[ Aziraphale hasn't moved one inch, though he's of course, at the very least, stopped looking at Crowley while he sleeps. It isn't like he did nothing; he had very many thoughts to catalogue, and even if he hadn't, he would enjoy the breather. A short nap is practically a blink of an eye, and even though it's very late in the night (or very early in the morning), it feels like hardly any time has passed. ]
Crowley. How did you sleep?
[ He doesn't do much of it himself, though he tried it once or twice. But most of Crowley's other hobbies were all so active, so perhaps it made more sense for him to unwind by shutting his eyes to fully recharge.
Crowley seems to be easing into wakefulness, or more slithering into it, which suits Aziraphale just fine. He's in no rush to leave this moment behind, searches Crowley's eyes as if counting the number of colors in them. It's so very rare Crowley goes without his glasses anymore, after all. ]
[ He thinks vaguely Aziraphale really ought to give it another go sometime, especially like this--waking still nestled against his angel, like he's been holding him all the time he slept. ]
Since--can't remember since when.
[ He looks back at Aziraphale, too unguarded at the moment to care that his eyes are still uncovered, or that Aziraphale seems to be taking the opportunity to study them at his leisure. It can't have been that long that he slept--the air has the taste of the dark hour just before dawn--but he feels as though it was an age, Hell and his recent discorporation something like a bad dream that he can now put behind him. ]
I love your wings.
[ He says it without really thinking, in a voice languid from sleep. Aziraphale's wings are still folded around them, bright and beautiful, and he does, he really does love them. ]
[ They're big enough to sort of cocoon around them like a private winged fort, and with the early morning light creeping in playing off of the white, they're a pleasant dark blue. It's shaping up to be a beautiful day already.
He can feel Crowley's aura, and it puts him much at ease. But when he says the bit about his wings, Aziraphale feels as if his gaze might be hot enough to kill him permanently, and has to tear them away to look at the ground instead, though he smiles despite himself. ]
Before you, I didn't know demons were capable of feeling love at all.
[ He'd wrestled with the idea recently, and of course loving something is not quite the same as the kind of love that Aziraphale has for, say, God herself, or the love he has for Crowley. He still wasn't certain, but the series of events and moments culminating to this one, he thinks he is now. ]
[ Morning always had a way of making the world seem full of new possibilities. Crowley usually resists such foolishly optimistic thoughts—they aren’t at all a demon’s style. Still, he feels something different in the atmosphere at this early, unguarded hour, something he can almost taste. It has to do with the brief, searing look Aziraphale gives him, the way it suddenly makes Crowley shiver.
He doesn’t respond at first. The words Aziraphale speaks echo in his mind, frantically trying to attach themselves to significance. Surely the angel doesn’t mean them in the way Crowley thinks he does. He’s gone dry-mouthed, needing to swallow before he answers. ]
We all started off like you.
[ Angels. Beings of love, pure divine love, almost too wonderful to bear. ]
[ Does Aziraphale feel bad about this? Yes, he does, of course he does, because not a hundred years ago he boiled down six thousand years of their relationship to fraternization, and reminded Crowley that upstairs disapproved. So did downstairs, and that was just with them exchanging words. Who knows what they'd think of their little agreement, or what they'd think if they could see, right now, how sweetly Aziraphale looks on at Crowley. ]
Not all of you. You remember.
[ There's no question in his voice. Though he's sure that all the time he's felt it, he thought it might have just been his own. It was hard to pin a source or direction, and Aziraphale was an angel, after all. It didn't matter anyway, because-- because this whole thing was ridiculous, wasn't it? It was bad news for both of them, he shouldn't have brought it up, they should just put this conversation behind them.
Yet, Aziraphale makes no attempt to move. He can't. He is allowed to hope. ]
[ Perhaps Heaven doesn't see right now, but Crowley does. He sees how Aziraphale looks at him, with that scorching sweetness, and he hungers for it. Only from Aziraphale, always and forever Aziraphale. The years have not been so unkind: he's had the angel's company, the dinners and the drinks and the long nights talking. Aziraphale's kept up his end of their Arrangement. He'd learned to ignore the gnawing ache within him long before Aziraphale had made it abundantly clear in a few choice words that arrangements and conversation were all they would ever have. The rest of it--well. That's Crowley's to manage.
He'd thought so, anyway.
He draw back a little, staring at Aziraphale as though he is the last piece of a puzzle Crowley is trying to slot into place. Ordinary words don't come to mind; he feels himself in unfamiliar waters. ]
How can you know? What if I've fooled you all this time?
[ His voice is low, the rest of him gone a little tense. ]
[ He hadn't meant to ruin this moment, but he sees that he has, and he's very sorry. It was a good moment. He doesn't really see the point in having lied or played along to something like this, but in his brief moment of heartbreak he can't begin to realize that Crowley isn't trying to reject him.
He looks a bit struck, eyebrows knit upwards like he might just cry, but he presses on. No, perhaps things were not just going to fall into his lap and go his way, but that was alright. Enough in his life has done just that, and he's a very lucky being regardless. ]
I suppose...
[ His voice breaks, and he clears his throat. ]
Then I suppose that we will just carry on as we always have.
[ And he's already back to smiling. A little more watery this time, but it isn't like Aziraphale has thought that Crowley might love him for a long time. Honestly it isn't even like Aziraphale has even been aware of how much he really does love Crowley for very long, and he certainly hasn't come to terms with it. It was just that he held on so long to the notion that he shouldn't, and therefore, didn't. And so things can return to how they were last century, last year, last night even, both of them burdened only with the memory of this conversation, but otherwise back to the status quo. As soon as Aziraphale stops feeling like his heart's suddenly been crushed under a large weight, anyway. ]
[ At first he doesn’t realize exactly what’s gone wrong, he only knows that it has, from the way Aziraphale is looking at him like he’s been struck, been suddenly, deeply wounded, and Crowley can’t speak even when Aziraphale does, though he winces at the catch in his voice. It’s terrible. He knows he never wanted to be the cause of Aziraphale looking like that, it’s one of the most bloody awful things he’s ever seen; and it’s almost as awful to see him smile after saying that they will just carry on. Crowley is—he’s a blessed idiot is what he is. Dumbstruck, he thinks—he should go, shouldn’t he? Wouldn’t that be best, to let Aziraphale salvage his pride? If there’s any chance that, as the angel says, they can go back to the way they were before, they can forget the things that were said or almost said, the touches, the way Aziraphale looked at him...
Oh, Hell, he doesn’t want them to go back to the way they were before. He doesn’t think he could stand it. ]
Aziraphale—
[ Crowley seizes his hand, afraid that Aziraphale will be the one to pull away first; he presses it to his cheek, palm to skin, his mouth at the base of Aziraphale’s thumb, a plea for understanding on his lips. ]
[ Three hundred thousand emotions race through Aziraphale's mind but none of them stick, though he comes very close to jerking his hand away and requesting that Crowley stop playing this damned game, until he speaks.
And Aziraphale has to rewind the last ten seconds of their conversation and play it over again in his head.
And once again.
So it takes him a bit, breath stuck in his throat and wholly tense, but he's only an angel. Like butter, he softens his hand against Crowley's cheek, eyebrows knitting and un-knitting as he looks away and tries to gather his thoughts into words. When none come, he instead slides his hand around Crowley's neck and the other around his waist, pulling him forward in embrace and burying his face in the sharp corners of his collar.
Crowley might feel Aziraphale's mouth form into a smile. ]
[ It’s an agonizing silence, Aziraphale still sitting tense in front of him with his brows knitted in what Crowley hopes is thought, is a reconciliation of what he’s just said and not an effort to compose rejection or admonishment. He can’t look for long, shutting his eyes and turning his face to Aziraphale’s hand, shivering a little as he waits. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if the angel doesn’t believe him. But then, like a miracle, Aziraphale’s hand against his cheek softens, and Crowley gasps in helpless relief as the angel reaches for him and pulls him into an embrace, his face against Crowley’s collar. ]
Angel.
[ He buries trembling fingers in Aziraphale’s hair, clutches him close and tries to steady his breathing. He can feel Aziraphale smiling and it sends a warm rush of reassurance through him, limbs relaxing a little bit even as he wraps himself adamantly around Aziraphale, snake-like. Fingers burrow into his feathers at the base of his wings. They’re soft in his hands, wonderful to touch. ]
[ Crowley's arms fit just so around Aziraphale that he feels fully enveloped, precious and secure. And when it takes a whole six thousand years and a scary teetering precipice of five seconds to culminate in three little words, such simple words, Aziraphale can't help but experience contrasting emotions of complete contented satisfaction and of being totally overwhelmed at the same time; he melts into the feeling as one might slide into a bath, cautiously but eventually reaching his muscles and his joints and warming his bones.
He is a being composed entirely of love and of light, but he usually manages to contain it in his relatively small human form. He can't seem to do so at the moment, and the entire block is suddenly, miraculously, having dreams so strong that they will inexplicably be in a good mood all day.
He lifts his head from its resting spot on Crowley's shoulder as if wanting to say something, but he racks his brain for all the words in all the languages they've ever spoken and none come up sufficient. Instead, he looks on with the kind of fondness he'd had finishing reading his very first book, or the first time he'd heard birds singing after a rain. He thinks he might be able to see all the stars in the night sky reflected in Crowley's eyes, and doesn't realize he is inching closer as if it might give him a better look. ]
[ That radiant sensation of utter contentment and bliss, of angelic love--Crowley's felt it before at times, it's impossible not to, really, when you're around Aziraphale, but never as enormous and nearly overwhelming as he feels it now--catches hold of him, too, and he finds himself sinking into it, assurance settling deeper into his bones, until he's no longer holding the angel quite as tightly. Still very close, still keeping him wrapped up in his arms, but his hands relax and his fingers rake softly through the downy feathers at the base of Aziraphale's wings, his chest no longer tight with the fear that he might have said too little too late, or that the angel might not love him back. It's impossible to mistake.
He looks back at Aziraphale when he lifts his head from his shoulder to gaze at him. Crowley's eyes have possibly gone a little dark, the slit pupils wider, and he stares at Aziraphale as if to drink in that gentle, affectionate look in his eyes, as though just gazing at him gives the angel the kind of pleasure he usually reserves for his favorite foods. It doesn't really seem to matter what Aziraphale's intent is in leaning closer; after the agony and fear of chasing Aziraphale away a few moments ago, in the rush of bliss that comes with those emotions dissipating into unimportance, he feels as though nothing he could do would be unwelcome. Crowley's hand comes up to Aziraphale's cheek, and he leans forward just the slightest distance between them and kisses him tentatively, the press of his mouth light and soft. ]
[ His eyes, a golden ring on a round pupil, looks positively like a halo, though Aziraphale would never say so aloud. He'd made this mistake before, but Crowley really was, deep down, good. If he were, truly, all evil, then Aziraphale wouldn't be here and certainly not so satisfied.
Practically on instinct, he finds himself clumsily navigating towards Crowley's mouth though it's entirely unnecessary, as their lips meet just fine in the middle. Though he doesn't try to escalate beyond a light press, there's absolutely no trepidation or tentativeness about him, finding this instead the most natural and easy thing to do.
Crowley has a warm, slightly spicy scent to his skin, which Aziraphale is currently finding to be nothing short of intoxicating. And in his serpentine embrace with hands in his wings and a lightness in his heart, his entire face illuminates and blooms into a smile against Crowley's lips. ]
Stay with me today.
[ He murmurs, barely audible, having ended the kiss but having not moved away. ]
[ The miraculous sensation of Aziraphale kissing him back brings him a kind of bone-deep contentment along with an ache of longing, as though he’s missed this though they’ve never done it before, missed it without knowing it. Crowley doesn’t try to press for more, either, the kiss staying soft and light, his fingers on instinct digging gently into the handfuls of feathers they grasp, and then letting go to rub up Aziraphale’s back. He feels the angel smiling against his mouth, and it feels almost painfully sweet.
When the kiss ends he slowly opens his eyes which had fallen shut, seeking out Aziraphale’s again. Crowley draws breath and nods a little, resisting the urge to pull the angel harder against him and holding him carefully instead, like something precious. ]
I can do that. [ His voice comes out a little scratchy. ] No plans either.
[ The longing must be contagious because Aziraphale is practically aching, his whole body buzzing with excitement as if he's gotten his hands on a new book and he can't wait to dive in and absorb all its contents. But tempting as it is, he always manages to keep from skipping straight to the end, and he nestles into Crowley's arms instead; having managed to repress this on either or both parts for six thousand years, he doesn't think any lack of urgency is likely to muck things up.
The sun, now casting a calm yellow outline on Aziraphale's wings, now sits wholly over the horizon to mark the dawn. He absentmindedly thinks that this is his favorite part of the day and he'd like to share every morning with Crowley just so, but promptly shuts down all further notions of the like in his dreamy runaway thoughts.
He allows today, and perhaps in the future he'll allow stolen moments behind closed curtains and away from prying eyes, but let that be enough. ]
I think perhaps we could find something to occupy the time.
[ He makes a promise to himself to enjoy this now, to delay his worry until inevitably when Crowley has to leave again and isn't presently the only thing in his entire field of perception. It might just work, with Crowley being ever so devastatingly distracting. ]
[ He's never felt anything quite like Aziraphale settling comfortably into his arms, leaning into him as though this has happened a thousand times before. It makes Crowley's heart jump, makes him fear he doesn't know what to do with his hands, at least for a an instant or two before he just does what is instinctive and goes back to stroking over Aziraphale's spine with a slightly rough kind of affection, or petting over the edges of his wings where the sunlight inscribes them in gold.
There are a thousand temptations he should be out there in the world doing right now, all the sorry little jobs Hell gives him, but Crowley wishes he would never have to leave this bookshop again. The thought of Hell or Heaven looking in brings a twist of anxiety into him that makes him clutch a little tighter, but he tries not to let the worry show, tries to let himself be distracted by the warmth in Aziraphale's voice and touch. The angel's request certainly manages to capture his attention, and Crowley nods wordlessly before reaching out to pull Aziraphale into a kiss again.
It's hungrier this time, the yearning in him not quite so well disguised. Aziraphale's mouth is soft and lovely and Crowley didn't realize--didn't let himself think--how much he's wanted this. His hands shake a little as he drags Aziraphale closer. ]
[ Perhaps it had happened a thousand times over, but only in Aziraphale's dreams, sequestered away where they were safe from Heaven's grasp. Yet, in the privacy of his own home, here in his celestially insignificant bookshop away from prying eyes, he gives way to honesty. And his truth is melting into Crowley's touch, huffing a little surprised gasp into his mouth when he gets pulled in, his hand on Crowley's cheek clutching on instinct.
In retrospect, Aziraphale should have definitely anticipated that Crowley would kiss him like this, and he should therefore have logically concluded the effect it would have on him. Something about the catch of Crowley's lips draws out little sounds from Aziraphale's throat, his head tilting as he shifts on the couch for easier access, allowing his other hand to come around Crowley's neck; it as a fist there until he spreads it out and into soft hair that he tugs at by the very root.
The angle he finds himself at is rather uncomfortable, and though his mind is preoccupied, his body takes over in wisdom and boldness, lightly nudging Crowley's shoulder to move him so as to slide easily into his lap. ]
[ His dazed thoughts run away from him, as he clutches Aziraphale close and kisses him as though it's the only chance he'll have. The angel's mouth is lovely, warm, it's like what drinking in sunlight would be, and other such silly ideas that come to mind; his tongue flickers out for a hesitant taste. Crowley doesn't really notice what Aziraphale's hand is doing until he feels his fingers tangle in his hair and tug at the roots, and that makes him gasp against his mouth, startled by his own unexpected response.
He moves when Aziraphale nudges him, almost unconsciously, too preoccupied with his mouth to realize what he wants until he settles into his lap. Then Crowley has to break away from the kiss to look at him, drinking in the sight of him like he hasn’t seen him for millennia rather than just decades. It feels that long, it feels as though he’s waited for and wanted him forever. ]
Aziraphale. [ Tentative but needing touch, he runs his hands over the angel’s waist and down to his hips. ]
[ Even straddled across Crowley's lap, elbows balanced on his shoulders and arms bracketing his head, Aziraphale manages to look down at him with such innocent fondness when they part, though really his thoughts are tangled up in the discovery that Crowley's mouth is finer and more intoxicating than any wine he has ever drunk, and he should be so lucky to stay awhile and imbibe.
Aziraphale, still playing with his hair, finds himself growing warm wherever Crowley's gaze falls. There's so much longing there that it touches him in the deepest of his soul, and for a second he looks on apologetically, sorry that he's made his friend wait this entire time wondering whether or not his feelings were returned. ]
My dear Crowley
[ Said in direct response, as he dots kisses like little blessings all over his cheek.
Aziraphale, of course, wants to avoid any misunderstandings in confrontation like the one they just had moments ago, and yet he finds the want in Crowley's looks and the taste on his tongue unmistakable; he is not signing up to play another thousand year long game of chicken. Deftly, he tugs a corner of his shirt out of his waistband, and reaches for one of the hands on his waist, guiding it underneath to touch his skin. And lest his own intentions be misunderstood, and perhaps also to disavow any lingering ideas that he might be just a fussy angel, he rocks his hips forward and asks, voice heavy: ]
Would you like to come upstairs with me?
Edited (I don't know why I suddenly switched to prose! Sorry ) 2019-07-19 15:06 (UTC)
[ It's breathtaking to look at Aziraphale like this, when he draws back from his mouth. Gazing on him with such softness in his eyes, straddling his lap, innocence and pure temptation all tangled together--and who knew that an angel could tempt, who would ever see Aziraphale like this, except for Crowley. His eyes are possibly widened as he looks back at him, stunned, a little dazed, lost in wanting and need. He feels as though he's loved Aziraphale desperately, from what first moment in their history together he can't remember, always carefully waiting for a sign, hesitating to push for too much, but the angel is here with him now, gentle understanding and invitation tangled with his desire, and he wants, he wants-- ]
Yes.
[ Said in response to the offer to go upstairs with him, the kisses scattered across his cheek, Aziraphale's hand taking his to guide it beneath the hem of his shirt. Crowley's hand caresses up his bare skin. Oh--oh, he loves touching Aziraphale, skin to skin, loves feeling his hips rock against him like an echo of lust and need. ]
[ Aziraphale would, in all honesty, lay Crowley down on this couch and make both their centuries at this very moment, so given over is he to the current wave of feeling sweeping over both of them. He also, unfortunately, knows how old this couch is, and how it may not hold up so well to anything more than light napping and maybe a stack of books.
With his shirt untucked, hair unkempt and wings a bit ruffled, Aziraphale appears the least put-together that Crowley is ever likely to have seen him. He slides his feet to the ground to get up and the first steps he makes are backwards, as if for fear that looking away might cause this entire dream to rupture, for Aziraphale to have discovered that he had fallen asleep with Crowley after all. And yet, the idea of starting this all over from the moment he'd awoken isn't a bad one, so he relinquishes the thought and scurries up the stairs.
The bed, almost entirely unused, is crisp and perfectly made. With one sweep of a wing and a pull of his hand, the pillows tumble to the ground and the blankets fly back. ]
Now, where were we?
[ He takes a seat at an exposed corner of the mattress, looks up at Crowley with such endless wonder, with utter devotion, and miracles all the buttons of his shirt loose. He pushes the fabric aside with great care as he would unveiling a masterpiece, and with his hands on either of Crowley's sides, presses a kiss to his ribcage, this thing that is the keeper of his heart. ]
[ Somehow he manages to navigate the stairs, to go with Aziraphale into a bedroom that clearly hasn’t seen much use, not quite knowing how he’s got there, he’s in such a daze of wanting and a state of disbelief that this is truly happening, right now, though there is an implicit trust in him that would give into anything Aziraphale wanted. Crowley finds himself next to the bed, glancing over the sheets that surely haven’t been unruffled in years before Aziraphale miracled them out of a characteristic neatness before sitting down on the mattress. He looks at the angel, too, wordless, hardly daring to move as he miracles the buttons of his shirt undone—doesn’t snap a single one out of place, and that, unexpectedly, makes Crowley bite back a smile—and draws him forward so that he can kiss the tender, unguarded place where his ribs join. Crowley gasps, and makes some sort of low fraught sound of utter reckless need, tangling his fingers into Aziraphale’s hair. ]
Angel.
[ He caresses through Aziraphale’s hair roughly, and bends to kiss the crown of his head. Torn between the urge to crawl into his lap or to go down to his knees before him, Crowley urges Aziraphale to look up at him, his own gaze helplessly impassioned. ]
Tell me—is there—is there anything you’d like?
[ His heartbeat is wild, pulse jumping in his throat, and Crowley thinks—he’d do anything. Anything that Aziraphale pleased. ]
[ Aziraphale tries to pace himself but there Crowley is, making him a glutton for choice, making such sweet noises, tangling those nimble fingers into his hair, and looking at him like he's the only thing on this good Earth. For an angel, he seems to collect sins, but he welcomes lust like an old friend, looking up at Crowley with a curiosity. ]
You. All of you.
[ It's not a helpful answer, but it's the only one worth giving; he understands the question, since he's usually very particular and Crowley is surprisingly accommodating to all of Aziraphale's many preferences. However, at the moment, he can only think that he wants everything: Crowley's hands on him, and his mouth, and his legs and arms wrapped around him, their very souls colliding together. ]
And what do you want?
[ He asks this, with such an angelic smile on his face even as he undoes Crowley's belt and lets it fall to the floor, even as he fiddles with unzipping the seat of his pants and sliding one very impatient hand in between his legs. He appears to be very pleased with what he's found, and gladly presses against it with the heel of his palm. ]
Surely you have something specific in mind. Tell me, please. I'd like to hear it.
[ Crowley has to shut his eyes, feeling a heat and passion that burns him down to his very soul. All of him. That's what Aziraphale wants, and Crowley--Crowley wants to offer him that. To be his.
His fingers clutch feverishly in Aziraphale's hair, his eyes open again as Aziraphale asks him that question--looks down at him and sees the smile on his face, the sweet interest in his eyes, and his hands busily undoing Crowley's belt and letting it drop and then--and then his trousers, his hand sliding in and pressing against Crowley's already hard cock and making his mouth fall open with a groan. He jerks helplessly to the touch, startled and gasping. He's had this shape for a while, has enjoyed the pleasure he's gotten out of it in the past, but it's an entirely different realm of feeling when it's Aziraphale's hand on him, the physical sensation and the fraught tangle of emotion all at once, nearly overwhelming.
Shivering, he tries to answer coherently. ] I want--
[ Aziraphale to keep doing that, oh, please. ]
You--you touching me. And then I want to get my mouth on you.
[ He feels breathless, in spite of how he doesn't really need to breathe, his voice gone harsh with blatant need. ]
And you--will you talk to me, will you tell me if it's good, if I'm-- [ He gives Aziraphale a pleading glance. Surely it's not too much to ask, not too greedy of him? ]
[ The little reactions and noises that Crowley's making, the feel of his skin, the drag of his fingers, those are all the things that send shivers down Aziraphale's spine. He could steam up the entire room on his breath alone, drawing Crowley's cock out of his trousers and giving it a few tugs as he migrates his kisses to the lower half of his stomach.
Yes, he think he can oblige Crowley's requests, though he quirks an eyebrow up at the last one, just teasingly. ]
You want to know if you're... what? Good?
[ A coy smile plays across his face as he looks up at Crowley and wonders idly how many people have ever seen him from this angle. None that matter, surely, in this moment or going forward; it's just curiosity. ]
Yes.
[ He runs his hand down the length of Crowley's cock, still watching his face to see what kind of pressure or speed he likes. And he plays with it, experimentally, pads of his fingers eager to see where he's most sensitive, cataloguing and filing it away for later. ]
Yes, darling, you're being so good for me.
[ By the time his lips have gotten around to Crowley's very prominent arousal, he thinks he might have gone a little off of the script he requested. But he can't very well have Crowley's mouth anywhere on his skin where it's covered up, and he needs his hands to get himself out of his clothes. He guides Crowley into his mouth and puts both his tongue and his clumsy, restless fingers to work. ]
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no subject
Crowley. How did you sleep?
[ He doesn't do much of it himself, though he tried it once or twice. But most of Crowley's other hobbies were all so active, so perhaps it made more sense for him to unwind by shutting his eyes to fully recharge.
Crowley seems to be easing into wakefulness, or more slithering into it, which suits Aziraphale just fine. He's in no rush to leave this moment behind, searches Crowley's eyes as if counting the number of colors in them. It's so very rare Crowley goes without his glasses anymore, after all. ]
no subject
[ He thinks vaguely Aziraphale really ought to give it another go sometime, especially like this--waking still nestled against his angel, like he's been holding him all the time he slept. ]
Since--can't remember since when.
[ He looks back at Aziraphale, too unguarded at the moment to care that his eyes are still uncovered, or that Aziraphale seems to be taking the opportunity to study them at his leisure. It can't have been that long that he slept--the air has the taste of the dark hour just before dawn--but he feels as though it was an age, Hell and his recent discorporation something like a bad dream that he can now put behind him. ]
I love your wings.
[ He says it without really thinking, in a voice languid from sleep. Aziraphale's wings are still folded around them, bright and beautiful, and he does, he really does love them. ]
no subject
He can feel Crowley's aura, and it puts him much at ease. But when he says the bit about his wings, Aziraphale feels as if his gaze might be hot enough to kill him permanently, and has to tear them away to look at the ground instead, though he smiles despite himself. ]
Before you, I didn't know demons were capable of feeling love at all.
[ He'd wrestled with the idea recently, and of course loving something is not quite the same as the kind of love that Aziraphale has for, say, God herself, or the love he has for Crowley. He still wasn't certain, but the series of events and moments culminating to this one, he thinks he is now. ]
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He doesn’t respond at first. The words Aziraphale speaks echo in his mind, frantically trying to attach themselves to significance. Surely the angel doesn’t mean them in the way Crowley thinks he does. He’s gone dry-mouthed, needing to swallow before he answers. ]
We all started off like you.
[ Angels. Beings of love, pure divine love, almost too wonderful to bear. ]
We just—forgot how. Some of us.
no subject
Not all of you. You remember.
[ There's no question in his voice. Though he's sure that all the time he's felt it, he thought it might have just been his own. It was hard to pin a source or direction, and Aziraphale was an angel, after all. It didn't matter anyway, because-- because this whole thing was ridiculous, wasn't it? It was bad news for both of them, he shouldn't have brought it up, they should just put this conversation behind them.
Yet, Aziraphale makes no attempt to move. He can't. He is allowed to hope. ]
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He'd thought so, anyway.
He draw back a little, staring at Aziraphale as though he is the last piece of a puzzle Crowley is trying to slot into place. Ordinary words don't come to mind; he feels himself in unfamiliar waters. ]
How can you know? What if I've fooled you all this time?
[ His voice is low, the rest of him gone a little tense. ]
no subject
[ He hadn't meant to ruin this moment, but he sees that he has, and he's very sorry. It was a good moment. He doesn't really see the point in having lied or played along to something like this, but in his brief moment of heartbreak he can't begin to realize that Crowley isn't trying to reject him.
He looks a bit struck, eyebrows knit upwards like he might just cry, but he presses on. No, perhaps things were not just going to fall into his lap and go his way, but that was alright. Enough in his life has done just that, and he's a very lucky being regardless. ]
I suppose...
[ His voice breaks, and he clears his throat. ]
Then I suppose that we will just carry on as we always have.
[ And he's already back to smiling. A little more watery this time, but it isn't like Aziraphale has thought that Crowley might love him for a long time. Honestly it isn't even like Aziraphale has even been aware of how much he really does love Crowley for very long, and he certainly hasn't come to terms with it. It was just that he held on so long to the notion that he shouldn't, and therefore, didn't. And so things can return to how they were last century, last year, last night even, both of them burdened only with the memory of this conversation, but otherwise back to the status quo. As soon as Aziraphale stops feeling like his heart's suddenly been crushed under a large weight, anyway. ]
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Oh, Hell, he doesn’t want them to go back to the way they were before. He doesn’t think he could stand it. ]
Aziraphale—
[ Crowley seizes his hand, afraid that Aziraphale will be the one to pull away first; he presses it to his cheek, palm to skin, his mouth at the base of Aziraphale’s thumb, a plea for understanding on his lips. ]
I didn’t mean it. I didn’t. I do—I do love you.
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And Aziraphale has to rewind the last ten seconds of their conversation and play it over again in his head.
And once again.
So it takes him a bit, breath stuck in his throat and wholly tense, but he's only an angel. Like butter, he softens his hand against Crowley's cheek, eyebrows knitting and un-knitting as he looks away and tries to gather his thoughts into words. When none come, he instead slides his hand around Crowley's neck and the other around his waist, pulling him forward in embrace and burying his face in the sharp corners of his collar.
Crowley might feel Aziraphale's mouth form into a smile. ]
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Angel.
[ He buries trembling fingers in Aziraphale’s hair, clutches him close and tries to steady his breathing. He can feel Aziraphale smiling and it sends a warm rush of reassurance through him, limbs relaxing a little bit even as he wraps himself adamantly around Aziraphale, snake-like. Fingers burrow into his feathers at the base of his wings. They’re soft in his hands, wonderful to touch. ]
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He is a being composed entirely of love and of light, but he usually manages to contain it in his relatively small human form. He can't seem to do so at the moment, and the entire block is suddenly, miraculously, having dreams so strong that they will inexplicably be in a good mood all day.
He lifts his head from its resting spot on Crowley's shoulder as if wanting to say something, but he racks his brain for all the words in all the languages they've ever spoken and none come up sufficient. Instead, he looks on with the kind of fondness he'd had finishing reading his very first book, or the first time he'd heard birds singing after a rain. He thinks he might be able to see all the stars in the night sky reflected in Crowley's eyes, and doesn't realize he is inching closer as if it might give him a better look. ]
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He looks back at Aziraphale when he lifts his head from his shoulder to gaze at him. Crowley's eyes have possibly gone a little dark, the slit pupils wider, and he stares at Aziraphale as if to drink in that gentle, affectionate look in his eyes, as though just gazing at him gives the angel the kind of pleasure he usually reserves for his favorite foods. It doesn't really seem to matter what Aziraphale's intent is in leaning closer; after the agony and fear of chasing Aziraphale away a few moments ago, in the rush of bliss that comes with those emotions dissipating into unimportance, he feels as though nothing he could do would be unwelcome. Crowley's hand comes up to Aziraphale's cheek, and he leans forward just the slightest distance between them and kisses him tentatively, the press of his mouth light and soft. ]
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Practically on instinct, he finds himself clumsily navigating towards Crowley's mouth though it's entirely unnecessary, as their lips meet just fine in the middle. Though he doesn't try to escalate beyond a light press, there's absolutely no trepidation or tentativeness about him, finding this instead the most natural and easy thing to do.
Crowley has a warm, slightly spicy scent to his skin, which Aziraphale is currently finding to be nothing short of intoxicating. And in his serpentine embrace with hands in his wings and a lightness in his heart, his entire face illuminates and blooms into a smile against Crowley's lips. ]
Stay with me today.
[ He murmurs, barely audible, having ended the kiss but having not moved away. ]
I don't have plans, I'll close up shop.
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When the kiss ends he slowly opens his eyes which had fallen shut, seeking out Aziraphale’s again. Crowley draws breath and nods a little, resisting the urge to pull the angel harder against him and holding him carefully instead, like something precious. ]
I can do that. [ His voice comes out a little scratchy. ] No plans either.
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The sun, now casting a calm yellow outline on Aziraphale's wings, now sits wholly over the horizon to mark the dawn. He absentmindedly thinks that this is his favorite part of the day and he'd like to share every morning with Crowley just so, but promptly shuts down all further notions of the like in his dreamy runaway thoughts.
He allows today, and perhaps in the future he'll allow stolen moments behind closed curtains and away from prying eyes, but let that be enough. ]
I think perhaps we could find something to occupy the time.
[ He makes a promise to himself to enjoy this now, to delay his worry until inevitably when Crowley has to leave again and isn't presently the only thing in his entire field of perception. It might just work, with Crowley being ever so devastatingly distracting. ]
Kiss me again?
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There are a thousand temptations he should be out there in the world doing right now, all the sorry little jobs Hell gives him, but Crowley wishes he would never have to leave this bookshop again. The thought of Hell or Heaven looking in brings a twist of anxiety into him that makes him clutch a little tighter, but he tries not to let the worry show, tries to let himself be distracted by the warmth in Aziraphale's voice and touch. The angel's request certainly manages to capture his attention, and Crowley nods wordlessly before reaching out to pull Aziraphale into a kiss again.
It's hungrier this time, the yearning in him not quite so well disguised. Aziraphale's mouth is soft and lovely and Crowley didn't realize--didn't let himself think--how much he's wanted this. His hands shake a little as he drags Aziraphale closer. ]
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In retrospect, Aziraphale should have definitely anticipated that Crowley would kiss him like this, and he should therefore have logically concluded the effect it would have on him. Something about the catch of Crowley's lips draws out little sounds from Aziraphale's throat, his head tilting as he shifts on the couch for easier access, allowing his other hand to come around Crowley's neck; it as a fist there until he spreads it out and into soft hair that he tugs at by the very root.
The angle he finds himself at is rather uncomfortable, and though his mind is preoccupied, his body takes over in wisdom and boldness, lightly nudging Crowley's shoulder to move him so as to slide easily into his lap. ]
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He moves when Aziraphale nudges him, almost unconsciously, too preoccupied with his mouth to realize what he wants until he settles into his lap. Then Crowley has to break away from the kiss to look at him, drinking in the sight of him like he hasn’t seen him for millennia rather than just decades. It feels that long, it feels as though he’s waited for and wanted him forever. ]
Aziraphale. [ Tentative but needing touch, he runs his hands over the angel’s waist and down to his hips. ]
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Aziraphale, still playing with his hair, finds himself growing warm wherever Crowley's gaze falls. There's so much longing there that it touches him in the deepest of his soul, and for a second he looks on apologetically, sorry that he's made his friend wait this entire time wondering whether or not his feelings were returned. ]
My dear Crowley
[ Said in direct response, as he dots kisses like little blessings all over his cheek.
Aziraphale, of course, wants to avoid any misunderstandings in confrontation like the one they just had moments ago, and yet he finds the want in Crowley's looks and the taste on his tongue unmistakable; he is not signing up to play another thousand year long game of chicken. Deftly, he tugs a corner of his shirt out of his waistband, and reaches for one of the hands on his waist, guiding it underneath to touch his skin. And lest his own intentions be misunderstood, and perhaps also to disavow any lingering ideas that he might be just a fussy angel, he rocks his hips forward and asks, voice heavy: ]
Would you like to come upstairs with me?
no worries! I can always do prose
Yes.
[ Said in response to the offer to go upstairs with him, the kisses scattered across his cheek, Aziraphale's hand taking his to guide it beneath the hem of his shirt. Crowley's hand caresses up his bare skin. Oh--oh, he loves touching Aziraphale, skin to skin, loves feeling his hips rock against him like an echo of lust and need. ]
Please--angel, please.
only if you prefer!
With his shirt untucked, hair unkempt and wings a bit ruffled, Aziraphale appears the least put-together that Crowley is ever likely to have seen him. He slides his feet to the ground to get up and the first steps he makes are backwards, as if for fear that looking away might cause this entire dream to rupture, for Aziraphale to have discovered that he had fallen asleep with Crowley after all. And yet, the idea of starting this all over from the moment he'd awoken isn't a bad one, so he relinquishes the thought and scurries up the stairs.
The bed, almost entirely unused, is crisp and perfectly made. With one sweep of a wing and a pull of his hand, the pillows tumble to the ground and the blankets fly back. ]
Now, where were we?
[ He takes a seat at an exposed corner of the mattress, looks up at Crowley with such endless wonder, with utter devotion, and miracles all the buttons of his shirt loose. He pushes the fabric aside with great care as he would unveiling a masterpiece, and with his hands on either of Crowley's sides, presses a kiss to his ribcage, this thing that is the keeper of his heart. ]
I’m good either way :)
Angel.
[ He caresses through Aziraphale’s hair roughly, and bends to kiss the crown of his head. Torn between the urge to crawl into his lap or to go down to his knees before him, Crowley urges Aziraphale to look up at him, his own gaze helplessly impassioned. ]
Tell me—is there—is there anything you’d like?
[ His heartbeat is wild, pulse jumping in his throat, and Crowley thinks—he’d do anything. Anything that Aziraphale pleased. ]
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You. All of you.
[ It's not a helpful answer, but it's the only one worth giving; he understands the question, since he's usually very particular and Crowley is surprisingly accommodating to all of Aziraphale's many preferences. However, at the moment, he can only think that he wants everything: Crowley's hands on him, and his mouth, and his legs and arms wrapped around him, their very souls colliding together. ]
And what do you want?
[ He asks this, with such an angelic smile on his face even as he undoes Crowley's belt and lets it fall to the floor, even as he fiddles with unzipping the seat of his pants and sliding one very impatient hand in between his legs. He appears to be very pleased with what he's found, and gladly presses against it with the heel of his palm. ]
Surely you have something specific in mind. Tell me, please. I'd like to hear it.
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His fingers clutch feverishly in Aziraphale's hair, his eyes open again as Aziraphale asks him that question--looks down at him and sees the smile on his face, the sweet interest in his eyes, and his hands busily undoing Crowley's belt and letting it drop and then--and then his trousers, his hand sliding in and pressing against Crowley's already hard cock and making his mouth fall open with a groan. He jerks helplessly to the touch, startled and gasping. He's had this shape for a while, has enjoyed the pleasure he's gotten out of it in the past, but it's an entirely different realm of feeling when it's Aziraphale's hand on him, the physical sensation and the fraught tangle of emotion all at once, nearly overwhelming.
Shivering, he tries to answer coherently. ] I want--
[ Aziraphale to keep doing that, oh, please. ]
You--you touching me. And then I want to get my mouth on you.
[ He feels breathless, in spite of how he doesn't really need to breathe, his voice gone harsh with blatant need. ]
And you--will you talk to me, will you tell me if it's good, if I'm-- [ He gives Aziraphale a pleading glance. Surely it's not too much to ask, not too greedy of him? ]
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Yes, he think he can oblige Crowley's requests, though he quirks an eyebrow up at the last one, just teasingly. ]
You want to know if you're... what? Good?
[ A coy smile plays across his face as he looks up at Crowley and wonders idly how many people have ever seen him from this angle. None that matter, surely, in this moment or going forward; it's just curiosity. ]
Yes.
[ He runs his hand down the length of Crowley's cock, still watching his face to see what kind of pressure or speed he likes. And he plays with it, experimentally, pads of his fingers eager to see where he's most sensitive, cataloguing and filing it away for later. ]
Yes, darling, you're being so good for me.
[ By the time his lips have gotten around to Crowley's very prominent arousal, he thinks he might have gone a little off of the script he requested. But he can't very well have Crowley's mouth anywhere on his skin where it's covered up, and he needs his hands to get himself out of his clothes. He guides Crowley into his mouth and puts both his tongue and his clumsy, restless fingers to work. ]
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