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.
Aziraphale holds him close, head against his neck, catching his breath and staying otherwise still for just one long moment. He turns after his breath has returned in full, and presses a reverent kiss to Crowley's temple. Perhaps that is not part of their game or their silent agreement to whatever this is, but it seems that Aziraphale is more than likely tonight to go off script from whatever is agreed. He'd seen it, in Crowley's naked eyes unclouded by dark glasses. But even before then, had tasted it in the desperation of his kiss, could feel it in the protective cover of his wings.
He reaches out, then, for inky black feathers, smiling softly so that Crowley can't see how much this means to him. Because for all they've done tonight, for all Aziraphale's bravery and for perhaps what Crowley has also read on his face and heard in his words, he also knows. Yet, he had been hiding for so long that it seemed only natural to do so now, and he had to catch himself.
Besides, he is missing something important. "My dear, you are absolutely brilliant," he remarks with great fondness. He curls his arms around Crowley in the embrace he'd held him in before, with legs around his waist and arms around his back and fingers in his wings. The only thing he might regret is that Crowley is still fully clothed, though Aziraphale's legs are tugging at trouser pants, his fingers loosely rucking up suit jacket. "Why are you wearing so many clothes," he mutters, as he longs for Crowley's skin.
An intense awareness of Aziraphale shivers through him as he lays in the angel's arms, Crowley curled into him like he has always longed for and never quite dared to dream. Is this truly happening? Did they really just--fuck, make love, whatever it was? He catches his breath at the kiss Aziraphale presses at his temple like a silent devotion, and Crowley tries to shove it all away: doubt, hope, the questions that circle in his mind. Not a dream, maybe, but it may very well only be this one night--in the morning they make look at each other and see once again the hereditary enemy they've always known in one another, each the opposite of his own nature. Until then, though, he'll take every moment of this, devour it like the greedy demon he is and lock the memories away in his mercenary heart.
With a low sound of longing and pleasure he rubs his face in the perfumed hollow of Aziraphale's throat as his fingers curl into his wings. They drape over them both, heavy as the rest of Crowley at the moment, and he's hardly ever imagined the unspeakable intimacy of feeling Aziraphale touch them in the aftermath of a hard and desperate fuck, fingers stroking and soothing through them with a sense that all is well and right in the world, that Crowley is just where he belongs. It's absolutely beguiling, completely irresistible. "Stop that," he mutters against Aziraphale's neck when he praises him. It's all too much, so wonderful as to be almost unbearable, and he groans a little when the angel tugs at his clothes, wishing very much not to move and yet intrigued by the thought of his naked skin against Aziraphale's.
"Because you were such a impatient little wench," Crowley answers him, catching at Aziraphale's wrists. He shifts over him and pins them down, looking down into the angel's face with an arrested gaze. He caresses the inside of Aziraphale's wrists with his thumbs. "You're wonderful," he adds softly, just in case there should be any doubt.
He looks up at Crowley, who has him in his grasp, lying below him a caught angel white and pale but blushing, pulsing pink all over. His eyes go wide for a moment but not in fright, only in arousal; he would never be afraid of Crowley. He lays prostrate, spread out, at Crowley's every mercy if he'd wish it. "Oh, yes, but you wouldn't have wanted to wait, either, dear." And his eyes grow more narrowed, corners of his lips tugging upward with great mischief. "And, if you did want to punish me, I can think of so many better ways."
Aziraphale really is a naughty angel, but only for Crowley to see. Just as well, since he'd never want anyone to see this side of Crowley but him. It wasn't as if he would be jealous, per se, just that he hopes that this is sufficient that Crowley might want to make it a part of their little Arrangement. They would save so much time doing each other's jobs, and in all that time saved they would go out to lunch, perhaps to a party or two, and come home and make love. Fuck. Whatever Crowley wanted to call this. But if Crowley is wondering if this might be a recurring event or just a one-off thing that might never happen again, he's in for a lovely surprise.
He looks up at him adoringly because he doesn't know how else to do so at the moment, and wriggles against him. "Lie with me," he requests, he commands. "Please."
Finally he has his angel just where he wants him, after six thousand years of pining, and if you ask Crowley he should have had him like this ages ago. Flushed pink beneath him, deliciously wide-eyed and flustered, looking back at him not at all afraid but rather as though he’d like to devour Crowley as a scrumptious snack. Which he would have no objection to. Leaning down, he ghosts his lips at the edge of Aziraphale’s jaw, irresistibly drawn to him. “I’m not impatient now,” Crowley tells him, though in fact he feels very much as though he could be rampantly hard again with inhuman swiftness. “Now I can take my time with you.” He shivers a little at his own words. Oh, he wants to, he wants to linger over Aziraphale for hours or perhaps days, tasting every inch of him, learning all of his proclivities. “And what can you have done to be punished for, hm?”
Crowley adores him, too, to the very bottom of his soul; he can’t remember a time he didn’t adore him, even if Aziraphale is a bit of a rubbish angel. Which is probably a great deal of why he’s so lovable. But Aziraphale’s adoration for him, seem so clearly now, is almost too much to bear. Like a warmth filling up his chest until it glows bright enough to blaze through his skin.
“Lie here? Or on a bed?” Crowley watches Aziraphale closely, eyes dark with hunger. He eases back, enough to get his arms out of his coat and shrug it off, letting it fall to the floor; it’s a relief not to feel so constricted, the rest of his clothes in disarray. He could miracle off the lot, but then Aziraphale might do the same, and he’s rather enjoying the sight of his angel debauched in a rose-colored dress. “What made you decide to go like this?” he asks, plucking teasingly at the low neckline.
Aziraphale grins up at Crowley and pulls him down for a kiss once he's divested himself of his jacket, and reaches for his buttons to undo them on his shirt once his hands are free. "Whichever you prefer," he responds, caring less about where they are than who is with him. He should've just thought that it was proper, earlier, to go to bed. He supposes now that it still is, but he's also lying on the settee completely debauched with his skirts still revealing the lower half of his form. He supposes he shouldn't have asked for proper when he was the one who instigated this by going to a party and silently requesting Crowley's assistance.
Which brings him to Crowley's question. Why had he picked tonight of all nights? "I haven't seen you in too long," he replies easily, readily and honestly. "I have... Missed you so terribly," he adds, abandoning the buttons to draw Crowley in for an embrace, but resting his hand on his chest over skin instead of fabric. "And when I couldn't find you, at first, I thought maybe you'd been recalled. That there was another demon they might have put down here in your place and that naturally, no one thought to notify me. It wasn't a very long time but I thought I might never see you again, and I... Oh Crowley, I couldn't bear it."
But naturally, instead of telling Crowley all this directly, he'd needed to hatch this very convoluted plot involving innocent and not- so-innocent partygoers. He had needed to know if he was imagining the looks in Crowley's eyes that hadn't been there, if in hazy romantic memory he'd assigned him that look, purely by accident. Several first drafts of the plan just involved going up to him and then angrily asking where he'd been. Then there was the addition of the dress, which had started off in dramatic flair. And then, naturally, his own heart caused the rest to turn from anger to passion.
“For Hell’s sake, angel.” The words lack any customary bite, Crowley feeling unaccountably tender with Aziraphale’s hand resting over his chest. He’s sprawled against him now, having abandoned any thought of moving once the angel started unbuttoning his shirt for him, and now Crowley ducks his head to give him a brief but sharp kiss, teeth nipping at his pillowy lip. “Where would I have gone? Who could replace me?” What he wants to say is that he would never leave Aziraphale—or at least, he would never stop coming around, he would always find him again. Six thousand years they’ve been circling one another, and he doesn’t intend to stop now. Of course Aziraphale should have called him if he’d been worried. It may be several decades before the invention of the telephone, but they have ways to reach one another.
But if he thinks about it for long—it’s stunning, is what it is, that after all this time and so much wondering and dreaming and fantasizing on Crowley’s part, it’s Aziraphale saying he couldn’t bear not to see him again. “You know that I—“ Crowley starts, wings stirring, suddenly needing to tell him, “you know it’s the same for me, right?” He couldn’t bear not to see Aziraphale either. It’s why he’s sought him out again and again through the millennia, why he’s never been able to resist popping up to tease or tempt him.
"I know," he replies, again with that mock annoyance that is more habitual than anything else. "It's just that I thought maybe you'd gone back and they'd made you stay. Maybe you were miserable there, not even having said goodbye to me. And so when I'd heard you were on business and I hadn't even seen you, I... well."
Put on a dress to make him utterly rue the day he ever thought he'd spend a decade not speaking to Aziraphale? Possibly.
His lips sting from Crowley's kisses in the most glorious of ways, and his sex is still pulsing with the aftermath of their lovemaking, in such a way that he holds onto the phantom feeling of Crowley entering his body, and makes sure that the sensation lasts for as long as he cares to remember it. He'll keep it close to his heart until they can do this again, certainly, particularly if they are to take another long hiatus from each other.
"And you know that Hell and Heaven sometimes just do things without very much notice. They'd wanted to replace me, when I'd opened the bookshop. Still don't know what changed Gabriel's mind, but less than two hours after the announcement he came back to tell me I could keep it. Would've driven me mad if I hadn't been so relieved," he complains. But he doesn't really want to talk about Gabriel while lying here with Crowley, so he quiets up and tugs down the trousers instead. There really is too much fabric between them.
"You've missed me, then, angel?" Delight curls into Crowley's stomach like the rush of warmth from a particularly good vintage of scotch. He means to tease Aziraphale but has a feeling like he's getting caught in a web of his own making. "Might as well admit it. You've certainly gone to a lot of trouble to get my attention." His fingers trace over Aziraphale's rouged cheek and petal-soft lips. Serpent's eyes don't miss a single detail of all the pleasures of Aziraphale in this shape. Crowley would never claim he regretted anything: he's missed Aziraphale too, certainly there is a bit of rueing to be done about that, but on the other hand he very much likes the way Aziraphale went about making sure they ran into each other again.
"Oh yes, they do that." He hides a grin when Aziraphale mentions his bookshop opening and Gabriel's precipitous about-face on recalling him to Heaven. "Bit odd of him, yeah. Wonder what made him change his mind." But he's happy to let the subject of other angels drop--it's more than enough to have to listen to other demons moaning about them all day when he visits Hell--and stifle a sound of amusement when Aziraphale tugs at his trousers determinedly, catching his hands. "Wait a moment, now. Let's do this in a proper way."
He sits up and draws Aziraphale with him, folding back his wings. "That is...if you're planning to stay the night."
Aziraphale looks at Crowley as if he'd grown two heads because of course he'd missed him. He even glosses over Crowley's response about Gabriel in order to tell him so. "I missed you so terribly," he says, holding onto him sweetly, wet dress now dampening and sticking to Crowley's skin as well. He looks up into Crowley's eyes, however, when he suggests staying the night.
He shouldn't. He knows he shouldn't, that if Hell or Heaven come calling on one of them, they would be in trouble. But he looks at Crowley with such a yearning, such a sweetness. He wants to stay. He wants to stay forever, in fact, and forget about the fact that they're on opposite sides or that they're hereditary enemies. Says who, anyway? God? She was the one who made demonkind, who told them that they should hate each other.
Aziraphale doesn't have it in him to hate, much less this demon in front of him, sweetly asking him to stay a little longer. "I... if you wish," he settles on, lamely.
"--And are you hoping to have another go already? Goodness, you're insatiable. I just wanted to feel your skin on mine." This is much easier to talk about than any sort of true feelings he may have, like how much he regrets that they can't just be open about this, that he'd love to love Crowley endlessly and affectionately. Six thousand years they've known each other, and Aziraphale knows that no one knows him better, has any hope of doing so. If it were any other way, they would have done this long ago, they would be soul mates.
Crowley catches Aziraphale's gaze, arrested by it, the pleasant warmth under his skin becoming something more of a smolder. He's never seen Aziraphale look at him like that before this night, with such a yearning, so sweet and wistful it's as though the angel too has longed for Crowley for all the ages they've met and parted and met again, always drawing close again. Are these his true feelings, now being revealed? The demon almost holds his breath as Aziraphale accepts. At least they can have this one night together. Maybe it'll be long enough to learn the secrets they've been holding back from one another all these years.
"No--that's not--" Crowley looks away, telling himself very firmly that he's not blushing. Of course he wants to feel Aziraphale's skin on his, too, but he's not insatiable, he has some self control. "I meant--we could go to bed. If you want." He's dreamt of nights with Aziraphale, lying in his angel's arms, all sorts of very embarrassing fantasies where Aziraphale does ridiculous things like hold him and stroke his hair. Maybe they can make love again, too, if the desire arises--he's sure it could, at least on his part.
It's hard to conceal how he truly feels about Crowley when they've just made love, or at least, whatever Crowley wants to call it. He doesn't want to look at him any differently, now that he doesn't have to pretend that they're staunchly on opposite sides of a spectrum, that he would never dare to meet Crowley in the middle. And yet, that's all he wants to do, reach over where their allegiances part them, take Crowley's hand, and pull it back over the other side.
"A bed," he says, amused, since Crowley had been so against it not a handful of minutes prior. "Yes," he answers, finally. "Yes, I think I'd like that, my dear." He does enjoy the ridiculous fantasy of holding Crowley and stroking his hair and telling him how beloved he is, how precious. Aziraphale and Crowley might have had the same dreams - Crowley's while sleeping, edging in on Aziraphale's conscious as he works through the night on some draft or another. And-- yes, he had dreamed of other things too, of welcoming Crowley between his legs, of getting long, winding limbs around his shoulders and his waist, of laying kisses all over, so holy they might sting at Crowley's skin.
He disentangles himself and makes his way towards the bedroom, stumbling a bit as he reaches for Crowley's hand to steady him.
Crowley at once reaches back to grasp the hand that Aziraphale holds towards him. He's at his side, ready to catch him if he stumbles, or to scoop him up in his frilly damp skirt and carry him the rest of the way, all the better to make sure he makes it safely. It isn't far to the bedroom, at least, and the huge, ornately carved bed Crowley calls his own. He's fond of sleep, or a good long, sulking nap from time to time, and always insists on having a comfortable surface available on which to do it.
"Come here." Tugging at Aziraphale's hand, Crowley drags him close and kisses him again, wings sweeping forward around them both. "Been meaning to ask--" he mutters between kisses, hands dragging up the length of Aziraphale's gossamer dress, "why in Hell's name is your dress all wet? Catch bloody pneumonia, you will." Or at least, he would if he was human. Better to drag the whole thing off, which he's set on doing right now.
Aziraphale needs to lean on Crowley, because he hasn't taken this form in a long time and he knows he's going to feel the effort of their physical activities in the morning. He rather loves it, but it is making him feel rather drunk, though he has Crowley to cling onto as tightly as his dress clings onto himself.
"Oh, have you been asleep so long? It's what's in fashion right now, my dear boy," he answers. "Women everywhere are finding the sheerest of muslins and dousing themselves in water. I think it's to show off that they aren't wearing anything underneath. Quite scandalous, and yes, several of them have acquired illness from it, but certainly not more than say, the corset, or lead face powders. Can you believe it? I saw in the shops today a powder claiming it had safe lead in!"
Not the most romantic conversation, but he lets Crowley tug off the dress and then sets about trying to undo the rest of his top, having been so rudely interrupted of it before. "Have I told you lately, darling, how beautiful you are?" he asks, exposing a little bit of Crowley's chest, wanting very much to bury his full face inside the crevice.
"That's--" Crowley stops, not sure how to finish that statement. It's baffling, is what it is, though he supposes women throughout history (and occasionally men) have had to go to stranger lengths in the name of fashion. In any case, it's not at all an unattractive look on Aziraphale, wet muslin clinging to his unfamiliar curves. He's just as glad to divest him of it, and take in the shape of him, hands shaping over the angel's waist and rounded hips. He's always been just that bit portly and plump, thick around the middle, with thighs that make Crowley's mouth water. Oh--he has no idea, his angel does, Crowley thinks as he drags him close, burying his face in his curls. Perhaps he'll get to explore the more familiar shape of him soon, though in the meantime he'll enjoy every inch of this feminine figure he can get his hands and mouth on.
He almost steps back, though, when Aziraphale tells him he's beautiful, pressed against him and tugging at his shirt again like the ravishing little minx he is. Crowley swallows and forces himself to be still, letting Aziraphale undress him as he pleases. "I'm not," he says entirely by habit, his voice catching slightly. Demons aren't meant to be beautiful, everyone knows. Oozy cold creatures, most of them, though Crowley's skin at the moment is hot, flushed, even, as though with fever, everywhere Aziraphale's fingers brush. Crowley's own fingers tangle in his hair: he can almost, almost sense the desire in Aziraphale to bury his face against his chest, and he longs so badly to feel Aziraphale's lips brushing his skin.
He does kiss Crowley's chest, and down a little further as he undoes more buttons. "But you are," he responds earnestly, in a voice that suggests that he's not taking no for an answer. He smiles against Crowley's skin, and he leans into the warmth as his dress and the sweat from their previous activities have made him quite cold. "So gorgeous, so impossible to overlook."
He gets to the rest of Crowley's shirt and places his arms around his waist, getting the whole of his cold front and pressing up against Crowley's. He pulls Crowley forward as he walks back, and lands into the bed with a whumph against the soft mattress. He feels his legs wrap thickly around Crowley's thin hips to accommodate for the two of them in the same space and his eyes roll back as they make contact, as the full weight of Crowley lands on him. "Dear," he breathes out. "You're so devastatingly beautiful that it's quite unfair."
He pulls the shirt and jacket off of Crowley in one go, and tosses it to the side, which is quite unusual for him, to care so little for clothes. But it's all worth it, getting his hands into Crowley's feathers, onto his back, finally getting him totally in the nude.
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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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He reaches out, then, for inky black feathers, smiling softly so that Crowley can't see how much this means to him. Because for all they've done tonight, for all Aziraphale's bravery and for perhaps what Crowley has also read on his face and heard in his words, he also knows. Yet, he had been hiding for so long that it seemed only natural to do so now, and he had to catch himself.
Besides, he is missing something important. "My dear, you are absolutely brilliant," he remarks with great fondness. He curls his arms around Crowley in the embrace he'd held him in before, with legs around his waist and arms around his back and fingers in his wings. The only thing he might regret is that Crowley is still fully clothed, though Aziraphale's legs are tugging at trouser pants, his fingers loosely rucking up suit jacket. "Why are you wearing so many clothes," he mutters, as he longs for Crowley's skin.
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With a low sound of longing and pleasure he rubs his face in the perfumed hollow of Aziraphale's throat as his fingers curl into his wings. They drape over them both, heavy as the rest of Crowley at the moment, and he's hardly ever imagined the unspeakable intimacy of feeling Aziraphale touch them in the aftermath of a hard and desperate fuck, fingers stroking and soothing through them with a sense that all is well and right in the world, that Crowley is just where he belongs. It's absolutely beguiling, completely irresistible. "Stop that," he mutters against Aziraphale's neck when he praises him. It's all too much, so wonderful as to be almost unbearable, and he groans a little when the angel tugs at his clothes, wishing very much not to move and yet intrigued by the thought of his naked skin against Aziraphale's.
"Because you were such a impatient little wench," Crowley answers him, catching at Aziraphale's wrists. He shifts over him and pins them down, looking down into the angel's face with an arrested gaze. He caresses the inside of Aziraphale's wrists with his thumbs. "You're wonderful," he adds softly, just in case there should be any doubt.
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Aziraphale really is a naughty angel, but only for Crowley to see. Just as well, since he'd never want anyone to see this side of Crowley but him. It wasn't as if he would be jealous, per se, just that he hopes that this is sufficient that Crowley might want to make it a part of their little Arrangement. They would save so much time doing each other's jobs, and in all that time saved they would go out to lunch, perhaps to a party or two, and come home and make love. Fuck. Whatever Crowley wanted to call this. But if Crowley is wondering if this might be a recurring event or just a one-off thing that might never happen again, he's in for a lovely surprise.
He looks up at him adoringly because he doesn't know how else to do so at the moment, and wriggles against him. "Lie with me," he requests, he commands. "Please."
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Crowley adores him, too, to the very bottom of his soul; he can’t remember a time he didn’t adore him, even if Aziraphale is a bit of a rubbish angel. Which is probably a great deal of why he’s so lovable. But Aziraphale’s adoration for him, seem so clearly now, is almost too much to bear. Like a warmth filling up his chest until it glows bright enough to blaze through his skin.
“Lie here? Or on a bed?” Crowley watches Aziraphale closely, eyes dark with hunger. He eases back, enough to get his arms out of his coat and shrug it off, letting it fall to the floor; it’s a relief not to feel so constricted, the rest of his clothes in disarray. He could miracle off the lot, but then Aziraphale might do the same, and he’s rather enjoying the sight of his angel debauched in a rose-colored dress. “What made you decide to go like this?” he asks, plucking teasingly at the low neckline.
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Which brings him to Crowley's question. Why had he picked tonight of all nights? "I haven't seen you in too long," he replies easily, readily and honestly. "I have... Missed you so terribly," he adds, abandoning the buttons to draw Crowley in for an embrace, but resting his hand on his chest over skin instead of fabric. "And when I couldn't find you, at first, I thought maybe you'd been recalled. That there was another demon they might have put down here in your place and that naturally, no one thought to notify me. It wasn't a very long time but I thought I might never see you again, and I... Oh Crowley, I couldn't bear it."
But naturally, instead of telling Crowley all this directly, he'd needed to hatch this very convoluted plot involving innocent and not- so-innocent partygoers. He had needed to know if he was imagining the looks in Crowley's eyes that hadn't been there, if in hazy romantic memory he'd assigned him that look, purely by accident. Several first drafts of the plan just involved going up to him and then angrily asking where he'd been. Then there was the addition of the dress, which had started off in dramatic flair. And then, naturally, his own heart caused the rest to turn from anger to passion.
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But if he thinks about it for long—it’s stunning, is what it is, that after all this time and so much wondering and dreaming and fantasizing on Crowley’s part, it’s Aziraphale saying he couldn’t bear not to see him again. “You know that I—“ Crowley starts, wings stirring, suddenly needing to tell him, “you know it’s the same for me, right?” He couldn’t bear not to see Aziraphale either. It’s why he’s sought him out again and again through the millennia, why he’s never been able to resist popping up to tease or tempt him.
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Put on a dress to make him utterly rue the day he ever thought he'd spend a decade not speaking to Aziraphale? Possibly.
His lips sting from Crowley's kisses in the most glorious of ways, and his sex is still pulsing with the aftermath of their lovemaking, in such a way that he holds onto the phantom feeling of Crowley entering his body, and makes sure that the sensation lasts for as long as he cares to remember it. He'll keep it close to his heart until they can do this again, certainly, particularly if they are to take another long hiatus from each other.
"And you know that Hell and Heaven sometimes just do things without very much notice. They'd wanted to replace me, when I'd opened the bookshop. Still don't know what changed Gabriel's mind, but less than two hours after the announcement he came back to tell me I could keep it. Would've driven me mad if I hadn't been so relieved," he complains. But he doesn't really want to talk about Gabriel while lying here with Crowley, so he quiets up and tugs down the trousers instead. There really is too much fabric between them.
sorry this is so late, travel killed my brain
"Oh yes, they do that." He hides a grin when Aziraphale mentions his bookshop opening and Gabriel's precipitous about-face on recalling him to Heaven. "Bit odd of him, yeah. Wonder what made him change his mind." But he's happy to let the subject of other angels drop--it's more than enough to have to listen to other demons moaning about them all day when he visits Hell--and stifle a sound of amusement when Aziraphale tugs at his trousers determinedly, catching his hands. "Wait a moment, now. Let's do this in a proper way."
He sits up and draws Aziraphale with him, folding back his wings. "That is...if you're planning to stay the night."
it's ok <3 hope you're all rested
He shouldn't. He knows he shouldn't, that if Hell or Heaven come calling on one of them, they would be in trouble. But he looks at Crowley with such a yearning, such a sweetness. He wants to stay. He wants to stay forever, in fact, and forget about the fact that they're on opposite sides or that they're hereditary enemies. Says who, anyway? God? She was the one who made demonkind, who told them that they should hate each other.
Aziraphale doesn't have it in him to hate, much less this demon in front of him, sweetly asking him to stay a little longer. "I... if you wish," he settles on, lamely.
"--And are you hoping to have another go already? Goodness, you're insatiable. I just wanted to feel your skin on mine." This is much easier to talk about than any sort of true feelings he may have, like how much he regrets that they can't just be open about this, that he'd love to love Crowley endlessly and affectionately. Six thousand years they've known each other, and Aziraphale knows that no one knows him better, has any hope of doing so. If it were any other way, they would have done this long ago, they would be soul mates.
yesss i finally got to sleep in
"No--that's not--" Crowley looks away, telling himself very firmly that he's not blushing. Of course he wants to feel Aziraphale's skin on his, too, but he's not insatiable, he has some self control. "I meant--we could go to bed. If you want." He's dreamt of nights with Aziraphale, lying in his angel's arms, all sorts of very embarrassing fantasies where Aziraphale does ridiculous things like hold him and stroke his hair. Maybe they can make love again, too, if the desire arises--he's sure it could, at least on his part.
oh yes congrats !!
"A bed," he says, amused, since Crowley had been so against it not a handful of minutes prior. "Yes," he answers, finally. "Yes, I think I'd like that, my dear." He does enjoy the ridiculous fantasy of holding Crowley and stroking his hair and telling him how beloved he is, how precious. Aziraphale and Crowley might have had the same dreams - Crowley's while sleeping, edging in on Aziraphale's conscious as he works through the night on some draft or another. And-- yes, he had dreamed of other things too, of welcoming Crowley between his legs, of getting long, winding limbs around his shoulders and his waist, of laying kisses all over, so holy they might sting at Crowley's skin.
He disentangles himself and makes his way towards the bedroom, stumbling a bit as he reaches for Crowley's hand to steady him.
why thank you :>
"Come here." Tugging at Aziraphale's hand, Crowley drags him close and kisses him again, wings sweeping forward around them both. "Been meaning to ask--" he mutters between kisses, hands dragging up the length of Aziraphale's gossamer dress, "why in Hell's name is your dress all wet? Catch bloody pneumonia, you will." Or at least, he would if he was human. Better to drag the whole thing off, which he's set on doing right now.
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"Oh, have you been asleep so long? It's what's in fashion right now, my dear boy," he answers. "Women everywhere are finding the sheerest of muslins and dousing themselves in water. I think it's to show off that they aren't wearing anything underneath. Quite scandalous, and yes, several of them have acquired illness from it, but certainly not more than say, the corset, or lead face powders. Can you believe it? I saw in the shops today a powder claiming it had safe lead in!"
Not the most romantic conversation, but he lets Crowley tug off the dress and then sets about trying to undo the rest of his top, having been so rudely interrupted of it before. "Have I told you lately, darling, how beautiful you are?" he asks, exposing a little bit of Crowley's chest, wanting very much to bury his full face inside the crevice.
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He almost steps back, though, when Aziraphale tells him he's beautiful, pressed against him and tugging at his shirt again like the ravishing little minx he is. Crowley swallows and forces himself to be still, letting Aziraphale undress him as he pleases. "I'm not," he says entirely by habit, his voice catching slightly. Demons aren't meant to be beautiful, everyone knows. Oozy cold creatures, most of them, though Crowley's skin at the moment is hot, flushed, even, as though with fever, everywhere Aziraphale's fingers brush. Crowley's own fingers tangle in his hair: he can almost, almost sense the desire in Aziraphale to bury his face against his chest, and he longs so badly to feel Aziraphale's lips brushing his skin.
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He gets to the rest of Crowley's shirt and places his arms around his waist, getting the whole of his cold front and pressing up against Crowley's. He pulls Crowley forward as he walks back, and lands into the bed with a whumph against the soft mattress. He feels his legs wrap thickly around Crowley's thin hips to accommodate for the two of them in the same space and his eyes roll back as they make contact, as the full weight of Crowley lands on him. "Dear," he breathes out. "You're so devastatingly beautiful that it's quite unfair."
He pulls the shirt and jacket off of Crowley in one go, and tosses it to the side, which is quite unusual for him, to care so little for clothes. But it's all worth it, getting his hands into Crowley's feathers, onto his back, finally getting him totally in the nude.