It's what's so baffling about the whole thing: Crowley knows very well Aziraphale could have taken care of those three instead of acting like a helpless damsel, all sweet and tempting in her muslin gown. It's almost as though--well, he's wondered sometimes, the way Aziraphale so often gets himself in trouble somewhere close enough for Crowley to hear about it and go see if he needs a hand. He clings jealously to the fold of skirt he's taken hold of. If he was looking for some attention, well--if anyone ought to be given Aziraphale some attention, shouldn't it be someone who can tempt him properly?
"Could've gotten rid of them yourself," he points out, moving a step closer. Crowley, for his part, doesn't care a whit if people are staring. He's forgotten to care about who he's meant to be here tempting, either. "Maybe their attention--" His lips curl in distaste, "--wasn't so unwanted after all."
His eyes widen behind a pair of round dark spectacles and he almost steps back again when Aziraphale reaches for him and cups his face in his hands. He looks so grateful, so sweet and innocent, his eyes lit up; the pretty feminine features he's given himself tonight do nothing to stop Crowley's imagination from wandering in inappropriate directions. "I--" Crowley swallows, pushing down wariness and a fear of overstepping that has shadowed him since the days of Eden. He can't remember the last time he wanted to tempt Aziraphale so badly. "Oh, I think the job's ruined, angel," he manages at last, recovering his nerve, "now that everyone's seen me rescue you. Very bad for a demon's reputation, and what'll I do about that, hm?"
It's true, this wasn't remotely subtle, that Aziraphale would want to toy with those men because he needed something to be rescued from. "Ah, Crowley. But now you see that people have witnessed the intervention, and they see how happy I am that you've come to my rescue, how fortunate. My hero. And what do you think they will do? They will be inspired to step up for their fellow man, or fellow helpless woman. They will be brave."
But that has put Crowley in a bit of a pickle, hasn't it? "I suppose you will just have to try again another time, dear. Perhaps I could take care of it for you, not to sully your reputation downstairs."
He feels a few more eyes on him, possibly wondering why it is they haven't come back inside, and Aziraphale shoots a glance over to them before he leans up and presses a kiss, like a seal of a letter, to Crowley's cheek. It leaves an impression of pink, which Aziraphale shyly wipes away with a wetted thumb. "What vultures. We should possibly move away from this patio, else I might have to kiss your mouth next."
There might be a slight hint of a dare in his tone. There certainly is one in his choice of perfume, in the flirtatious stance he takes, the delicate touch of his fingers, nimble as he would to make a fine lace.
"Stop that," Crowley hisses, glancing around as though his brethren from Hell might appear in the vicinity to hear his supposed heroism being praised. He's not supposed to inspire anyone, or make them brave. He's supposed to drag them down into the depths of temptation and plumb their souls for their darkest, foulest impulses. He's supposed to--well, he probably should've just left those three to menace their prey. Make Aziraphale take care of it for once, instead of forever running to his rescue the moment he bats his pretty eyelashes. Crowley growls in frustration. "You're not supposed to be happy. I'm a demon. I'm worse than any of them. Ruin my reputation, I'll show you who'll ruin--"
He stops when Aziraphale kisses his cheek, all but freezing in place as the angel follows it up by shyly thumbing away the smudge of rouge left on his skin. Those soft, sweet lips, source of a thousand imaginings--colored a delicate rose to match Aziraphale's gown, and as unholy a temptation as Crowley has ever known. His gaze drops automatically to Aziraphale's mouth when the angel talks of kissing his next. Like a dare, or maybe an offering. A sweet, flirtatious offering of the very thing Crowley aches for.
He reaches for him, not letting himself think. "Yeah, you'll have to. Kiss on the cheek doesn't cut it, angel." Not to redeem a demon's reputation. Probably nothing less than debauchery will do--but Crowley will start with the proferred kiss, capturing Aziraphale's soft lips with his as a hand slides to his rounded hip.
Oh, Crowley is so adorable when he gets all riled up, and Aziraphale finds that it's easy to quell him. At least quell the angry parts of him, soothe them over to be vaguely annoyed but pliable. And, of course, when he grabs Aziraphale, his heart makes a little jump in his chest to his throat, his skin thrumming with fire.
Crowley tastes of fine champagne and night air, and Aziraphale wraps an arm around his neck to pull him down. Aziraphale is quite an average height for a man, but too tall for a woman. Elizabeth Fell, on the other hand, is a woman of quite average height, so any onlooker might see a giant crane of a man bent over like a tall black reed.
And even though Aziraphale is cold from the wet, underneath the thin fabric is a glowing warmth, radiant and sunlike. He draws Crowley in, guiding the hand on his hip to the small of his back, pressing up against him and getting his nice suit all damp. With a soft moan, he deepens the kiss, leaving it only slightly on the edge of indecent to be doing out in public, even at a party such as this one.
But then, as it veers into lewd, he pulls away, hand solidly pressed against Crowley's chest. "My dear, I hardly think this is the place."
Kissing Aziraphale is a dream, sweet lips parted beneath his and perfumed skin, the taste of his mouth reminding Crowley of sunlight and springtime. He gets caught up in it entirely, forgetting that he's supposed to be a terrible demon bent on debauching an innocent maid, an arm circling tight around him and hand gripping tenderly in the clinging fabric of Aziraphale's gown at the small of his back where Aziraphale has guided his touch, wet muslin dampening the front of his tailcoat but he doesn't care at all. It's beyond a dream, beyond anything Crowley imagined. Aziraphale feels smaller in his arms than he ought to, part of the illusion, but that soft moan against his lips is anything but maidenly. It sends a shudder of arousal through him, a sound between a growl and a groan coming from Crowley's throat as the kiss deepens.
He catches his breath when Aziraphale's palm presses firmly against his chest, recalling him to sanity. Nerves still buzzing, Crowley glances around--they've attracted quite the audience now, scandalized and whispering behind their hands--and decides to throw caution to the wind.
"Right." An arm still circled around Aziraphale's waist, Crowley bends down and catches him beneath the knees to sweep him off his feet and into his arms, bridal-style. "Best we were off, then." There are shocked gasps and rising voices from behind them as he moves away across the lawn towards a line of carriages on the drive with ground-eating strides. It's a scandal the party-goers will be talking about for weeks, that villain Mr Crowley seizing poor Miss Fell and carrying her off to her ruin and utter downfall, without a doubt. They don't see how tenderly he holds her, how jealously he guards her as though she is the treasure he has coveted for a hundred lifetimes.
Everyone who had ever spoken to Ms. Fell knows that she had a lost love, a man she'd given her heart to once upon a time who had left the country-- no, had died in the war -- no, had been rejected by her parents who were then succumb to disease one bitter winter. Whatever the case, people didn't want to ask for a clarification, because it always made her so wistful but full of pain to speak of.
Here comes this cad to sweep her away from these romantic notions of this lost love, this stranger who'd extended an arm of kindness to her. They don't need to know that he is her lost love, and he hadn't really been lost at all, but perhaps just. Napping. He did enjoy a good century's-long nap from time to time.
Aziraphale's gasp melts into a laugh as he's carried, and he holds onto Crowley's neck for dear life, burying his face into the lapels of his coat. "My dear, you're making a scene," he admonishes fondly, even as he smiles. At least one of the onlookers will try, unsuccessfully, to convince the others of the truth: Ms. Fell was smiling, she was happy. Perhaps there was something in him they couldn't see, but perhaps he will offer to marry her and then there won't be much of a scandal at all. Perhaps they were already betrothed! Ms. Fell would never just go off with a man like that.
Perhaps she wouldn't, but Aziraphale had no qualms leaving the party like this, hand on Crowley's heart, head in the clouds even as he can see the sharp, handsome lines protectively above him. "Where is your carriage?" he asks.
"'Course I'm making a scene." How else is he to redeem himself? It has to be infamous, stealing away Miss Fell for himself. For his own selfish, greedy, and probably thoroughly perverse desires, or so he hopes the partygoers believe, the act perhaps inspiring them to commit a few foul deeds of their own to cancel out whatever goodness his act of rescuing Aziraphale from his menacers may have caused. And the greed and the desire, at least, are hardly feigned.
Indeed, desire and greed are writhing in his chest at this very moment with Aziraphale's hand laid over his heart; Crowley wonders if he can feel the snarl of emotion, the heat of pure want. His wings arch at the edges of the physical, almost bleeding over into the night, wrapped around the angel he carries as though to guard him jealously from the sight of Heaven. "You seem awfully pleased to be stolen away," he says when Aziraphale asks him where his carriage is, carrying him towards it. "Over there. I'm taking you to my place, and you're not to leave until the morning. I've a reputation to redeem, hope you know."
The carriage is sleek and black-lacquered, with a dramatically upholstered wine-red interior, dripping with almost vulgar style. The driver springs to open the door as Crowley says airily, "Don't worry about the young lady, I'll be looking after her," depositing Aziraphale into the carriage and climbing in with him.
Aziraphale is quite like a cat with the remaining yellow feathers of a canary caught in his mouth, sweetly holding onto Crowley and trying his hardest to remain scandalized. But really he does like this, this excuse for the two of them to spend a little time together in a way they never really got to do.
He can almost feel the brush of feathers on his cheek.
"Well," he responds. "If I do have to be stolen away, it would have to be by you, and not those brutish men," he adds. "And I do owe you a little thanks for your protection, dear. If you won't accept a temptation on your behalf, perhaps my company might do?"
He has felt that the love that always surrounds them is perhaps not just his alone, that maybe Crowley has also felt like this. There was lust, of course; he was a demon, after all -- but love, pure and simple, when he had time to reflect by himself and hadn't found his nose in a book, was ever-present. He doesn't know how to say the words, can't make them come to his mouth. I love you. I want you. So simple, words that came to the most basic of languages. Bereft of them, he looks at Crowley with such plain need, that he hardly doubts he needs them.
Once they're closed together in the carriage, Crowley flexes his fingers as he sits back in the seat, longing to take hold of Aziraphale again. "Owe me?" he echoes slowly, the yellow eyes behind his glasses fixed and staring, unblinking. "Guess you do, don't you, angel?" What a very novel and thoroughly charming idea. Aziraphale owes him a favor. He supposes there are many similar instances in the past where Crowley's never bothered to claim what he may or may not be owed for getting Aziraphale out of trouble, beyond letting the angel take him to lunch or something of the sort. He's never dared to ask him for anything more, and yet here Aziraphale is, making an offering that Crowley can't possibly refuse, as if he couldn't have gotten himself out of that situation just as easily as the demon had done.
And now, as the carriage lurches into motion, Aziraphale looks at him with such sincere need in his eyes. Crowley can't be sure he's not imagining this, but even if he's been asleep for a few decades and this is all some elaborately concocted, wonderful dream he's having, he can't bring himself to care.
His fingers drift again to Aziraphale's skirt, fascinated by the places where the muslin is wet beneath his touch. Catch his death, the angel will. Only mortals would come up with something so ridiculous, Crowley thinks, his gaze wandering to where the skirt clings most becomingly around Aziraphale's thighs. "The..." His voice seems to stick, and Crowley swallows. "The ladies repay gentlemen their favors with a liberty, I'm told. A kiss, or something more than that."
His breath hitches as if Crowley's gaze is tangible, so heavy it is on his thighs, and he comfortably shifts in his seat, seeking a better position or perhaps just to give the cloth a little motion, patches of it becoming pinker as they sit flush and wet to his skin, cold and wanting for the heat of touch. "But you have taken a kiss, and yet you want more," he states. It's not a question, but a fact.
His eyes flicker upwards, brilliant blue, trying to find the amber behind the dark lenses. "I really don't know what I'd do without you, dear, and I - I do want to thank you. Go on then," he says, "and name your favor."
He bites the inside of his lip, and he leans closer to Crowley now, blaming the cobblestones on the road. It's hard to hear Crowley in here, naturally, and he'd like something a little more solid to hold onto for the wheels are a bit thin and bumpy on this carriage, knowing full well he can just request a miracle to be made. He has a hand on Crowley's thigh, and he turns his face towards Crowley's, curiously, awaiting an answer.
The fabric of the skirt is almost sheer where it's wet, clinging so sweetly to Aziraphale's thighs that it brings an ache of longing into Crowley's chest. He's wanted to hear words like the ones the angel speaks for ages--to hear that he's needed, that Aziraphale would miss him if he wasn't there, perhaps even as desperately as Crowley would miss him--oh, he wants so badly for Aziraphale to need him. Maybe that's why he keeps running to his rescue every chance he gets. The carriage lurches over the uneven road, all but throwing Aziraphale against him. His hand is already on Crowley's thigh, as intimate a touch as they've ever shared, and he's leaning in so close; Crowley raises a hand to cup his cheek and thumb at his lip with a rough, tender greed.
"Come here. In my lap, angel." He almost holds his breath with his own nerve and daring, feeling a brief stab of panic at the thought that Aziraphale might refuse, or say he's asking too much--Crowley takes hold of him carefully, not giving him a chance to pull away, oh-so-gently guiding Aziraphale to straddle his lap with the damp skirt caught around his thighs, riding up his legs. "Now kisss me again," he whispers with extra sibilance, spinning a bit of temptation into it, enough perhaps to snare an angel. His hands rest around Aziraphale's waist, then slide down to the swell of his arse, the sweetly rounded handful making him groan.
Aziraphale smiles at him, less than innocently this time, telling Crowley, "I don't think that will cause a less bumpy ride," but climbs into his lap anyway, looking up at him. He doesn't need to be tempted into another kiss; the last one was enough for him to want another one, to crave it later when he finds himself alone again.
He takes Crowley's face in his hands and complies, his lips leaving pink marks all over Crowley's skin, but he doesn't think that the demon minds a bit. He leans back against the carriage cushions and tries to pull Crowley with him, pin himself against the back seat and Crowley's body, arcing his back, making the most delicious strangled noises of pleasure.
No one has touched this angel, it seems, at least not for a long time; he seems starved for it, hands on Crowley's chest and migrating underneath the cloth of his shirt, but thinking better of it and pulling out his ridiculous tie. "How long of a ride is it?" he asks into Crowley's mouth as he breaks away just the slightest.
Aziraphale ought never to be starved for touch or affection, in Crowley's opinion: he's made to be spoiled and indulged, all his hedonistic little pleasures thoroughly fulfilled, and if no one else is up to the job it'll have to be Crowley who gives him a hand. He catches Aziraphale's mouth with his again, driven mad by the kisses the angel peppers over his cheeks, fingers sinking into soft curls to hold him as he takes his mouth with a clever tongue and an unrestrained greed. His grip then falling away, he drags up Aziraphale's skirt, baring his pretty, plump thighs, hands wandering avariciously over them before his fingers press into the soft tender skin and he drags Aziraphale's hips against his. Pleasure jolts through him at the stimulation, his cock insistently aroused, pressing against the front placket of his trousers.
Breathing hard, he answers in a rasping voice, "Can be as long as you like," and miracles the driver into deciding to take a rather scenic route around London. Crowley drags Aziraphale insistently close and kisses his throat and his chest, loosening the ribbons of his bodice with deft, tender fingers. "Greedy wench," he murmurs into Aziraphale's skin, drunk on him, on the scent of roses and sunlight on his skin, the warmth and light of him that Crowley has coveted for so long. The words to tell him how deeply he loves him hover just out of his reach, too; the demon doesn't dare speak them, but he'll dare almost anything else just now. "When I have you home," he goes on recklessly, "I'll bend you over the closest piece of furniture and give you the seeing-to you deserve. That what you want, angel? That why you keep needing rescue?"
He had thought they would at least make it to a bed before all this started happening, but between the temptation and the urgent kisses he finds that he doesn't mind a little indiscretion on Crowley's part, impatiently trying to get his hands underneath the fabric promising creamy soft thighs, cracking open his bodice too see what revealed underneath it. Aziraphale can hardly blame the demon when he encourages it gently, when he moans at the proposed idea. He was never really a decent angel, which he proves as he confesses by mouthing into Crowley's neck, "Just wanted to see you."
Aziraphale was the kind of angel to generally made an effort just for the purpose of filling out his trousers. His usual preference would've been a little obvious under the wet muslin and so this morning he had put on his makeup and manifested himself a vagina which, upon being confronted with Crowley's cock in a dizzying slide of hips, makes itself quite known in a frankly embarrassing amount of slick arousal. He breaks the kiss to protest that they should wait until they're inside a house, but finds himself rubbing through the seat of Crowley's trousers instead, feeling how he grows and moves under his touch.
"Take us home," he insists into Crowley's mouth, inebriating himself on Crowley's mouth as he practically starts to rut against him. Yes, Crowley will have to spoil him with affections and cancel his plans for at least the next day, to properly sate the greediest of all angels. But then hopefully by that time, Crowley will have found the effort of having saved him numerous times well worth it.
Even in the depths of his desire, Crowley finds himself unexpectedly touched by Aziraphale’s confession, murmured sweetly at his throat. Just wanted to see you, he says, which is what Crowley always wants, to be with Aziraphale, to spend just a little more and a little more of his time on this earth in his company. It's why he seeks him out even when there's no reason to, drinking in the pleasure of being with him like these are his last days.
And what a pleasure it is now, with Aziraphale squirming over his lap like that. Crowley can feel him, hot and slick and lovely, and it makes him almost dizzy with desire, aching to be inside him right then. For a moment he's tempted to point out that the carriage won't be stopping any time soon, they can rut right here, as filthy and obscene as any demon could please, but Aziraphale's reaction to his plan is too irresistible. He makes the driver turn abruptly towards home, the poor confused soul not sure what had made him think that a long drive around London would be the thing, but at least they're close enough that it doesn't take much longer.
Crowley leases several sumptuously appointed rooms in a terrace, fashioned in styles that some find quite modern and others just plain bizarre. There's plenty of comfortable furniture, though, for a demon to nap in, or do more pleasing things; he all but drags Aziraphale inside, turning him as soon as the door is shut and pushing him back against it to kiss him with something like desperation.
The ride home, short as it is, is almost unbearable and Aziraphale has half a mind to take Crowley out of his trousers and climb on top of him, let his head hit the top of the carriage for all he cares, really. But then he's whisked away inside and he couldn't care less if it was an absolute hovel or Versailles, he pushes against Crowley, taking him by the hips and grabbing a generous handful of arse while he's at it.
He kisses Crowley with a loud desperation, uncaring as to what the neighbors might hear or say in the moment, only wanting to love and be loved. "Bed," he murmurs against Crowley's lips, hardly able to contain himself at the moment, tugging away at some of Crowley's many clothes.
Currently, Aziraphale is very thankful that he usually takes a masculine appearance and wears suits not unlike this one, so that he knows just how the clasps work and where the buttons are, not like some fumbling virgin girl who wouldn't know how to untie a gentleman's belt. He moves to kiss Crowley's neck when he is able, dropping his tie to the ground, sucking hard at his pulse and soothing over it with the flat of his tongue.
Crowley kisses Aziraphale as though to smother the sweet sounds he makes, not because he cares what the neighbors hear either but because he wants them all for himself, wants to taste his moans, his delightful urgency. It's still a dream, he thinks, it must be a dream, Aziraphale so receptive and welcoming, so desiring of affection that Crowley wants to wrap him up tight in his arms and wings and never let go. In a dream he can do anything he wants, so he shakes his head slightly when Aziraphale demands a bed, pinning him to the door as he kisses him breathlessly and lets the angel's hands wander wherever they like and determinedly take apart his clothes. "Not the plan," Crowley reminds him, murmuring the words hotly into his mouth.
The nearest piece of furniture was what he'd said, in fact, and that turns out to be a solid, smooth chest against the wall close to the door, which Crowley tugs Aziraphale over to and bends him over lengthwise. His necktie has slithered to the floor somewhere behind them, his coat and waistcoat undone and the placket of buttons at the front of his breeches already half-unfastened so that it's the work of a moment to finish and drag his cock free, hips leaned against the swell of Aziraphale's arse from behind, cock pressed into the gossamer fabric, and Crowley groans as he palms Aziraphale's arse greedily with both hands. "Oh angel," he says fervently, grasping handfuls of the skirt and dragging it up, throwing it carelessly over his back, fingers caressing the cunt Aziraphale's manifested before he guides his cock to him and pushes into the hot wet center.
"Fuck," Crowley hisses as he thrusts in, grabbing Aziraphale's hip with one hand.
Crowley had never been a great fan of plans except for this one, he supposed. Which was just as well, because despite his protests, Aziraphale enjoyed this plan immensely, let himself be handled over to the chest, knowing full well that Crowley would be taking care of him momentarily. "Crowley--" he breathes out, voice trailing off to a strangled noise when Crowley presses up against him and lifts his skirts and it's unfair for Crowley to be able to look and touch when Aziraphale was in this position. He tries to get a glance even as Crowley presses into him but fails with mouth open in wanton pleasure, heartbeat seemingly migrated to the place between his legs where the pulse could move the very Earth.
He has never let a human take him like this, and doesn't remember the last time he had manifested this particular sex at all; experiencing its pleasures for the first time he cries out for Crowley again, fingers trembling against the chest and grasping for purchase. He feels a distinct sensation of fullness when Crowley has sunk into him, and reaches for his hip for him to stay just a little while here, connected.
He had wanted this for a suppressed amount of time, continually telling himself that it was impossible or it wasn't a good idea and so many other things beside. Every day he would look Crowley in the eyes and wish for more, and every night he would have invasive thoughts that ate him up inside. Finally, he could take this no longer- if he loves can he really Fall? If Crowley lusts can he really be punished? and he had sought this out like a man starved, ravenous to consume what he had denied himself for so long.
Lingering on Crowley's exposed skin for a moment, he lowers his hand to the chest and shifts his hips in ready anticipation.
Crowley feels so charged up by longing and want that he almost can’t stand it, the way Aziraphale calls his name going like a lightning bolt straight into his heart. He should have known that being with Aziraphale would shake him down to his soul; surely it would be too much, more than a demon could bear, only Crowley still half-believes he is dreaming this and so anything and everything he has wanted can be his. Grasping Aziraphale's hip with tight, trembling fingers, he sinks fully inside of him, hearing the angel cry out for him, feeling him so hot and tight around his cock that it's almost impossible not to lose all sense of restraint. But he grasps tightly to those last vestiges, not wanting to hurt the angel he loves so completely.
He does, Crowley thinks dazedly, he loves him--loves him, with a passion that has burned in him for so long he can barely remember himself without it, that will burn just as brightly until the stars fall from the sky. It has been part of his very essence all these long millennia, etched into his soul and written into this body he wears, joined with Aziraphale's for the first time. All these years he's borne it patiently, circling Aziraphale like a moon in orbit, but now it ravages him, threatens to take him apart. "Aziraphale," he says, choking out his name as though he's completely lost to him, grasping him by hip and waist as he fucks into him, feeling the soft connection of Aziraphale's hand reaching back to his hip as though it is all the acceptance and care he's ever longed for.
His wings come out with a snap, black feathers shadowing their bodies as he thrusts deep, the curve of his wings a possessive arch above the angel as though to hide him from the sight of Heaven or God or anyone other than Crowley himself.
Crowley burns the image of stars into the back of Aziraphale's eyelids when he starts moving, causes a distinct haze in front of his vision that's sharp and demonic and so inherently Crowley. He inhales it, drinks it down, moans deeply for him as his senses overload with the desire to kiss him and hold him and become one with him all at once. It feels glorious, Crowley giving as much as he is taking, calling his name, making it known that he hadn't been wrong all these years.
He can barely hold onto the chest, stomach pressing up against it, arse held high, each thrust sending him down further into delirium as in a dream of his own, in a laudanum-induced state. And yet, the feeling is so intense, so poignant that he can't help but to be rooted in reality, each thrust igniting a spark within his core.
Black feathers surround him and he longs to touch them, not just hear their rustling behind him. He arcs his head back to see, even though it's quite uncomfortable, but it leaves him dizzy and breathless. He hasn't seen them since Eden and they're gorgeous, shiny raven black and protective. "Crowley," he calls again and again, as short staccato gasps in throes of the most divine pleasure.
His body moves with instinctive purpose, any uncertainty vanishing in the face of how Aziraphale calls his name in breathless gasps, again and again. There's simply no need for it, it's as though the two of them were meant for this since the day they were made, created for one another. Crowley's hands wander fervently over Aziraphale's waist and hips, rucking up the gown, taking handfuls of the wet muslin to hold as his hips snap against the angel's sweetly rounded backside. He bends down to brush his mouth at Aziraphale's spine, kissing and nipping at him through the fabric of the dress in a delirium of love and desire, reaching down to slip his fingers against his sex, pressing so delicately, so gently to the source of his pleasure.
"Angel," he says ardently, wings swept forward around him, black and gleaming and spread nearly to their fullest length as though to wrap Aziraphale protectively within them, "oh, fuck, angel--" Crowley buries his face at the center of Aziraphale's back, at the place just between where his own wings take root, lavishing kisses. "You--you don't know what you do to me. Can't fucking bear it. Oh--fucking Heaven--they'll have to come and take you from me, I won't ever let you go--"
He hardly knows what he's saying, and it's absurd, surely, these devout words, as possessive and greedy and claiming as his hands, his mouth, his cock. Crowley doesn't care. Aziraphale is with him, giving himself over to him so completely, and it's all he's ever wanted.
Aziraphale's gasps turn into keening whines as Crowley reaches to touch him against a sharp bundle of nerves that long for him, and he takes Crowley's hand and holds it against him hard with a wordless plea to rub against him harder, trying to say the words but only really getting a stuttered start to "please."
He feels utterly debauched and as if Crowley is completely dismantling him piece by piece but he loves it all the same; everything about this feels right so let Heaven come for him and bring Hell as well: if this was a test then he'd failed it but he'd failed it a long time ago, if he had done so by his love of Crowley. Why would God have put them together at the beginning if She had known they would love like this, need each other as if the rest of the world could fall apart around them and they wouldn't care to notice? Surely she would have seen this in her Plan, that she shared only glimpses to as gifts for Agnes, small trinkets for Crowley or Gabriel, but never in its entirety, this grand plan of which Aziraphale's existence is totally eclipsed by his love for one other singular being in the universe.
He considers this in amorphous amounts with thoughts firing off quicker than lightning as his body gives into Crowley's, as his fingers reach for feathers but grasp too hard, helpless as his pleasure takes over him entirely. "Want to see you," he manages at last between breaths, even as he shakes and shudders into Crowley's embrace. Easily, they could both finish like this --quickly too, if Aziraphale had to guess-- but he is selfish. That's how they managed to be here in the first place, Aziraphale's high curls toppled over in mess, his dress hiked up, rouge smeared, getting everything he wants but to witness Crowley behind him.
Crowley can't really imagine denying Aziraphale anything. He couldn't imagine it before, when the angel on very rare occasion asked him for something directly rather than engineering Crowley into doing what he wanted, and he certainly can't imagine it now with Aziraphale moaning and pleading beneath him, grasping his hand to push it harder against him, already so sweetly debauched and given over to pleasure that Crowley thinks he might just die of it. Never, ever has he seen Aziraphale like this--even the angel enjoying the sensuous luxury of a sumptuous meal doesn't compare. He gives him what he wants, dexterous fingers pressing and rubbing harder, eliciting every shiver and response he can from the angel's body. It's such an exquisite torment, being clutched in Aziraphale's sweet wet cunt and feeling him shake beneath him like he'll come apart, fucking deeper and deeper as though it might be possible to become part of him in such a way that they'll never be separated again.
Crowley bites at Aziraphale's shoulder, muffling a short cry--trying terribly to be gentle, close to shivering apart himself with the effort. So close, Hell, he's so close already, wanting to spill deep within Aziraphale and at the same time wanting it never to end. So when Aziraphale says that he wants to see him, Crowley forces himself to stillness, breathing harshly against the angel's shoulder for a few moments, before at last drawing back, his cock slipping free--it's almost agonizing not to be within him, but he turns Aziraphale in his arms and drags him into a kiss, pulling him from the chest and taking him into his arms again to carry him to the nearest settee.
They tumble down together, Crowley's wings steadying him as he sprawls against Aziraphale, still kissing him as though he'd like to drown in him. "Like this, angel?" he asks breathlessly between the hot dizzying brushes of their mouths as he impatiently shoves Aziraphale's skirt out of the way again, insinuating himself between his thighs. "This what you want?" Crowley has to catch his breath, sliding his cock into him again, a moan catching in his throat as he pushes his hips urgently against Aziraphale's.
When Crowley slips out of him Aziraphale almost tells him to forget it, so empty does he feel of him, and so much does he want that glorious length of his cock to take him over and over again, let it bury itself in him whenever he should need warmth or kindness or anything at all. He should always be welcome in between Aziraphale's legs, he thinks, if this is any strong indication. But as quickly as he is gone, he returns with kisses and Aziraphale feels as if he's a pale patch of snow melting into spring, holds onto him as he's deposited into the seat, his mouth insistent.
Crowley breaching him a second time is both blinding and searing, leaving Aziraphale's back to make an impossible curve, drawn like a bowstring ready to be plucked. He wraps his legs around Crowley's waist in an effort to push him deeper, arms slung around him and catching soft black wings in the gaps between his fingers. He can feel his vulva take grip of Crowley, shouts as all the endings of his nerves crowd Crowley's cock and give a squeeze.
It doesn't take much longer for him to come screaming Crowley's name as it beats furiously out of his lungs, dragging through his throat, orgasm ripping through and consuming him in the wake of its fire. "Come on," he urges, hand at Crowley's cheek and nipping sweet kisses. "Come for me, darling," he commands as he holds Crowley's face still and regards his eyes a mere inch from a kiss. His mouth is open and panting as he grinds his hips, and all that exists in his eyes are unbridled lust and a determined focus to bring him to release.
It's overwhelming to feel so wanted, like nothing else he's ever been given, no greater offering than this--to be held in Aziraphale's arms as he buries himself deep within him, feeling the angel's legs caught around him and his hands burying themselves into black feathers at the base of his wings. Crowley shudders with this sensation of being altogether embraced, held safe within the warmth and light his angel offers. His, he thinks again, dazedly, fervently, mouth catching Aziraphale's in endless devouring kisses as his hips rock again and again. As though he might have Aziraphale forever, take him to his bed and love him until neither of them had any desire to rise from it again.
Crowley tastes his cry as he comes, his own name in the angel's mouth, feels him clenching around the length of his cock and the pleasure it wrings from his own body until Crowley is shuddering, Aziraphale's ecstasy sweeping through him like it is his own. He stares wide-eyed back at Aziraphale when he tells him to come, urges him with his hands cupped around his face and his gaze holding Crowley's like he's being entranced. When he calls him darling, so sweet a name that something clenches like pain in Crowley's chest. He realizes that somewhere between the chest and the settee or maybe the frantic need to get inside Aziraphale before that, his glasses were lost, slipped off his face without him noticing, and Aziraphale is looking directly into his unguarded eyes--it bolts through Crowley with a twist of intense vulnerability, his hips stuttering as his release bursts from him, shocking him into crying out. He urges himself helplessly into Aziraphale, once, twice as he spills, and then the tension drains from his body and he finds himself bowing down helplessly in a shivering curve, lowering into Aziraphale's embrace with his face buried at the base of his throat.
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"Could've gotten rid of them yourself," he points out, moving a step closer. Crowley, for his part, doesn't care a whit if people are staring. He's forgotten to care about who he's meant to be here tempting, either. "Maybe their attention--" His lips curl in distaste, "--wasn't so unwanted after all."
His eyes widen behind a pair of round dark spectacles and he almost steps back again when Aziraphale reaches for him and cups his face in his hands. He looks so grateful, so sweet and innocent, his eyes lit up; the pretty feminine features he's given himself tonight do nothing to stop Crowley's imagination from wandering in inappropriate directions. "I--" Crowley swallows, pushing down wariness and a fear of overstepping that has shadowed him since the days of Eden. He can't remember the last time he wanted to tempt Aziraphale so badly. "Oh, I think the job's ruined, angel," he manages at last, recovering his nerve, "now that everyone's seen me rescue you. Very bad for a demon's reputation, and what'll I do about that, hm?"
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But that has put Crowley in a bit of a pickle, hasn't it? "I suppose you will just have to try again another time, dear. Perhaps I could take care of it for you, not to sully your reputation downstairs."
He feels a few more eyes on him, possibly wondering why it is they haven't come back inside, and Aziraphale shoots a glance over to them before he leans up and presses a kiss, like a seal of a letter, to Crowley's cheek. It leaves an impression of pink, which Aziraphale shyly wipes away with a wetted thumb. "What vultures. We should possibly move away from this patio, else I might have to kiss your mouth next."
There might be a slight hint of a dare in his tone. There certainly is one in his choice of perfume, in the flirtatious stance he takes, the delicate touch of his fingers, nimble as he would to make a fine lace.
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He stops when Aziraphale kisses his cheek, all but freezing in place as the angel follows it up by shyly thumbing away the smudge of rouge left on his skin. Those soft, sweet lips, source of a thousand imaginings--colored a delicate rose to match Aziraphale's gown, and as unholy a temptation as Crowley has ever known. His gaze drops automatically to Aziraphale's mouth when the angel talks of kissing his next. Like a dare, or maybe an offering. A sweet, flirtatious offering of the very thing Crowley aches for.
He reaches for him, not letting himself think. "Yeah, you'll have to. Kiss on the cheek doesn't cut it, angel." Not to redeem a demon's reputation. Probably nothing less than debauchery will do--but Crowley will start with the proferred kiss, capturing Aziraphale's soft lips with his as a hand slides to his rounded hip.
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Crowley tastes of fine champagne and night air, and Aziraphale wraps an arm around his neck to pull him down. Aziraphale is quite an average height for a man, but too tall for a woman. Elizabeth Fell, on the other hand, is a woman of quite average height, so any onlooker might see a giant crane of a man bent over like a tall black reed.
And even though Aziraphale is cold from the wet, underneath the thin fabric is a glowing warmth, radiant and sunlike. He draws Crowley in, guiding the hand on his hip to the small of his back, pressing up against him and getting his nice suit all damp. With a soft moan, he deepens the kiss, leaving it only slightly on the edge of indecent to be doing out in public, even at a party such as this one.
But then, as it veers into lewd, he pulls away, hand solidly pressed against Crowley's chest. "My dear, I hardly think this is the place."
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He catches his breath when Aziraphale's palm presses firmly against his chest, recalling him to sanity. Nerves still buzzing, Crowley glances around--they've attracted quite the audience now, scandalized and whispering behind their hands--and decides to throw caution to the wind.
"Right." An arm still circled around Aziraphale's waist, Crowley bends down and catches him beneath the knees to sweep him off his feet and into his arms, bridal-style. "Best we were off, then." There are shocked gasps and rising voices from behind them as he moves away across the lawn towards a line of carriages on the drive with ground-eating strides. It's a scandal the party-goers will be talking about for weeks, that villain Mr Crowley seizing poor Miss Fell and carrying her off to her ruin and utter downfall, without a doubt. They don't see how tenderly he holds her, how jealously he guards her as though she is the treasure he has coveted for a hundred lifetimes.
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Here comes this cad to sweep her away from these romantic notions of this lost love, this stranger who'd extended an arm of kindness to her. They don't need to know that he is her lost love, and he hadn't really been lost at all, but perhaps just. Napping. He did enjoy a good century's-long nap from time to time.
Aziraphale's gasp melts into a laugh as he's carried, and he holds onto Crowley's neck for dear life, burying his face into the lapels of his coat. "My dear, you're making a scene," he admonishes fondly, even as he smiles. At least one of the onlookers will try, unsuccessfully, to convince the others of the truth: Ms. Fell was smiling, she was happy. Perhaps there was something in him they couldn't see, but perhaps he will offer to marry her and then there won't be much of a scandal at all. Perhaps they were already betrothed! Ms. Fell would never just go off with a man like that.
Perhaps she wouldn't, but Aziraphale had no qualms leaving the party like this, hand on Crowley's heart, head in the clouds even as he can see the sharp, handsome lines protectively above him. "Where is your carriage?" he asks.
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Indeed, desire and greed are writhing in his chest at this very moment with Aziraphale's hand laid over his heart; Crowley wonders if he can feel the snarl of emotion, the heat of pure want. His wings arch at the edges of the physical, almost bleeding over into the night, wrapped around the angel he carries as though to guard him jealously from the sight of Heaven. "You seem awfully pleased to be stolen away," he says when Aziraphale asks him where his carriage is, carrying him towards it. "Over there. I'm taking you to my place, and you're not to leave until the morning. I've a reputation to redeem, hope you know."
The carriage is sleek and black-lacquered, with a dramatically upholstered wine-red interior, dripping with almost vulgar style. The driver springs to open the door as Crowley says airily, "Don't worry about the young lady, I'll be looking after her," depositing Aziraphale into the carriage and climbing in with him.
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He can almost feel the brush of feathers on his cheek.
"Well," he responds. "If I do have to be stolen away, it would have to be by you, and not those brutish men," he adds. "And I do owe you a little thanks for your protection, dear. If you won't accept a temptation on your behalf, perhaps my company might do?"
He has felt that the love that always surrounds them is perhaps not just his alone, that maybe Crowley has also felt like this. There was lust, of course; he was a demon, after all -- but love, pure and simple, when he had time to reflect by himself and hadn't found his nose in a book, was ever-present. He doesn't know how to say the words, can't make them come to his mouth. I love you. I want you. So simple, words that came to the most basic of languages. Bereft of them, he looks at Crowley with such plain need, that he hardly doubts he needs them.
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And now, as the carriage lurches into motion, Aziraphale looks at him with such sincere need in his eyes. Crowley can't be sure he's not imagining this, but even if he's been asleep for a few decades and this is all some elaborately concocted, wonderful dream he's having, he can't bring himself to care.
His fingers drift again to Aziraphale's skirt, fascinated by the places where the muslin is wet beneath his touch. Catch his death, the angel will. Only mortals would come up with something so ridiculous, Crowley thinks, his gaze wandering to where the skirt clings most becomingly around Aziraphale's thighs. "The..." His voice seems to stick, and Crowley swallows. "The ladies repay gentlemen their favors with a liberty, I'm told. A kiss, or something more than that."
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His eyes flicker upwards, brilliant blue, trying to find the amber behind the dark lenses. "I really don't know what I'd do without you, dear, and I - I do want to thank you. Go on then," he says, "and name your favor."
He bites the inside of his lip, and he leans closer to Crowley now, blaming the cobblestones on the road. It's hard to hear Crowley in here, naturally, and he'd like something a little more solid to hold onto for the wheels are a bit thin and bumpy on this carriage, knowing full well he can just request a miracle to be made. He has a hand on Crowley's thigh, and he turns his face towards Crowley's, curiously, awaiting an answer.
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"Come here. In my lap, angel." He almost holds his breath with his own nerve and daring, feeling a brief stab of panic at the thought that Aziraphale might refuse, or say he's asking too much--Crowley takes hold of him carefully, not giving him a chance to pull away, oh-so-gently guiding Aziraphale to straddle his lap with the damp skirt caught around his thighs, riding up his legs. "Now kisss me again," he whispers with extra sibilance, spinning a bit of temptation into it, enough perhaps to snare an angel. His hands rest around Aziraphale's waist, then slide down to the swell of his arse, the sweetly rounded handful making him groan.
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He takes Crowley's face in his hands and complies, his lips leaving pink marks all over Crowley's skin, but he doesn't think that the demon minds a bit. He leans back against the carriage cushions and tries to pull Crowley with him, pin himself against the back seat and Crowley's body, arcing his back, making the most delicious strangled noises of pleasure.
No one has touched this angel, it seems, at least not for a long time; he seems starved for it, hands on Crowley's chest and migrating underneath the cloth of his shirt, but thinking better of it and pulling out his ridiculous tie. "How long of a ride is it?" he asks into Crowley's mouth as he breaks away just the slightest.
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Breathing hard, he answers in a rasping voice, "Can be as long as you like," and miracles the driver into deciding to take a rather scenic route around London. Crowley drags Aziraphale insistently close and kisses his throat and his chest, loosening the ribbons of his bodice with deft, tender fingers. "Greedy wench," he murmurs into Aziraphale's skin, drunk on him, on the scent of roses and sunlight on his skin, the warmth and light of him that Crowley has coveted for so long. The words to tell him how deeply he loves him hover just out of his reach, too; the demon doesn't dare speak them, but he'll dare almost anything else just now. "When I have you home," he goes on recklessly, "I'll bend you over the closest piece of furniture and give you the seeing-to you deserve. That what you want, angel? That why you keep needing rescue?"
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Aziraphale was the kind of angel to generally made an effort just for the purpose of filling out his trousers. His usual preference would've been a little obvious under the wet muslin and so this morning he had put on his makeup and manifested himself a vagina which, upon being confronted with Crowley's cock in a dizzying slide of hips, makes itself quite known in a frankly embarrassing amount of slick arousal. He breaks the kiss to protest that they should wait until they're inside a house, but finds himself rubbing through the seat of Crowley's trousers instead, feeling how he grows and moves under his touch.
"Take us home," he insists into Crowley's mouth, inebriating himself on Crowley's mouth as he practically starts to rut against him. Yes, Crowley will have to spoil him with affections and cancel his plans for at least the next day, to properly sate the greediest of all angels. But then hopefully by that time, Crowley will have found the effort of having saved him numerous times well worth it.
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And what a pleasure it is now, with Aziraphale squirming over his lap like that. Crowley can feel him, hot and slick and lovely, and it makes him almost dizzy with desire, aching to be inside him right then. For a moment he's tempted to point out that the carriage won't be stopping any time soon, they can rut right here, as filthy and obscene as any demon could please, but Aziraphale's reaction to his plan is too irresistible. He makes the driver turn abruptly towards home, the poor confused soul not sure what had made him think that a long drive around London would be the thing, but at least they're close enough that it doesn't take much longer.
Crowley leases several sumptuously appointed rooms in a terrace, fashioned in styles that some find quite modern and others just plain bizarre. There's plenty of comfortable furniture, though, for a demon to nap in, or do more pleasing things; he all but drags Aziraphale inside, turning him as soon as the door is shut and pushing him back against it to kiss him with something like desperation.
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He kisses Crowley with a loud desperation, uncaring as to what the neighbors might hear or say in the moment, only wanting to love and be loved. "Bed," he murmurs against Crowley's lips, hardly able to contain himself at the moment, tugging away at some of Crowley's many clothes.
Currently, Aziraphale is very thankful that he usually takes a masculine appearance and wears suits not unlike this one, so that he knows just how the clasps work and where the buttons are, not like some fumbling virgin girl who wouldn't know how to untie a gentleman's belt. He moves to kiss Crowley's neck when he is able, dropping his tie to the ground, sucking hard at his pulse and soothing over it with the flat of his tongue.
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The nearest piece of furniture was what he'd said, in fact, and that turns out to be a solid, smooth chest against the wall close to the door, which Crowley tugs Aziraphale over to and bends him over lengthwise. His necktie has slithered to the floor somewhere behind them, his coat and waistcoat undone and the placket of buttons at the front of his breeches already half-unfastened so that it's the work of a moment to finish and drag his cock free, hips leaned against the swell of Aziraphale's arse from behind, cock pressed into the gossamer fabric, and Crowley groans as he palms Aziraphale's arse greedily with both hands. "Oh angel," he says fervently, grasping handfuls of the skirt and dragging it up, throwing it carelessly over his back, fingers caressing the cunt Aziraphale's manifested before he guides his cock to him and pushes into the hot wet center.
"Fuck," Crowley hisses as he thrusts in, grabbing Aziraphale's hip with one hand.
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He has never let a human take him like this, and doesn't remember the last time he had manifested this particular sex at all; experiencing its pleasures for the first time he cries out for Crowley again, fingers trembling against the chest and grasping for purchase. He feels a distinct sensation of fullness when Crowley has sunk into him, and reaches for his hip for him to stay just a little while here, connected.
He had wanted this for a suppressed amount of time, continually telling himself that it was impossible or it wasn't a good idea and so many other things beside. Every day he would look Crowley in the eyes and wish for more, and every night he would have invasive thoughts that ate him up inside. Finally, he could take this no longer- if he loves can he really Fall? If Crowley lusts can he really be punished? and he had sought this out like a man starved, ravenous to consume what he had denied himself for so long.
Lingering on Crowley's exposed skin for a moment, he lowers his hand to the chest and shifts his hips in ready anticipation.
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He does, Crowley thinks dazedly, he loves him--loves him, with a passion that has burned in him for so long he can barely remember himself without it, that will burn just as brightly until the stars fall from the sky. It has been part of his very essence all these long millennia, etched into his soul and written into this body he wears, joined with Aziraphale's for the first time. All these years he's borne it patiently, circling Aziraphale like a moon in orbit, but now it ravages him, threatens to take him apart. "Aziraphale," he says, choking out his name as though he's completely lost to him, grasping him by hip and waist as he fucks into him, feeling the soft connection of Aziraphale's hand reaching back to his hip as though it is all the acceptance and care he's ever longed for.
His wings come out with a snap, black feathers shadowing their bodies as he thrusts deep, the curve of his wings a possessive arch above the angel as though to hide him from the sight of Heaven or God or anyone other than Crowley himself.
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He can barely hold onto the chest, stomach pressing up against it, arse held high, each thrust sending him down further into delirium as in a dream of his own, in a laudanum-induced state. And yet, the feeling is so intense, so poignant that he can't help but to be rooted in reality, each thrust igniting a spark within his core.
Black feathers surround him and he longs to touch them, not just hear their rustling behind him. He arcs his head back to see, even though it's quite uncomfortable, but it leaves him dizzy and breathless. He hasn't seen them since Eden and they're gorgeous, shiny raven black and protective. "Crowley," he calls again and again, as short staccato gasps in throes of the most divine pleasure.
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"Angel," he says ardently, wings swept forward around him, black and gleaming and spread nearly to their fullest length as though to wrap Aziraphale protectively within them, "oh, fuck, angel--" Crowley buries his face at the center of Aziraphale's back, at the place just between where his own wings take root, lavishing kisses. "You--you don't know what you do to me. Can't fucking bear it. Oh--fucking Heaven--they'll have to come and take you from me, I won't ever let you go--"
He hardly knows what he's saying, and it's absurd, surely, these devout words, as possessive and greedy and claiming as his hands, his mouth, his cock. Crowley doesn't care. Aziraphale is with him, giving himself over to him so completely, and it's all he's ever wanted.
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He feels utterly debauched and as if Crowley is completely dismantling him piece by piece but he loves it all the same; everything about this feels right so let Heaven come for him and bring Hell as well: if this was a test then he'd failed it but he'd failed it a long time ago, if he had done so by his love of Crowley. Why would God have put them together at the beginning if She had known they would love like this, need each other as if the rest of the world could fall apart around them and they wouldn't care to notice? Surely she would have seen this in her Plan, that she shared only glimpses to as gifts for Agnes, small trinkets for Crowley or Gabriel, but never in its entirety, this grand plan of which Aziraphale's existence is totally eclipsed by his love for one other singular being in the universe.
He considers this in amorphous amounts with thoughts firing off quicker than lightning as his body gives into Crowley's, as his fingers reach for feathers but grasp too hard, helpless as his pleasure takes over him entirely. "Want to see you," he manages at last between breaths, even as he shakes and shudders into Crowley's embrace. Easily, they could both finish like this --quickly too, if Aziraphale had to guess-- but he is selfish. That's how they managed to be here in the first place, Aziraphale's high curls toppled over in mess, his dress hiked up, rouge smeared, getting everything he wants but to witness Crowley behind him.
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Crowley bites at Aziraphale's shoulder, muffling a short cry--trying terribly to be gentle, close to shivering apart himself with the effort. So close, Hell, he's so close already, wanting to spill deep within Aziraphale and at the same time wanting it never to end. So when Aziraphale says that he wants to see him, Crowley forces himself to stillness, breathing harshly against the angel's shoulder for a few moments, before at last drawing back, his cock slipping free--it's almost agonizing not to be within him, but he turns Aziraphale in his arms and drags him into a kiss, pulling him from the chest and taking him into his arms again to carry him to the nearest settee.
They tumble down together, Crowley's wings steadying him as he sprawls against Aziraphale, still kissing him as though he'd like to drown in him. "Like this, angel?" he asks breathlessly between the hot dizzying brushes of their mouths as he impatiently shoves Aziraphale's skirt out of the way again, insinuating himself between his thighs. "This what you want?" Crowley has to catch his breath, sliding his cock into him again, a moan catching in his throat as he pushes his hips urgently against Aziraphale's.
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Crowley breaching him a second time is both blinding and searing, leaving Aziraphale's back to make an impossible curve, drawn like a bowstring ready to be plucked. He wraps his legs around Crowley's waist in an effort to push him deeper, arms slung around him and catching soft black wings in the gaps between his fingers. He can feel his vulva take grip of Crowley, shouts as all the endings of his nerves crowd Crowley's cock and give a squeeze.
It doesn't take much longer for him to come screaming Crowley's name as it beats furiously out of his lungs, dragging through his throat, orgasm ripping through and consuming him in the wake of its fire. "Come on," he urges, hand at Crowley's cheek and nipping sweet kisses. "Come for me, darling," he commands as he holds Crowley's face still and regards his eyes a mere inch from a kiss. His mouth is open and panting as he grinds his hips, and all that exists in his eyes are unbridled lust and a determined focus to bring him to release.
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Crowley tastes his cry as he comes, his own name in the angel's mouth, feels him clenching around the length of his cock and the pleasure it wrings from his own body until Crowley is shuddering, Aziraphale's ecstasy sweeping through him like it is his own. He stares wide-eyed back at Aziraphale when he tells him to come, urges him with his hands cupped around his face and his gaze holding Crowley's like he's being entranced. When he calls him darling, so sweet a name that something clenches like pain in Crowley's chest. He realizes that somewhere between the chest and the settee or maybe the frantic need to get inside Aziraphale before that, his glasses were lost, slipped off his face without him noticing, and Aziraphale is looking directly into his unguarded eyes--it bolts through Crowley with a twist of intense vulnerability, his hips stuttering as his release bursts from him, shocking him into crying out. He urges himself helplessly into Aziraphale, once, twice as he spills, and then the tension drains from his body and he finds himself bowing down helplessly in a shivering curve, lowering into Aziraphale's embrace with his face buried at the base of his throat.
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sorry this is so late, travel killed my brain
it's ok <3 hope you're all rested
yesss i finally got to sleep in
oh yes congrats !!
why thank you :>
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