certain way of living: he liked things slow, he liked precious objects that would keep until they were well-worn. And to anyone else, his things might seem like junk - save for his books, maybe some other historic knickknacks that he kept with him and would hopefully continue doing so until the end of times - but it didn't matter because that's the way he loved them. He took very careful consideration in acquiring just about anything, and his collection was rare and, believe it or not, pared down.
He loves Crowley, with all his heart, and he is just as perfect as an first-edition manuscript of prophecies, as a rare and singular-existing translation of the Bible. He is just as perfect as when they called his eyes gold instead of yellow, when God had bathed him in Her love. Too long he'd been starved of love, and Aziraphale would lavish it upon him as he would restore lacquer to an aged box, or polish an intricate plate armor.
The draw of his hips is quick and precise, and once he has a rhythm going, he reaches in between the two of them to take ahold of Crowley's cock and give it some much-needed attention. Lifting to give themselves more space, his forehead nonetheless practically rests on Crowley's as he fills the room with the sound of skin meeting skin.
Crowley has always held, in his deepest and most secret fantasies, that having Aziraphale in this way would be the thing that completed him, though he knows his fall can never be taken back and nothing will ever restore the luminous pale radiance that his own wings once had--but he wouldn't need that if he had Aziraphale. He wouldn't need holiness or perfection. He would need only him. He has him now, and Aziraphale touches him as though he is a lovely, rare, precious thing, as no one ever has before. Not since he can remember, not since before he was a demon. He fills him until it seems as though they are in some sense one, irrevocably so, and perhaps Crowley will never be an angel again, but he can still love—fully and without reservation, so deeply, exquisitely in love with Aziraphale that it seems as though his heart might burst.
“Fuck—“ He curses as though they are words of praise and pleading, hands moving restlessly over every part of Aziraphale he can touch: hips and waist, around to the small of his back, trailing lovingly up his spine. He can’t get enough, wanting to memorize every inch of Aziraphale’s bare skin. “Please, angel, please fuck me, so good—“
It’s amazing, almost unbearable, the feeling of Aziraphale inside him weaving intricate new patterns into his very soul. Crowley winds his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, eyes closed, gasping as their foreheads rest together. He arches up his hips in the sinuous, obscene manner he is known for, all to bring them closer, bring Aziraphale’s cock deeper into him, and with Aziraphale’s hand around his own cock he cries out, amazed and shattered at the pleasure that breaks glittering over him when he comes.
Aziraphale has never heard Crowley beg for anything in his life, but the way he does it is like music, a sweet melody that Aziraphale will want to listen to on repeat, even if he can never get it out of his head. His hips slam against Crowley's and oh, when Crowley moves his own back against him the feeling is luxurious and wondrous all at once.
He focuses on Crowley's orgasm when he comes, hands and hips steadily pumping away, gaze locked on Crowley's face as he murmurs, "come for me, Crowley." And when he does, when his body shakes with it all around Aziraphale, he follows not long thereafter with his own orgasm, a shout, a half-aborted attempt to call Crowley's name. His mouth is wide on Crowley's neck, hand in his hair pulling him back, for a moment completely covering him as a blanket might.
Aziraphale's hips, overtaken by pleasure and clumsy with lust, accidentally let him slip out of Crowley as he finishes, last stripes of milky white streaked across his skin. And Aziraphale, short of breath, kisses Crowley as if to suck some air from his lungs. One hand still around a leg to keep it bracketed on his side, he lowers the other and draws his fingers through the fluid, lightly pushing it back in through where he's raw and rubbed pink. There's something deeper in this kiss, more perverse than it had been just ten, fifteen minute ago.
He at last withdraws his fingers, his tongue, and drapes himself entirely on Crowley. "Mm," he remarks in his low-pitched voice. "You have no idea how good you feel."
The way Aziraphale handles him when he comes is nothing short of breathtaking. Crowley wouldn't ever have expected it, wouldn't have had even the slightest inkling if he didn't already know that Aziraphale can be a perfect bastard when he wants to be; even then it still manages to stun him with Aziraphale's hand tangled up in his hair and dragging his head back until he's arched beneath him, slamming his hips into him as he comes. How his seed stains him inside and out, hot and obscene and perfect on his skin. His fingers gathering up the come that drips down between his buttocks and slipping it into his throbbing, well-used hole. His breath catches at that, the slit pupils of his yellow eyes gone wide and black. "Fuck," he breathes in amazement, before his mouth is covered in a searing, filthy kiss. He makes a sound close to a whimper, nearly overcome with dazed pleasure and the sensation of being thoroughly debauched.
His hands move wonderingly over Azirphale's shoulders as his angel drapes himself over him, fingers sliding into the feathers at the base of his wings. "Didn't know you had it in you, angel," Crowley says, shaky and amused and absolutely enamored. He nuzzles at Aziraphale's cheek, leaving spent little kisses, fingers raking gently in his feathers. He feels--so full, almost glowing with this borrowed radiance, wanting Aziraphale to never let him go; his long limbs wind around him, keeping them together in their sated reverie.
"Didn't you?" he asks, curiously, smile widening at every little kiss that Crowley leaves on his cheek. To be quite certain, he hadn't thought Crowley capable of love, either, and yet here they were: Crowley, the lover, and Aziraphale the hedonist. Perhaps it was because they'd been on Earth so long, or perhaps it was just something about how they'd been all along that made them particularly suited for how they were at the moment, curled up in each other's arms sharing things that they really had no right to be sharing.
"Suppose I did have a little bit of you in me," he remarks suggestively. He would waggle his eyebrows if he weren't so spent at the moment, and instead his wings flutter and settle so that they're comfortable in Crowley's grip, lightly encouraging him as if he were playing with Aziraphale's hair.
After a bit of a pause, he asks: "Did you like it? I-- meant it, when I said I want to keep you satisfied. I want you to know it's not just lip service. I do care for your pleasure," he murmurs, carding a hand through black feathers and kissing his temple.
Crowley considers for a moment, his fingers winding through Aziraphale’s feathers. “Might’ve known,” he concedes in a low murmur, “if I’d thought about it.” After all, what is Aziraphale if not a great lover of all sensual and earthly pleasures? Crowley doesn’t think he’s ever known another angel to indulge in his appetites the way Aziraphale does, and he likes him all the better for it. And if this were to become one of his appetites, and Crowley just the thing to satisfy him...well, he would certainly have no arguments against that. "I couldn't, though," he adds, toying with Aziraphale's feathers, ruffling them up gently and then smoothing them down again. "Couldn't think about it, about you...I never let myself, you know. I just knew I wanted to be around you all the time."
If he'd ever stopped to think about what Aziraphale meant to him, what the pang of longing in his chest was, maybe he would have tried to tempt Aziraphale long ago. It almost makes him regret it, all these centuries past where they could have had this. Not wasted, though--Crowley would never say wasted. He loves Aziraphale too much, has loved every moment with him, even when his angel is saying such ridiculous things-- "A little bit?" he echoes in mock outrage. "That what you'd call it?"
Relenting when Aziraphale asks him if it was all right, Crowley turns his head to kiss him, pouring all his wicked, greedy heart into it. "Oh, you do. Keep me satisfied." Another kiss, his teeth dragging at Aziraphale's lower lip, his tongue as sweet and seductive as you please. "So much," he breathes, the yearning in his voice not at all feigned as Aziraphale strokes the edge of his wing.
He thinks about how easy this all is, lying in bed with Crowley exchanging banter with him, talking about their relationship and their future and, alright, their sex life. "Good," he replies, sucking a kiss from Crowley. "And no," he says, biting his lip and giving a bit of a pause. "It's not only a little bit."
He reaches down and gives Crowley's thigh a playful little whap. He must know, though, since he's a bit more endowed than Aziraphale is, and goodness is it a lovely cock. Aziraphale would, very happily, let Crowley bury it in various and sundry parts of Aziraphale whenever he would like to have the chance: in his mouth, between his thighs, and perhaps even someday he might manifest a perfectly cute vagina tinted pink, analogous to his cock which is also both perfectly cute and a pretty rose color. At least, he'd like to think so. Maybe not so much the "cute" bit.
Perhaps, if he was so bold, he liked to think that Crowley had a similar thought about him: that someday, maybe not tonight, but someday, they could have found a million different ways to make love, and though they had favorites to return to, they'd have so many more to try. A lifetime would not be enough. And then his thoughts wander again, to asking himself that if Crowley made a womb, would he be able to carry a child? Would he be able to carry Aziraphale's child?
But that was too much, too soon, and for a second he looks struck, sad. He takes a deep, ragged breath, and covers his face with a black wing to kiss its feathers.
"And don't you forget it," Crowley whispers at Aziraphale's mouth, close enough to graze his lips. He, too, is certain that there is no end to the manifestations that he or the angel could make to satisfy one another, to join together in all sorts of configurations. Aziraphale has a perfectly lovely cock as well, in his demonic opinion, and would no doubt manifest a lovely cunt too if the whim took him; though Crowley, playing the role of the princess, might decide to try it first. He hasn't thought as far as giving himself the means to carry a child, though. If he did...
If he did, it would be Aziraphale's: a creation that belonged to the two of them, born of an angel and a demon. In all his wildest imaginings, Crowley never went so far as to envision their own child. But then, he never let himself envision, either, a day when he and Aziraphale might be wed. And of course he's considered, since their betrothal, the expectation that the princess will carry the princess's heir--but she would have to prove sadly barren, wouldn't she? Could such a child ever be dreamed into existence?
He catches the brief sadness over Aziraphale's face before it's covered with his own wing, the angel lathing the black feathers with kisses. Crowley tentatively strokes his cheek with the edge of his wing. "You all right, angel?"
"Yes," he answers with immediacy. "Yes, I'm better than I have been in a long time." But Crowley is owed an answer, an explanation for his melancholy, as his wife. And so he freely gives it: "It's just, you know. They'll expect us to start a family. And I know we agreed it would be best not to, but I'm feeling particularly foolish tonight," he says, as he draws Crowley close to him.
"I'd never-- before, I'd never wanted a child with anyone." But Crowley, of course, is the exception. He's always the exception. And perhaps he wouldn't even want to carry one, even if he could. All that was all fine, and would make things all the easier. "Maybe it's better I not think about it, but that's all." It's nothing to do with how happy he is about the two of them, because he couldn't be moreso.
Still, he presses a kiss to Crowley's temple and dreams. Maybe, someday. And yet, why would they want a child who might grow old and die someday? He couldn't bear it, not for Heaven or Earth or Crowley, to watch his own flesh and blood age and wither even as he remained the same. Neither could he let the child die in youth. "Yes," he repeats. "Better we not think about it at all."
"Ahh." Crowley sighs, lets himself be drawn to Aziraphale and kisses him in consolation, slipping his arms around his neck. He understands well what's like to have something better than you've dreamt of but still yearn for more. For centuries he had Aziraphale's company when he sought them out, when circumstance threw them together or when his angel needed him to get him out of some trouble (usually of his own making, Crowley suspects) and he'd been content enough with those opportunities, those stolen moments, not expecting better. Certainly he wouldn't have expected this.
Couldn't they dream of more?
"It's not likely to happen though, is it?" he says tentatively, testing the thought. "Even if we wanted--I mean, you being what you are and me being me." Of course they could give themselves the right equipment for it, but surely it wouldn't be as simple as that. Surely it would be...well, a miracle for certain. One he's not sure is within their power.
"It was a silly idea anyway," he answers, not wanting to unpack all this on their wedding night. He had more than he deserved and he supposed that perhaps having a child would make it, in the eyes of their hosts, slightly more of a permanent arrangement. Though naturally that wasn't the purpose, and he knew he would love the child and knew that Crowley would as well; he trusted the both of them to be good parents to any child that was their own. But it would have been the easiest thing, he thinks, to let Crowley know the depth of his love, that he should want to be joined with him in bond but also in blood, or at least in the trials that come with raising a child together. And he wants to give this gift of life for the both of them but to Crowley, especially, who might find reflected in a child's eye a little piece of innocence he'd forgotten he still had.
And that was the real reason, wasn't it? That he wanted to show Crowley and the world exactly how much he meant to Aziraphale, that giving him all his love and devotion still felt short of what he could give. But once he thought of it, he realized that there were other ways. There must be other ways, to let him know; this had just been the most direct.
He pulls Crowley close for a kiss light as nectar. "Forget I mentioned it, my dear." He lays a hand over Crowley's heart, and wonders what he is thinking currently.
Crowley tilts his head to study Aziraphale for a moment, his eyes speculative, wondering. It's such a curious thing to bring up in the first place--not at all the sort of thing a demon ought to go in for, probably rather ridiculous in the face of it. Imagine him a mum, coddling some little beast. A perfect hellion, it'd probably be, and Aziraphale would know exactly where it got that from. All right, Crowley has perhaps a little bit of fondness for kids, but that doesn't mean he ought to try parenting one.
Except. Except it's caught hold of him a bit, stuck under his ribs. "All right, then," he answers when Aziraphale kisses him and says to forget it, puzzled and, secretly, perhaps a little disappointed, but never mind, he'll soon turn his mind to other things. Crowley covers Aziraphale's hand where it rests over his heart, gazing at him, vulnerable with his eyes unconcealed and yet making no effort to hide them. He's an open book: whatever Aziraphale wants of him, he can have. "You know I'll make you happy," Crowley tells him softly, and his lips tug into a smile. "You'll wonder how you could've done without me."
"Oh, don't worry about that dear, I already do," he responds, one of his hands on Crowley's cheek. "Wonder what would have happened if you hadn't crawled up to me on the wall, or if you weren't the one who'd been stationed to Earth." He's certain for one thing, that he wouldn't have another in his bed right now, and wouldn't have another lay claim to his heart. But he does wonder if he would wander the Earth alone with the feeling that something was missing, a tugging on his soul that draws him to wherever Crowley is.
Perhaps he feels that way because they know each other, now.
But he can't even remember what it felt like before that. Even though he knows that he would have, before this assignment, sworn up and down that Crowley was his adversary and that they were enemies and all that sort of talk, he knows in his heart that should he have been pulled away at the time, that Aziraphale would have missed him terribly. He would've hated whoever replaced Crowley on principle, and also because he was supposed to hate whoever replaced Crowley on principle.
Regardless, he takes Crowley's hand and smooths it out so he can interlock their fingers. "You already make me happier than you know."
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He arcs his hips, a relaxed grind, every little bit of friction seeming to spark something in him. He lights up like a match but his body is a smolder, less flickering flame and more tendrils of smoke with leisurely wend. This is how he decides to kiss Crowley, with the idea that they have forever in between them, with lips like sun warming an early spring field, tongue a sweep of thunderclouds rolling across the sky. Something about it just feels so deep, so connected. He wants to kiss Crowley like this everywhere, and so he sets about doing so: he starts at the pulse in his neck, and the lovely bob of his throat, pushing the gown aside to bare his chest and kissing him there too, arced over as if he had cupped water in his hands and was drinking water from a spring.
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His lips feel swollen, feel well-kissed by the time Aziraphale moves to his throat and Crowley feels drunk from his tongue, sprawled beneath him like something laid out and offered up for pleasure. "Oh...Aziraphale..." He groans deeply when the angel works his way down his throat and pushes aside the indecent gown to expose a great deal of his chest to his mouth. "Angel," he sighs, his body roused again, arching up beneath Azirphale's, hungry for contact. Fingers run anxiously through Aziraphale's soft pale hair, catching in his curls.
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His free hand ghosts down Crowley's front, touch so light it wouldn't disturb a mouse; he then takes Crowley's cock into his hand and touches it like gossamer at first, but building up in speed and pressure. A thumb swipes over the top of his cock and he whines with pleasure directly onto Crowley's heart, agape as he mouths his way excitedly to between Crowley's legs. He licks the tip at first, and having not done this for several hundred years, he isn't sure what to expect. But this, like Crowley's everything else, is wondrous, with his tip sitting so heavy on his tongue, intoxicating musk announcing his, quite frankly, rather imposing sex. He invites himself to a taste, and fills his mouth with it, again, and again.
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"Aziraphale," Crowley gasps, sounding shocked even to his own ears. "F-ffuck, your mouth--" He wonders hazily, would he like it if Crowley told him just obscene he was, and then he gasps again and arches his hips up helplessly. "Oh angel, your mouth on my cock, it's a fucking sin--suck me, yesss..."
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Crowley underneath him is delectable, a decadence he wouldn't mind consuming nightly, with straining hips dashed with gasps and drizzled honey moans adorning his bed and driving him mad with lust. He hums a satisfied noise against Crowley's cock as he sucks, and with both his hands he lifts Crowley's legs and folds his knees to his chest. He attempts to get Crowley to take one of them as he needs a free hand, first just to rap against one exposed cheek with an open hand, but then he meanders a finger lower, circling Crowley's entrance before pressing into him, digit miraculously slick.
Aziraphale gasps with Crowley still buried in his mouth; he's tight and hot and Aziraphale has to pause and catch his breath before resuming.
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And this is welcome to him, too, anything his angel wants to do with him, any way he wants to manipulate his body--Crowley obediently grips the leg Aziraphale guides him to, and then the other one as well for good measure, holding himself decadently spread. His head falls back as that slick finger slides into him, a shocked, urgent groan coming from his throat. "Oh please angel," he begs with his eyes shut tight, please give him more, suck his cock, fuck him on his fingers--anything, he'll take any pleasure he can get. Even knowing they have all night together, and countless other nights spilling out before them like stars across the sky, doesn't dim the need in him.
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By the time he adds a third, he crooks them forward as he pulls them back, trying to locate where it is in Crowley a bundle of nerves that might really make his body sing. He licks several more stripes up the underside of Crowley's cock before his hand takes its place, and relocates his mouth to suck kisses at Crowley's perineum, sharp tongue drawing along the edge of where his fingers continually drive into Crowley.
When Aziraphale withdraws his fingers at last, he means to move from this spot and back to settle his weight over Crowley again, so nice a thought the little hairs on the back of his neck stand to rise, but he's caught entranced by the view of how dark and endless Crowley looks once dilated; he can't help but to take a taste.
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"Angel, fuck," he moans aloud when Aziraphale tastes him, dipping into him with his tongue. It's so hot and good, making him breathless, wanton, his hips writhing to Aziraphale's hands and mouth.
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Eventually, he trails off to suck quick kisses on the inside of Crowley's thigh and momentarily lets go of his cock to hold his legs in place. He places himself over Crowley, rests the full of his body on top of those slender hips, and looks him in the eyes. Aziraphale breathes his name, and peppers hot kisses on his neck as he aligns himself and reaches in between them to guide himself to where his tongue and fingers have opened Crowley up. "Let me," he whispers, as if there might be a slim chance Crowley might decide not to allow him this.
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"Please, yes," he groans the words in an impassioned voice, an urgency to feel Aziraphale inside him making him wrap his long slim legs around Aziraphale's waist and arch into the press of his cock as it eases into him. He feels an aching pleasure as he's filled, the sense of joining again that is so brilliant and so very wanted. Nearly overwhelming, in fact--to be one with an angel, his grace and light a part of him.
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"How are you so perfect?" he asks, hands on Crowley's hips and just taking a moment to enjoy the static coursing down his spine, flooding all his senses with a rush that is somehow neither and both cold and hot. His head is braced against Crowley's neck and his kiss turns into a bite that will definitely leave a mark over the neckline of Crowley's dresses in the morning. He will have to wear a white powder for perhaps the next week or so as it heals, though Aziraphale can't find it in him to be very sorry at the moment.
He murmurs to Crowley, asking him if it's good, if he's alright, if he knows how incredible he is. And only once he's attained affirmation, he starts to move in earnest, draw of his hips measured like a bowstring but slide as quick as a loosed arrow; he works up a rhythm this way, hands on either side of Crowley's legs and pressing them still, locking them into place.
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"I'm--" His voice comes shakily; I'm not is what he means to say, not perfect, he can't be perfect, he is by definition the opposite, but it gets lost in the absolute love he feels from Aziraphale, not to mention the sweet stinging bite at his throat that has him arching up with a hiss. Won't it be scandalous, the young bride marked by the tender greedy attentions of her husband, though at the moment Crowley can only think it will be Aziraphale's mark he sees every time he looks in a mirror, proof on an angel's desire--such an amazing, rare, precious thing. He nods frantically when Aziraphale asks him if he's all right, if it's good, if he knows he's incredible--so much more tolerable, somehow, to be complimented when the angel is inside of him--and urges him on with a hissed, "Please, Aziraphale," until he starts to fuck him in earnest at last. Words become moans and other, obscene sounds at the snap of Aziraphale's hips, his cock driving into him as he holds Crowley still as though to make him take what he is given.
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Crowley may not believe himself to be perfect, but Aziraphale had a certain way of living: he liked things slow, he liked precious objects that would keep until they were well-worn. And to anyone else, his things might seem like junk - save for his books, maybe some other historic knickknacks that he kept with him and would hopefully continue doing so until the end of times - but it didn't matter because that's the way he loved them. He took very careful consideration in acquiring just about anything, and his collection was rare and, believe it or not, pared down.
He loves Crowley, with all his heart, and he is just as perfect as an first-edition manuscript of prophecies, as a rare and singular-existing translation of the Bible. He is just as perfect as when they called his eyes gold instead of yellow, when God had bathed him in Her love. Too long he'd been starved of love, and Aziraphale would lavish it upon him as he would restore lacquer to an aged box, or polish an intricate plate armor.
The draw of his hips is quick and precise, and once he has a rhythm going, he reaches in between the two of them to take ahold of Crowley's cock and give it some much-needed attention. Lifting to give themselves more space, his forehead nonetheless practically rests on Crowley's as he fills the room with the sound of skin meeting skin.
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“Fuck—“ He curses as though they are words of praise and pleading, hands moving restlessly over every part of Aziraphale he can touch: hips and waist, around to the small of his back, trailing lovingly up his spine. He can’t get enough, wanting to memorize every inch of Aziraphale’s bare skin. “Please, angel, please fuck me, so good—“
It’s amazing, almost unbearable, the feeling of Aziraphale inside him weaving intricate new patterns into his very soul. Crowley winds his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, eyes closed, gasping as their foreheads rest together. He arches up his hips in the sinuous, obscene manner he is known for, all to bring them closer, bring Aziraphale’s cock deeper into him, and with Aziraphale’s hand around his own cock he cries out, amazed and shattered at the pleasure that breaks glittering over him when he comes.
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He focuses on Crowley's orgasm when he comes, hands and hips steadily pumping away, gaze locked on Crowley's face as he murmurs, "come for me, Crowley." And when he does, when his body shakes with it all around Aziraphale, he follows not long thereafter with his own orgasm, a shout, a half-aborted attempt to call Crowley's name. His mouth is wide on Crowley's neck, hand in his hair pulling him back, for a moment completely covering him as a blanket might.
Aziraphale's hips, overtaken by pleasure and clumsy with lust, accidentally let him slip out of Crowley as he finishes, last stripes of milky white streaked across his skin. And Aziraphale, short of breath, kisses Crowley as if to suck some air from his lungs. One hand still around a leg to keep it bracketed on his side, he lowers the other and draws his fingers through the fluid, lightly pushing it back in through where he's raw and rubbed pink. There's something deeper in this kiss, more perverse than it had been just ten, fifteen minute ago.
He at last withdraws his fingers, his tongue, and drapes himself entirely on Crowley. "Mm," he remarks in his low-pitched voice. "You have no idea how good you feel."
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His hands move wonderingly over Azirphale's shoulders as his angel drapes himself over him, fingers sliding into the feathers at the base of his wings. "Didn't know you had it in you, angel," Crowley says, shaky and amused and absolutely enamored. He nuzzles at Aziraphale's cheek, leaving spent little kisses, fingers raking gently in his feathers. He feels--so full, almost glowing with this borrowed radiance, wanting Aziraphale to never let him go; his long limbs wind around him, keeping them together in their sated reverie.
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"Suppose I did have a little bit of you in me," he remarks suggestively. He would waggle his eyebrows if he weren't so spent at the moment, and instead his wings flutter and settle so that they're comfortable in Crowley's grip, lightly encouraging him as if he were playing with Aziraphale's hair.
After a bit of a pause, he asks: "Did you like it? I-- meant it, when I said I want to keep you satisfied. I want you to know it's not just lip service. I do care for your pleasure," he murmurs, carding a hand through black feathers and kissing his temple.
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If he'd ever stopped to think about what Aziraphale meant to him, what the pang of longing in his chest was, maybe he would have tried to tempt Aziraphale long ago. It almost makes him regret it, all these centuries past where they could have had this. Not wasted, though--Crowley would never say wasted. He loves Aziraphale too much, has loved every moment with him, even when his angel is saying such ridiculous things-- "A little bit?" he echoes in mock outrage. "That what you'd call it?"
Relenting when Aziraphale asks him if it was all right, Crowley turns his head to kiss him, pouring all his wicked, greedy heart into it. "Oh, you do. Keep me satisfied." Another kiss, his teeth dragging at Aziraphale's lower lip, his tongue as sweet and seductive as you please. "So much," he breathes, the yearning in his voice not at all feigned as Aziraphale strokes the edge of his wing.
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He reaches down and gives Crowley's thigh a playful little whap. He must know, though, since he's a bit more endowed than Aziraphale is, and goodness is it a lovely cock. Aziraphale would, very happily, let Crowley bury it in various and sundry parts of Aziraphale whenever he would like to have the chance: in his mouth, between his thighs, and perhaps even someday he might manifest a perfectly cute vagina tinted pink, analogous to his cock which is also both perfectly cute and a pretty rose color. At least, he'd like to think so. Maybe not so much the "cute" bit.
Perhaps, if he was so bold, he liked to think that Crowley had a similar thought about him: that someday, maybe not tonight, but someday, they could have found a million different ways to make love, and though they had favorites to return to, they'd have so many more to try. A lifetime would not be enough. And then his thoughts wander again, to asking himself that if Crowley made a womb, would he be able to carry a child? Would he be able to carry Aziraphale's child?
But that was too much, too soon, and for a second he looks struck, sad. He takes a deep, ragged breath, and covers his face with a black wing to kiss its feathers.
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If he did, it would be Aziraphale's: a creation that belonged to the two of them, born of an angel and a demon. In all his wildest imaginings, Crowley never went so far as to envision their own child. But then, he never let himself envision, either, a day when he and Aziraphale might be wed. And of course he's considered, since their betrothal, the expectation that the princess will carry the princess's heir--but she would have to prove sadly barren, wouldn't she? Could such a child ever be dreamed into existence?
He catches the brief sadness over Aziraphale's face before it's covered with his own wing, the angel lathing the black feathers with kisses. Crowley tentatively strokes his cheek with the edge of his wing. "You all right, angel?"
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"I'd never-- before, I'd never wanted a child with anyone." But Crowley, of course, is the exception. He's always the exception. And perhaps he wouldn't even want to carry one, even if he could. All that was all fine, and would make things all the easier. "Maybe it's better I not think about it, but that's all." It's nothing to do with how happy he is about the two of them, because he couldn't be moreso.
Still, he presses a kiss to Crowley's temple and dreams. Maybe, someday. And yet, why would they want a child who might grow old and die someday? He couldn't bear it, not for Heaven or Earth or Crowley, to watch his own flesh and blood age and wither even as he remained the same. Neither could he let the child die in youth. "Yes," he repeats. "Better we not think about it at all."
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Couldn't they dream of more?
"It's not likely to happen though, is it?" he says tentatively, testing the thought. "Even if we wanted--I mean, you being what you are and me being me." Of course they could give themselves the right equipment for it, but surely it wouldn't be as simple as that. Surely it would be...well, a miracle for certain. One he's not sure is within their power.
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And that was the real reason, wasn't it? That he wanted to show Crowley and the world exactly how much he meant to Aziraphale, that giving him all his love and devotion still felt short of what he could give. But once he thought of it, he realized that there were other ways. There must be other ways, to let him know; this had just been the most direct.
He pulls Crowley close for a kiss light as nectar. "Forget I mentioned it, my dear." He lays a hand over Crowley's heart, and wonders what he is thinking currently.
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Except. Except it's caught hold of him a bit, stuck under his ribs. "All right, then," he answers when Aziraphale kisses him and says to forget it, puzzled and, secretly, perhaps a little disappointed, but never mind, he'll soon turn his mind to other things. Crowley covers Aziraphale's hand where it rests over his heart, gazing at him, vulnerable with his eyes unconcealed and yet making no effort to hide them. He's an open book: whatever Aziraphale wants of him, he can have. "You know I'll make you happy," Crowley tells him softly, and his lips tug into a smile. "You'll wonder how you could've done without me."
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Perhaps he feels that way because they know each other, now.
But he can't even remember what it felt like before that. Even though he knows that he would have, before this assignment, sworn up and down that Crowley was his adversary and that they were enemies and all that sort of talk, he knows in his heart that should he have been pulled away at the time, that Aziraphale would have missed him terribly. He would've hated whoever replaced Crowley on principle, and also because he was supposed to hate whoever replaced Crowley on principle.
Regardless, he takes Crowley's hand and smooths it out so he can interlock their fingers. "You already make me happier than you know."