In this moment, Aziraphale would beg to disagree that Crowley is no good at comforting. Every stroke through his hair and caress down his cheek is a balm for his jangled nerves. No wonder Crowley likes this, he thinks absently as his mind turns a bit fuzzy. He shuts his eyes, like a cat in a sunbeam, letting the frayed tears in his heart mend themselves, drawn back together by Crowley's patient, soothing touch.
"We were always friends," he murmurs, his voice a little floaty. "Even when I said the most foolish things..." And then Crowley gives his hair a gentle tug and his eyes snap open, a startled laugh leaving his mouth without even trying. "I'm so good at it, though," he huffs in response, a touch wryly. Worrying about Crowley's safety, worrying about their superiors finding out about the Arrangement, worrying if he's doing the right thing, or if whatever thing he's doing, he's doing it the right way...
But it's nearly impossible to be worried now. He feels too safe around Crowley for those painful second guesses to take root in his thoughts. He concentrates on Crowley's hand in his hair instead, the playfulness in his friend's voice. "You know, back in Eden... I was so worried about having given my sword away. And the first thing you did, when I confessed it to you, was to reassure me." He smiles at the memory, the years between then and now to not seemingly matter. "I thought, is this was having a friend is like? You were so good to me, even back then."
“Yes, we were,” Crowley agrees, continuing the soft strokes, the teasing little tugs at strands of Aziraphale’s hair now and again. Yes, they’d always been friends, even on opposing sides throughout history or the times they’d fought. Even when both of them were being pig-headed, stubborn...he grins briefly when Aziraphale says how good he is at worrying, in that wry tone. “Well, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, angel, but at least you know it.”
It’s said with plenty of affection, because who would Aziraphale be without that tendency to worry, without always fussing about what Crowley’s up to or what would have happened if their Arrangement had been discovered, fussing over nearly everything he does himself—he wouldn’t be the Aziraphale that Crowley’s known all these years. His hand eases down the back of Aziraphale’s neck, caressing there lightly for a moment, before he rubs between his shoulders soothingly, easing invisible tensions. “Ah, well, I knew you couldn’t have done anything wrong,” he says softly when Aziraphale brings up their first meeting, all those millennia ago. “Nothing like that in you.” Crowley gazes down at him, remembering the longing he’d felt even back then, the urge to be near that angelic presence. Aziraphale might have had the sword; he might have chosen to strike out at the demon who tempted Eve and had the humans banished from Eden, yet he’d crawled straight to him anyway. “All that goodness in you, I could see it. Like a beacon. The other angels are nothing like you.”
It's reassuring to hear that bond between them, however unspoken, however pulled at by opposing forces or their own foolishness, remained intact. He gives a soft exhalation of relief, one that turns into a sound of pleasure as Crowley begins to ease out the fading tension between his shoulders. He doesn't look much like a creature of worry now, his eyes half-lidded and his posture slack and easy. He looks up when Crowley continues to speak, his friend's cascading red hair another reminder of that shared moment in Eden. Their first moment together, and despite being an angel and a demon, they were civil to one another. More than civil -- they smiled. Even shared a laugh, until Aziraphale's nerves got the better of him. Offering Crowley a wing for shelter from the rain seemed only natural at the time.
"No, I suppose they aren't," he says, and there is a touch of sadness in his voice at that admittance, but he's quick to leave it behind, reaching up with one of his hands to brush back a loose lock of Crowley's hair. "The other demons are nothing like you, either. No one is like you, my dear. You are truly extraordinary."
He smiles, feeling warm and content. He finally gives that cherry tart consideration, and picks up the plate and the fork. He breaks off a small piece with the edge of the fork to capture the perfect bite: a flaky crust, sweet custard, and a glistening red cherry atop it. "Can I tempt you?" he asks, holding the fork up to Crowley's lips. "It goes perfectly with the wine."
It's good to feel Aziraphale relaxing, the worry leaving the set of his shoulders as Crowley kneads between them with the heel of his hand. He watches Aziraphale's expression smooth out too, his eyes growing heavy-lidded, and it gives him a possessive twinge of pleasure that echoes within him again when Aziraphale looks up at him. His touch eases but remains on his back, just beneath the base of his neck, and Crowley continues gazing at Aziraphale as he captures a strand of his hair to brush back from his face, intent on him. "No imagination, is that lot's problem," he answers in a low voice, meaning the other demons. Perhaps it's a problem for Heaven, as well: all those angels unable to see past their own righteousness, to see in terms other than black and white, like Aziraphale does. He's the extraordinary one, Crowley thinks.
Though of course he's rather predictable in some ways, especially for a demon who's known him for six thousand years, and he isn't at all surprised when Aziraphale offers him some of his dessert to try. Crowley'd be just as happy to watch Aziraphale eat the whole thing, but his lips twitch in a smile that grows into a grin, as he says casually, "Temptation accomplished," before leaning forward and taking the bite of custard and pastry, with its sweet cherry to crown it off. It is good, he'll admit, Aziraphale always has a knack for finding the best tasting desserts. "Not bad." Crowley slides down to sit on the couch properly, landing with a little thump next to Aziraphale, and tilts his wine glass to his lips. "You're right, it does pair nicely."
Aziraphale hums a quiet note of agreement, for now simply watching Crowley and enjoying the feel of the hand on his back and the soft silk of hair on his fingertips. He's beautiful like this. Always beautiful, as a matter of fact. It feels superficial to point that out as another difference between Crowley and the other demons, but it's true. Even the angels, in their sterile perfection, can't hold a candle to him. No one else, he is certain, could stir such feelings within him.
"You have imagination in spades," he says finally. "And you put it to good use." He means Crowley's unflagging cleverness, although as he stares at his extraordinary demon so longingly, it can certainly refer to other things.
The callback to Aziraphale's witty (in his humble opinion) reply to Crowley's own 'temptation' the afternoon after they had successfully fooled their superiors makes him giggle, and he watches quite happily as Crowley takes the offered bite. He's even happier when Crowley joins him on the part of the couch that's actually meant to be sit on. "If I know anything, it's what wine goes with what dessert. I've had plenty of practice." He grins, then resumes eating the tart, taking his time to enjoy it, as he always does, washing down every other bite with a sip of wine.
When nothing is left but a few flaky crumbs, he sets the plate back down. There's no napkin, so he licks his lips clean. "You know, I... I saw that other statue, too. The one of Good and Evil wrestling." He takes a prim sip of wine, then asks nonchalantly, "Are you sure that's what they're doing?"
It stirs in him an answering passion when Aziraphale looks at him with longing in his eyes: a mirror of the feelings Crowley has carried within for so long that they seem a part of him. With sudden fascination, his fingers brush subtly at Aziraphale's cheek, and he wonders briefly what kind of use his angel would like to see him put his imagination to, but he leaves that thought to the side while he has some of the pastry and then watches Aziraphale finish off the rest. Elbow braced against the back of the couch, cheek leaning against a loosely curled fist, he waits patiently while Aziraphale enjoys the tart and the wine, taking a less-than-subtle pleasure in watching him.
"Hm?" Crowley's slow to catch up for a moment, because the sight of Aziraphale licking his lips was...stirring. His eyebrows raise, and then he lifts his head a moment later in understanding. "Oh, that." He hadn't cared much about the subject matter of the statue at first when he'd bought it, in truth; but he'd thought it would make an appropriate conversation piece if any demonic visitors ever took it in their heads to show up, evil wrestling good into submission and all of that. Or at least it might be approved of, since demons aren't much for conversation as a rule.
Still, after a while he'd begun to be...rather fond of it. The demon and angel locked in their eternal struggle, or perhaps it wasn't really a struggle at all, at least not one either of them wanted to win--
He suppresses a sudden grin, thinking of Aziraphale gazing at it and having the same thoughts. "Interesting question you raise," Crowley drawls innocently, draping his arm over the back of the settee. "What do you think they're doing?"
That touch to his cheek, as subtle as it is, brings such a smile to his face. He is so smitten, in every sense of the word, struck by Cupid's arrow, straight through his heart. He never thought it possible to feel such things, as much love as he has for Earth in all its creatures, it can't compare to the intoxicating mixture of tenderness and desire he has for Crowley.
"So beautiful," he sighs. He can't help it. He wishes he had a talent for composing sonnets, he should have paid more attention to Shakespeare when he'd pop over to watch the bard work his craft.
While Crowley watches him eat, Aziraphale looks at him every so often with that same look. Gone are the days that the demon can gaze at him unnoticed, even with his sunglasses on. It only makes the food taste better, so far as he's concerned.
He keeps his nonchalant smile as Crowley considers an alternate interpretation of the statue. But when the question is turned on him, he blushes and turns a bit flustered. He hadn't thought that far ahead in his innuendo! "Ah... erm. Well. It's an awfully... suggestive pose... especially if one assumes they're friends instead of enemies..."
“Suggestive?” Crowley tsks at him. “Oh, angel. There’s your mind going places again.”
He makes it too easy to tease, Crowley reflects; it’s a habit of his he really ought to work on. But he takes pity, remembering how sweetly Aziraphale was gazing at him moments ago, smiling as he reaches out a hand to brush the knuckles caressingly at Aziraphale’s cheek. “So do you? Assume they’re friends?” His voice pitches a little lower, with an unconscious warmth. There’s probably not another angel or demon in all of Heaven or Hell who would look at the statue and imagine that the two figures were perhaps something entirely different from enemies—the exact opposite, in fact—aside from him and Aziraphale. No imagination, as he said. He touches Aziraphale’s collar and hooks his fingers into it, tugging at him just a little, with light pressure.
Aziraphale makes a little defiant sound of protest at the teasing and finishes his glass of wine. He knows he's an easy target, although he doesn't mind Crowley taking advantage, not really. The caress to his cheek is apology enough. His smile returns, Crowley's voice, low and warm, an echoing caress for his soul.
"I do. I was there when wrestling became a sport, you know. It was -- " His breath catches as Crowley hooks into his collar, looking down and back up, curious where this tugging will lead. "The competitors were friendly, more often than not. You... you have to be, if you're willing to grapple without clothes on..."
"Oh. You used to watch that, did you?" He has vague memories of it. The Greeks were quite fond...but he must not have been hanging around them when Aziraphale was, or he'd certainly remember seeing him. There are quite a lot of sculptures, aren't there, that depict it, as though it's always been an inordinately fascinating subject: but, he thinks, there's only one he's found that depict an angel and demon as a subject. "I suppose they must have been," he says quietly, watching Aziraphale. "Do you know, I think many of them were lovers."
He pauses, thinking of the angel and demon, the two of them, and clears his throat. "I wasn't thinking of that when I got it," he admits. "But it--" Crowley hesitates again. It's a little bit mortifying to say these things, to admit the secret thoughts and fantasies he's had for so long. Like opening up a part of himself that has never before been seen, and Aziraphale is far too good to treat him with anything but kindness, but it still makes him nervous. Crowley looks away briefly. "Well, it started to appeal after a while. Thinking of them like that."
And if it's not clear yet, he's rather hoping that the tugging will lead Aziraphale closer. "Come here?" he asks softly, looking back at him.
"Just once, at the Olympics." He was there on unrelated business, but far be it from Aziraphale to resist attending a festival. It was a nice competition, he remembers. There was a pleasant camaraderie among the athletes, who were there to compete purely for the love of the game. He's about to say as much, but then Crowley throws in that comment, and his blush grows. "Ah... maybe? I wouldn't know."
As someone who has observed humans for as long as he has, Aziraphale is far from naive about the things that they get up to. That doesn't mean that he's used to viewing their behavior through that sort of lens. Or Crowley's, for that matter, so when the demon confesses his own lustful thoughts, he blinks in surprise. "Really?" A small, charmed smile appears on his face. Sensing Crowley's discomfort, he runs a finger along one of his braids, lightly working one of the curls free. "I have to be honest. In all my years, I never gave... that much thought. Not, ah... not until recently. Not until I knew it could be possible with you."
Crowley tugs at his collar again, his voice a quiet plea, Aziraphale obeys without hesitation, closing the distance between them, practically in the demon's lap while he kisses him: slow, sweet, and open-mouthed, tasting of cherries and fine wine.
He can sense that Aziraphale's a little charmed, and he doesn't mind it, really, not when he's running a finger along one of the braids and reminding Crowley of the pleasure of having his hair stroked. But a part of him feels scalded by the subject they're on, and really he should just nod along with Aziraphale and not say what's on his mind, only he hates the thought of keeping back any part of himself from him. "I only ever--" Crowley's voice catches again, briefly, "thought of it with...I thought that maybe, someday, we might--like to try it."
Not in any particular configuration or even great detail, but one sees a sculpture now and again, or tempts a pair of humans to give into their lust for one another, and can't help but wonder. Then, too, there was always the question of whether they even could, considering that Aziraphale is one of God's holiest creatures...too holy, apparently, to have thought about it before, and Crowley will just go and hide under a rock now, thank you. But then Aziraphale closes in and kisses him, not giving him the chance: nearly climbing into his lap, his mouth so sweet and beguiling that Crowley can't help himself from surrendering a low moan into it, his head tipping against the back of the couch as he offers himself up to the slow, thorough way Aziraphale kisses him. His fingers clutch at Aziraphale and drag him closer.
"Angel, I'm--" He gasps words in between kisses, taking and offering more, "I'm a very--very sinful demon...I mean to warn you..." Breaking away from Aziraphale's mouth, Crowley nips at the edge of his jaw and fervently kisses his throat. "Very demonic," he finishes with conviction.
He keeps gently working that curl free, then another, while Crowley confesses to him further. Those words are said so delicately that he takes his time to respond, not wanting to tip Crowley into embarrassment. "I'd like to try it as well," he says, quiet but reassuring. "With you. Only with you."
This is entirely new territory for Aziraphale, but it's ground that he walks eagerly. It doesn't matter that he's an angel, nothing that feels this good, that is such a blatant expression of love, could be anything less than holy. It's Crowley, it's only Crowley, it's always Crowley. The way that Crowley moans into his mouth and clutches at him emboldens his embrace, and without shame he shifts his body so that he's straddling him, hands migrating to Crowley's hair. It's simply more practical this way for all the kissing.
"I know," he gasps back, while Crowley works his throat. "So very sinful. And I -- ah! -- I've read so many books." He keeps one hand clutched in those silk strands, the other migrating down to the collar of Crowley's shirt, touching what skin he can find there. "I think... all things considered, we can have a jolly good time..."
Okay, so maybe his bedroom talk needs some work. He kisses Crowley again, putting his mouth to better use.
Aziraphale is too blessedly kind, and Crowley doesn’t know what he’s ever done to be so lucky to have him shifting in unabashedly to straddle his lap; he’s certainly done nothing deserving of it. But he doesn’t care, he’s too gone for him to care, especially when Aziraphale gets his hands tangled in his hair—oh, he likes this, this was worth growing it all out for—and keeps on kissing him until Crowley’s moved to his throat. Then he has to bury his face against him for a moment, breathing out an exhale, every part of him thrumming with want and need. How does Aziraphale do it, how does he always get so deep under his skin with just the sound of his voice, the things he says, talking about books and jolly good times and all else...
“Jolly, yeah,” he agrees in an absolute haze of desire where he’s liable to agree to anything, anything at all, even if Aziraphale were to convincingly suggest that the sky is green. Instead Aziraphale kisses him again, fingers playing at the collar of his shirt, and Crowley moves a hand from where he’s taken hold of Aziraphale’s waist to drag him fervently against him and tugs away the silver tie from his neck, opens the collar of his shirt, offering more of himself for Aziraphale to touch. His fingers wrap around Aziraphale’s, hesitating a moment and then laying them against the skin he’s bared at his collar. He can touch whatever he likes, undo more buttons if he wants to—anything, he thinks, he’d welcome anything.
Crowley is like a live wire beneath him; how funny that no matter how they fit themselves together, it's Crowley who becomes undone. Not that Aziraphale is the epitome of composure, but he's always so careful with his ability to make Crowley weak with desire. Each kiss is a slow, treasured taste, his grasp in Crowley's hair a constant reminder that he's here, that he never wants to let his precious demon go.
He feels Crowley fussing with his silver tie and collar, but it's not until his hand is moved to the newly bared skin that he realizes what's happening. Despite how sinful Crowley claims to be, there is something achingly sweet about the way he offers himself up to Aziraphale, letting the angel take what he pleases. Without ending his kiss, he runs his fingers along Crowley's skin, as if to memorize it, pushing the shirt further open to touch more. The fabric strains against his explorations, so he opens a couple more buttons until he can put his hand over Crowley's heart. And there he holds it, feeling the beat thrum wildly underneath.
"Dear one," he whispers between kisses. "Oh, my dear Crowley. My treasure. You are so good to me."
Aziraphale's kisses are soft and slow and unimaginably sweet, offering up a tenderness that Crowley doesn't know what to do with. He never imagined in all those years of longing and undirected desire that it could be like this, insofar as he imagined the details--Aziraphale so good and holy that perhaps his kisses would burn like fire, perhaps his touches would crackle beneath Crowley's skin, and he would grasp after that blessedness anyway, in his rash and reckless way, too in love to care. In a way Aziraphale does burn him. Scorches him down to his soul with love, with his gentle hands and mouth, his sweet words. A choked moan rises in his throat when Aziraphale calls him those things--oh, he loves it--and his heart is beating so wildly beneath Aziraphale's palm, that gentle warm touch feeling so much more intimate than it has a right to, and Crowley pulls back for a moment to gaze at Aziraphale like he is the brightest starlight in the firmament of Heaven.
"Angel," he says achingly, his hands trailing caresses at Aziraphale's back, his waist...and then taking hold of his hips, stroking lightly over the fine fabric of his trousers. He tugs Aziraphale against him, drags their hips close together, and oh, it feels so lovely to be pressed against him, pleasure and excitement twisting deep within him. His breath hitches and his eyes briefly close, and he nudges forward so that he can press a kiss at Aziraphale's throat, above his collar.
When Crowley pulls back, Aziraphale looks down at him with soft eyes, his lips pressed together as if awaiting judgement. Being able to openly praise Crowley is still so new, but the look on his face is so adoring that Aziraphale relaxes immediately. "Yes, my darling?" he asks, his fingers drawing lazy circles over Crowley's heart. "What do you -- oh!"
His sweet query is cut off by Crowley pulling them flush together. In this position, it leads to a sudden rush of physical sensation, one that sends stars exploding behind his suddenly closed eyes. He makes a sound halfway between a whine and a sob, his hand in Crowley's hair clutching tightly for a moment before easing and rubbing soothingly at the scalp in apology.
"O-oh... s-sorry. I didn't expect that..." This is what happens when someone doesn't bother to make an Effort very often. He catches his breath, only to whimper when Crowley kisses his throat. The sunglasses ghost his chin, and he lets his hand drift up from Crowley's heart to lightly touch the frames. "Can I...?"
He, too, has to catch his breath--Aziraphale's hand clutching in his hair, the needy cut-off sound he makes has his lungs feeling suddenly tight, the sense of gratification almost more vivid than the physical pleasure. Crowley breathes out harshly against his throat as the tight clutch in his hair eases, scalp stinging just a little but soothed by the caress a moment later. His own hands still hold Aziraphale tightly, still cling to him and keep them close together. "S'all right," Crowley says roughly. "You--you can hold onto me like that if you want."
He hadn't expected Aziraphale to react so strongly, and it was good, oh, it was good. A hand strokes roughly up the angel's spine as he touches the frame of Crowley's shades and asks--Crowley nods, letting Aziraphale draw them off and then looking at him again without trying to hide anything the angel might be able to see in his gaze. His eyes are probably darkened, the pupils gone wide, and he nudges his face into Aziraphale's hand when it's still close, kisses his palm with a needy little bite.
"Is this..." His hands go to Aziraphale's hips again and guide them forward, hitching them together once more; the front of his trousers are beginning to feel awfully tight, but he doesn't care. He swallows, a little wide-eyed, watching Aziraphale. "Is this all right?"
Crowley's permission to grab his hair like that is at once both exhilarating and terrifying. He fumbles a little in removing Crowley's shades, but it never occurs to him to stop rubbing at Crowley's scalp so that he can do it two-handed. No, he's keeping that hand buried in all those soft curls, twisting at them gently but urgently while he stares into Crowley's eyes. It's like a mirror, the demon's love and desire reflected back into his own. It feels infinite.
His eyes flutter shut at that needy kiss to his hand, and then squeeze shut as Crowley hitches them together again. It's as intense as the first time, although he's not as rough when he grips Crowley's hair. Firm, but not sharp; he needs something to hold onto or he'll unravel completely. With a closed-lip whine, he nods frantically. His free hand drops back to Crowley's chest, pushing a small bit of distance between them so he can touch his bare skin, mapping out the boundaries of his physical body.
"It's..." he finally says, his mouth opening with a small gasp. "It's so much. I can barely contain it." He leans in, intending to kiss Crowley, but rests his forehead against him instead, simply breathing into the space between their lips. "How is it for you? Is it all right for you?"
He thinks, almost deliriously, they belong like this--wrapped up in one another, Aziraphale's hand buried in his hair, his grip urgent enough to make Crowley ache, though it isn't quite a physical sensation, Aziraphale's careful enough not to hurt. Of course he would, of course he'd try his best not to hurt, and the thought is enough to make him shiver and clutch harder at Aziraphale, needing him desperately. His eyes close as Aziraphale leans down and rests his forehead against his, and Crowley nods when he asks him if it's all right. "Perfect," he says, still in that rough aching voice, leaning up to capture the kiss from Azirphale's mouth that he'd meant to give, arching his hips up as he does, chasing more sensation, more pleasure and the sounds Aziraphale makes. Crowley gasps too, breaking the kiss to mouth again at the angel's throat, sliding an arm around his waist to keep them locked together while he tugs urgently at his necktie. "Aziraphale, angel--"
Pulling the tie open and letting it fall, he works apart the buttons at Aziraphale's collar, miracling one or two of them undone in his haste, and then Crowley buries his face at the base of his throat as he pulls him hard against him. There's a halting rhythm he finds in the motions, rocking against him, nerves sparking wherever Aziraphale touches his bare skin, but not hasty, he doesn't want--he doesn't want to have to stop too soon, he wants to linger in what feels good, discover what they both like. Crowley leaves hot, breathless kisses at Aziraphale's throat, hands clutching in the back of his shirt or at his hip, keeping him as physically close as it is possible to be, and he shivers every time Aziraphale's fingers tighten in his hair.
If Crowley says it's perfect, then it must be. He returns the kiss, moaning into Crowley's mouth when he arches his hips, his most decadent sound yet, as if letting it be swallowed by Crowley gives him permission to let go a little. When Crowley undoes his tie and works open the collar, he tilts his head back helplessly, eyes shut through the entire enterprise. It's not as though there's any more skin exposed than that first explorative afternoon on the couch -- okay, not any more on his end, he's already undone a few more of Crowley's shirt buttons, letting his hand wander far past his heart -- but the way they're fitted together, the way Crowley is moving against him, it is so much more everything.
And Aziraphale wants it. Oh, how he wants it. He lets Crowley set the pace, and it is blessedly slow. He doesn't want to rush this for a variety of reasons, and as he gets pulled even closer against his precious demon, he grips Crowley's hair as tightly as he dares. "Like that," he whines, voice breaking with each kiss to his throat. "Just like that, my darling."
It's difficult to keep touching Crowley with the space between them reduced to nothing. He settles for rucking up his shirt, hoping to pull it free from his jeans and slide a hand up his side instead, already hopelessly addicted to the touch of his bare skin.
The fingers buried in his hair tighten, and he feels again the ache of need that sharpens within him, shivering the way he does when Aziraphale praises him. He wants--he wants to be needed, wants to feel it in the angel's grasp and the sounds of his gasps, his voice breaking into a whine when he asks for this, and Crowley wants to give him--everything, anything. Hips arching up and moving against Aziraphale's, the hand on his hip guiding him, pressing them close together, and then he lets go to unfasten more of the angel's clothes--undoing his waistcoat, unbuttoning his shirt, and he could use a miracle instead of his hands but there's something charming about easing all of these little buttons and fastenings apart. Crowley's more impatient with his own clothing, pausing to shrug his shirt from his shoulders when Aziraphale tugs the hem from the waistband of his trousers.
Then he hesitates again, studying Aziraphale for a moment--Crowley's more or less bare from hips up, and Aziraphale--there's more of him to touch, kiss, his fingers brushing under the edges of his shirt that he's undone and caressing his bare waist, and Crowley doesn't speak, letting out a shaky breath and nudging his face into Aziraphale's collar again. He kisses him with a raw, urgent tenderness that seems wildly out of place in a demon, except it's Aziraphale, it's his angel and Crowley can't do anything other than worship him.
He doesn't say anything as Crowley unfastens his waistcoat and shirt, although the way his whines soften to tiny little gasps should provide a glimpse into the complex emotions suddenly running through him. There's excitement, and nervousness, and even a little relief that Crowley is being so careful with the buttons on his waistcoat. Crowley looks over his newly exposed chest and he suddenly feels a little self-conscious. This is his body, replicated perfectly by Adam, otherwise held for over six thousand years. He never once thought about it in this sort of context. Will Crowley like it? Will it measure up to his desire?
Better to concentrate on Crowley, especially now that his shirt is off completely. He certainly measures up to Aziraphale's desire. The elegant lines of his body remind him of a statue, but not the aggressive wrestling one. No, he's Le génie du mal, a statue of a fallen angel that was too provocative to be placed in the church that commissioned it. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, wondering how the demon's skin would taste beneath them, but then Crowley is touching and kissing him so tenderly that he can't think of much of anything.
The hand in Crowley's hair slides down to cup the back of his head, drawing him forward so that he can slide his other hand down Crowley's back. He rubs the spot between his hidden wings, shifting his weight so that he can press their hips together once more. "You're gorgeous," he murmurs richly, a rough hitch to his voice while Crowley mouths his throat. "Absolutely gorgeous." He says it with authority, as if it is a pronouncement from on high, words to be etched in stone and preserved for eternity.
There’s never been a moment where Crowley didn’t find something in Aziraphale to attract him, even when doing the most mundane things like reading or worrying about some customer wandering through the shelves in his shop—there have been times while they’re doing nothing at all, when Crowley will look over at Aziraphale and get lost simply gazing at him, coming to himself with a start some moments later and being fervently grateful for the dark shades over his eyes. But this is so much more intimate, revealing Aziraphale like he’s been hidden away in the pages of one of his books, and Crowley’s breath catches, his heart skips a few beats while he’s mouthing at his lovely throat, hands feverishly drawing over all the bare skin he can find. Aziraphale is...he’s luminous. It’s something he always knew, and yet at the same time so much more than he expected.
He moans when Aziraphale slides his hand around the back of his head and draws him forward, as though to keep Crowley against him, to demand more of his kisses. The hand rubbing between his wings makes him shudder—makes him want to manifest them here in his flat and feel Aziraphale’s hands bury themselves in the feathers. “Aziraphale,” he answers desperately, fingers pressing in where he touches him, hips arching up instinctively again, and he digs his teeth into Aziraphale’s throat as hard as he dares. Not enough to really hurt, but certainly hard enough to be felt. Enough that perhaps there will be a mark there for a day or two, hidden under Aziraphale’s collar, if he doesn’t miracle it away. “You are—you’re beautiful, you—“
The words end in a groan, Crowley shifting against him, desperate for motion and contact.
Aziraphale feels a little like one of his books, opening up under Crowley's hands, fingers skimming his flesh like the turning of delicate paper. His skin is as soft and pure as the rest of him, lightly flushed from being touched for the first time in forever. It gives him a delightful shiver, easing away his worries that he's not enough somehow, although he'd much rather think about Crowley's warm skin under his hand, that shudder and ache of hidden wings that he feels in his own bones.
Crowley's desperate voice heralds the bite to the angel's throat, and Aziraphale makes a sound halfway between a hiss and a squeak, squirming a little in the demon's firm grip. Yes, it's hard enough to leave a mark, one he won't miracle away. Perhaps when it fades, he'll ask Crowley to give him another. And another. To mark him as his, like an author's handwritten message in a first edition.
It's when he's called beautiful that he pulls away from Crowley's eager mouth. "Really?" he asks tremulously. He smiles, pink-cheeked, and hesitantly slides off his shirt and waistcoat, placing them carefully on the couch where they won't be tousled. More confidently, he places both hands on Crowley's shoulders, then wraps him up in an embrace. The feel of his bare skin against Crowley's is nothing short of ecstasy, and he squeezes his hips to keep Crowley from hitching his, lest he drown in the sensation.
"Crowley." His voice is low and breathless in the demon's ear. "Will you hold me for a little while?"
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"We were always friends," he murmurs, his voice a little floaty. "Even when I said the most foolish things..." And then Crowley gives his hair a gentle tug and his eyes snap open, a startled laugh leaving his mouth without even trying. "I'm so good at it, though," he huffs in response, a touch wryly. Worrying about Crowley's safety, worrying about their superiors finding out about the Arrangement, worrying if he's doing the right thing, or if whatever thing he's doing, he's doing it the right way...
But it's nearly impossible to be worried now. He feels too safe around Crowley for those painful second guesses to take root in his thoughts. He concentrates on Crowley's hand in his hair instead, the playfulness in his friend's voice. "You know, back in Eden... I was so worried about having given my sword away. And the first thing you did, when I confessed it to you, was to reassure me." He smiles at the memory, the years between then and now to not seemingly matter. "I thought, is this was having a friend is like? You were so good to me, even back then."
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It’s said with plenty of affection, because who would Aziraphale be without that tendency to worry, without always fussing about what Crowley’s up to or what would have happened if their Arrangement had been discovered, fussing over nearly everything he does himself—he wouldn’t be the Aziraphale that Crowley’s known all these years. His hand eases down the back of Aziraphale’s neck, caressing there lightly for a moment, before he rubs between his shoulders soothingly, easing invisible tensions. “Ah, well, I knew you couldn’t have done anything wrong,” he says softly when Aziraphale brings up their first meeting, all those millennia ago. “Nothing like that in you.” Crowley gazes down at him, remembering the longing he’d felt even back then, the urge to be near that angelic presence. Aziraphale might have had the sword; he might have chosen to strike out at the demon who tempted Eve and had the humans banished from Eden, yet he’d crawled straight to him anyway. “All that goodness in you, I could see it. Like a beacon. The other angels are nothing like you.”
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"No, I suppose they aren't," he says, and there is a touch of sadness in his voice at that admittance, but he's quick to leave it behind, reaching up with one of his hands to brush back a loose lock of Crowley's hair. "The other demons are nothing like you, either. No one is like you, my dear. You are truly extraordinary."
He smiles, feeling warm and content. He finally gives that cherry tart consideration, and picks up the plate and the fork. He breaks off a small piece with the edge of the fork to capture the perfect bite: a flaky crust, sweet custard, and a glistening red cherry atop it. "Can I tempt you?" he asks, holding the fork up to Crowley's lips. "It goes perfectly with the wine."
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Though of course he's rather predictable in some ways, especially for a demon who's known him for six thousand years, and he isn't at all surprised when Aziraphale offers him some of his dessert to try. Crowley'd be just as happy to watch Aziraphale eat the whole thing, but his lips twitch in a smile that grows into a grin, as he says casually, "Temptation accomplished," before leaning forward and taking the bite of custard and pastry, with its sweet cherry to crown it off. It is good, he'll admit, Aziraphale always has a knack for finding the best tasting desserts. "Not bad." Crowley slides down to sit on the couch properly, landing with a little thump next to Aziraphale, and tilts his wine glass to his lips. "You're right, it does pair nicely."
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"You have imagination in spades," he says finally. "And you put it to good use." He means Crowley's unflagging cleverness, although as he stares at his extraordinary demon so longingly, it can certainly refer to other things.
The callback to Aziraphale's witty (in his humble opinion) reply to Crowley's own 'temptation' the afternoon after they had successfully fooled their superiors makes him giggle, and he watches quite happily as Crowley takes the offered bite. He's even happier when Crowley joins him on the part of the couch that's actually meant to be sit on. "If I know anything, it's what wine goes with what dessert. I've had plenty of practice." He grins, then resumes eating the tart, taking his time to enjoy it, as he always does, washing down every other bite with a sip of wine.
When nothing is left but a few flaky crumbs, he sets the plate back down. There's no napkin, so he licks his lips clean. "You know, I... I saw that other statue, too. The one of Good and Evil wrestling." He takes a prim sip of wine, then asks nonchalantly, "Are you sure that's what they're doing?"
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"Hm?" Crowley's slow to catch up for a moment, because the sight of Aziraphale licking his lips was...stirring. His eyebrows raise, and then he lifts his head a moment later in understanding. "Oh, that." He hadn't cared much about the subject matter of the statue at first when he'd bought it, in truth; but he'd thought it would make an appropriate conversation piece if any demonic visitors ever took it in their heads to show up, evil wrestling good into submission and all of that. Or at least it might be approved of, since demons aren't much for conversation as a rule.
Still, after a while he'd begun to be...rather fond of it. The demon and angel locked in their eternal struggle, or perhaps it wasn't really a struggle at all, at least not one either of them wanted to win--
He suppresses a sudden grin, thinking of Aziraphale gazing at it and having the same thoughts. "Interesting question you raise," Crowley drawls innocently, draping his arm over the back of the settee. "What do you think they're doing?"
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"So beautiful," he sighs. He can't help it. He wishes he had a talent for composing sonnets, he should have paid more attention to Shakespeare when he'd pop over to watch the bard work his craft.
While Crowley watches him eat, Aziraphale looks at him every so often with that same look. Gone are the days that the demon can gaze at him unnoticed, even with his sunglasses on. It only makes the food taste better, so far as he's concerned.
He keeps his nonchalant smile as Crowley considers an alternate interpretation of the statue. But when the question is turned on him, he blushes and turns a bit flustered. He hadn't thought that far ahead in his innuendo! "Ah... erm. Well. It's an awfully... suggestive pose... especially if one assumes they're friends instead of enemies..."
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He makes it too easy to tease, Crowley reflects; it’s a habit of his he really ought to work on. But he takes pity, remembering how sweetly Aziraphale was gazing at him moments ago, smiling as he reaches out a hand to brush the knuckles caressingly at Aziraphale’s cheek. “So do you? Assume they’re friends?” His voice pitches a little lower, with an unconscious warmth. There’s probably not another angel or demon in all of Heaven or Hell who would look at the statue and imagine that the two figures were perhaps something entirely different from enemies—the exact opposite, in fact—aside from him and Aziraphale. No imagination, as he said. He touches Aziraphale’s collar and hooks his fingers into it, tugging at him just a little, with light pressure.
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"I do. I was there when wrestling became a sport, you know. It was -- " His breath catches as Crowley hooks into his collar, looking down and back up, curious where this tugging will lead. "The competitors were friendly, more often than not. You... you have to be, if you're willing to grapple without clothes on..."
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He pauses, thinking of the angel and demon, the two of them, and clears his throat. "I wasn't thinking of that when I got it," he admits. "But it--" Crowley hesitates again. It's a little bit mortifying to say these things, to admit the secret thoughts and fantasies he's had for so long. Like opening up a part of himself that has never before been seen, and Aziraphale is far too good to treat him with anything but kindness, but it still makes him nervous. Crowley looks away briefly. "Well, it started to appeal after a while. Thinking of them like that."
And if it's not clear yet, he's rather hoping that the tugging will lead Aziraphale closer. "Come here?" he asks softly, looking back at him.
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As someone who has observed humans for as long as he has, Aziraphale is far from naive about the things that they get up to. That doesn't mean that he's used to viewing their behavior through that sort of lens. Or Crowley's, for that matter, so when the demon confesses his own lustful thoughts, he blinks in surprise. "Really?" A small, charmed smile appears on his face. Sensing Crowley's discomfort, he runs a finger along one of his braids, lightly working one of the curls free. "I have to be honest. In all my years, I never gave... that much thought. Not, ah... not until recently. Not until I knew it could be possible with you."
Crowley tugs at his collar again, his voice a quiet plea, Aziraphale obeys without hesitation, closing the distance between them, practically in the demon's lap while he kisses him: slow, sweet, and open-mouthed, tasting of cherries and fine wine.
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Not in any particular configuration or even great detail, but one sees a sculpture now and again, or tempts a pair of humans to give into their lust for one another, and can't help but wonder. Then, too, there was always the question of whether they even could, considering that Aziraphale is one of God's holiest creatures...too holy, apparently, to have thought about it before, and Crowley will just go and hide under a rock now, thank you. But then Aziraphale closes in and kisses him, not giving him the chance: nearly climbing into his lap, his mouth so sweet and beguiling that Crowley can't help himself from surrendering a low moan into it, his head tipping against the back of the couch as he offers himself up to the slow, thorough way Aziraphale kisses him. His fingers clutch at Aziraphale and drag him closer.
"Angel, I'm--" He gasps words in between kisses, taking and offering more, "I'm a very--very sinful demon...I mean to warn you..." Breaking away from Aziraphale's mouth, Crowley nips at the edge of his jaw and fervently kisses his throat. "Very demonic," he finishes with conviction.
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This is entirely new territory for Aziraphale, but it's ground that he walks eagerly. It doesn't matter that he's an angel, nothing that feels this good, that is such a blatant expression of love, could be anything less than holy. It's Crowley, it's only Crowley, it's always Crowley. The way that Crowley moans into his mouth and clutches at him emboldens his embrace, and without shame he shifts his body so that he's straddling him, hands migrating to Crowley's hair. It's simply more practical this way for all the kissing.
"I know," he gasps back, while Crowley works his throat. "So very sinful. And I -- ah! -- I've read so many books." He keeps one hand clutched in those silk strands, the other migrating down to the collar of Crowley's shirt, touching what skin he can find there. "I think... all things considered, we can have a jolly good time..."
Okay, so maybe his bedroom talk needs some work. He kisses Crowley again, putting his mouth to better use.
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“Jolly, yeah,” he agrees in an absolute haze of desire where he’s liable to agree to anything, anything at all, even if Aziraphale were to convincingly suggest that the sky is green. Instead Aziraphale kisses him again, fingers playing at the collar of his shirt, and Crowley moves a hand from where he’s taken hold of Aziraphale’s waist to drag him fervently against him and tugs away the silver tie from his neck, opens the collar of his shirt, offering more of himself for Aziraphale to touch. His fingers wrap around Aziraphale’s, hesitating a moment and then laying them against the skin he’s bared at his collar. He can touch whatever he likes, undo more buttons if he wants to—anything, he thinks, he’d welcome anything.
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He feels Crowley fussing with his silver tie and collar, but it's not until his hand is moved to the newly bared skin that he realizes what's happening. Despite how sinful Crowley claims to be, there is something achingly sweet about the way he offers himself up to Aziraphale, letting the angel take what he pleases. Without ending his kiss, he runs his fingers along Crowley's skin, as if to memorize it, pushing the shirt further open to touch more. The fabric strains against his explorations, so he opens a couple more buttons until he can put his hand over Crowley's heart. And there he holds it, feeling the beat thrum wildly underneath.
"Dear one," he whispers between kisses. "Oh, my dear Crowley. My treasure. You are so good to me."
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"Angel," he says achingly, his hands trailing caresses at Aziraphale's back, his waist...and then taking hold of his hips, stroking lightly over the fine fabric of his trousers. He tugs Aziraphale against him, drags their hips close together, and oh, it feels so lovely to be pressed against him, pleasure and excitement twisting deep within him. His breath hitches and his eyes briefly close, and he nudges forward so that he can press a kiss at Aziraphale's throat, above his collar.
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His sweet query is cut off by Crowley pulling them flush together. In this position, it leads to a sudden rush of physical sensation, one that sends stars exploding behind his suddenly closed eyes. He makes a sound halfway between a whine and a sob, his hand in Crowley's hair clutching tightly for a moment before easing and rubbing soothingly at the scalp in apology.
"O-oh... s-sorry. I didn't expect that..." This is what happens when someone doesn't bother to make an Effort very often. He catches his breath, only to whimper when Crowley kisses his throat. The sunglasses ghost his chin, and he lets his hand drift up from Crowley's heart to lightly touch the frames. "Can I...?"
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He hadn't expected Aziraphale to react so strongly, and it was good, oh, it was good. A hand strokes roughly up the angel's spine as he touches the frame of Crowley's shades and asks--Crowley nods, letting Aziraphale draw them off and then looking at him again without trying to hide anything the angel might be able to see in his gaze. His eyes are probably darkened, the pupils gone wide, and he nudges his face into Aziraphale's hand when it's still close, kisses his palm with a needy little bite.
"Is this..." His hands go to Aziraphale's hips again and guide them forward, hitching them together once more; the front of his trousers are beginning to feel awfully tight, but he doesn't care. He swallows, a little wide-eyed, watching Aziraphale. "Is this all right?"
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His eyes flutter shut at that needy kiss to his hand, and then squeeze shut as Crowley hitches them together again. It's as intense as the first time, although he's not as rough when he grips Crowley's hair. Firm, but not sharp; he needs something to hold onto or he'll unravel completely. With a closed-lip whine, he nods frantically. His free hand drops back to Crowley's chest, pushing a small bit of distance between them so he can touch his bare skin, mapping out the boundaries of his physical body.
"It's..." he finally says, his mouth opening with a small gasp. "It's so much. I can barely contain it." He leans in, intending to kiss Crowley, but rests his forehead against him instead, simply breathing into the space between their lips. "How is it for you? Is it all right for you?"
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Pulling the tie open and letting it fall, he works apart the buttons at Aziraphale's collar, miracling one or two of them undone in his haste, and then Crowley buries his face at the base of his throat as he pulls him hard against him. There's a halting rhythm he finds in the motions, rocking against him, nerves sparking wherever Aziraphale touches his bare skin, but not hasty, he doesn't want--he doesn't want to have to stop too soon, he wants to linger in what feels good, discover what they both like. Crowley leaves hot, breathless kisses at Aziraphale's throat, hands clutching in the back of his shirt or at his hip, keeping him as physically close as it is possible to be, and he shivers every time Aziraphale's fingers tighten in his hair.
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And Aziraphale wants it. Oh, how he wants it. He lets Crowley set the pace, and it is blessedly slow. He doesn't want to rush this for a variety of reasons, and as he gets pulled even closer against his precious demon, he grips Crowley's hair as tightly as he dares. "Like that," he whines, voice breaking with each kiss to his throat. "Just like that, my darling."
It's difficult to keep touching Crowley with the space between them reduced to nothing. He settles for rucking up his shirt, hoping to pull it free from his jeans and slide a hand up his side instead, already hopelessly addicted to the touch of his bare skin.
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Then he hesitates again, studying Aziraphale for a moment--Crowley's more or less bare from hips up, and Aziraphale--there's more of him to touch, kiss, his fingers brushing under the edges of his shirt that he's undone and caressing his bare waist, and Crowley doesn't speak, letting out a shaky breath and nudging his face into Aziraphale's collar again. He kisses him with a raw, urgent tenderness that seems wildly out of place in a demon, except it's Aziraphale, it's his angel and Crowley can't do anything other than worship him.
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Better to concentrate on Crowley, especially now that his shirt is off completely. He certainly measures up to Aziraphale's desire. The elegant lines of his body remind him of a statue, but not the aggressive wrestling one. No, he's Le génie du mal, a statue of a fallen angel that was too provocative to be placed in the church that commissioned it. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, wondering how the demon's skin would taste beneath them, but then Crowley is touching and kissing him so tenderly that he can't think of much of anything.
The hand in Crowley's hair slides down to cup the back of his head, drawing him forward so that he can slide his other hand down Crowley's back. He rubs the spot between his hidden wings, shifting his weight so that he can press their hips together once more. "You're gorgeous," he murmurs richly, a rough hitch to his voice while Crowley mouths his throat. "Absolutely gorgeous." He says it with authority, as if it is a pronouncement from on high, words to be etched in stone and preserved for eternity.
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He moans when Aziraphale slides his hand around the back of his head and draws him forward, as though to keep Crowley against him, to demand more of his kisses. The hand rubbing between his wings makes him shudder—makes him want to manifest them here in his flat and feel Aziraphale’s hands bury themselves in the feathers. “Aziraphale,” he answers desperately, fingers pressing in where he touches him, hips arching up instinctively again, and he digs his teeth into Aziraphale’s throat as hard as he dares. Not enough to really hurt, but certainly hard enough to be felt. Enough that perhaps there will be a mark there for a day or two, hidden under Aziraphale’s collar, if he doesn’t miracle it away. “You are—you’re beautiful, you—“
The words end in a groan, Crowley shifting against him, desperate for motion and contact.
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Crowley's desperate voice heralds the bite to the angel's throat, and Aziraphale makes a sound halfway between a hiss and a squeak, squirming a little in the demon's firm grip. Yes, it's hard enough to leave a mark, one he won't miracle away. Perhaps when it fades, he'll ask Crowley to give him another. And another. To mark him as his, like an author's handwritten message in a first edition.
It's when he's called beautiful that he pulls away from Crowley's eager mouth. "Really?" he asks tremulously. He smiles, pink-cheeked, and hesitantly slides off his shirt and waistcoat, placing them carefully on the couch where they won't be tousled. More confidently, he places both hands on Crowley's shoulders, then wraps him up in an embrace. The feel of his bare skin against Crowley's is nothing short of ecstasy, and he squeezes his hips to keep Crowley from hitching his, lest he drown in the sensation.
"Crowley." His voice is low and breathless in the demon's ear. "Will you hold me for a little while?"
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