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?"
it's only reluctantly that Crowley lets Aziraphale ease back, so taken with him that he wants desperately to keep him close, to keep tormenting him with kisses and tender bites to his throat and breathe him in like he's the most vital substance in any world, here or above or below. But he lifts his head to meet Azirphale's gaze with hazy, darkened eyes, looking at him in a way that should leave no doubt whether he means it when he says Aziraphale is beautiful. He looks so lovely right now, with his flushed skin and bitten throat, his smile and the way he slides the shirt and waistcoat from his shoulders--placing them carefully aside lest they get rumpled, oh Hell, Crowley adores him--and then sliding his arms around him again. Crowley is just trying to keep up, gone absolutely dizzy with love and need, with the sweetness of Aziraphale's touch.
He caresses Aziraphale's waist, the small of his back, up along his spine, with hands that ache to touch him, that love the feeling of his soft warm skin. He loves where they press together, too, his face buried against Aziraphale's bare shoulder as he takes him again into his arms. He can feel where Aziraphale urges him to be still and obeys, resting against him with a shaky sigh, close to being overwhelmed himself. His hands pet him in vague apology. "Is it--too much?"
Worry is there, but it's overlaid by the enchantment of holding onto Aziraphale and feeling himself held, surrounded and comforted, and if all he wants to do is this, Crowley wouldn't argue. He nods and kisses Azirphale's shoulder devoutly, resting there, the only place in the world he longs to be.
It's enough to hold Crowley close, like two beings carved from the same block of marble, more tender than any pair of lovers on display in the British Museum. He takes pleasure in Crowley's touch, but the moment that he hears that note of worry, he's quick to run his hands up along Crowley's back reassuringly, gathering up his hair and letting it drape over his forearms as he rubs gentle circles between his shoulder blades.
"No, it's not that, my dear." He says it with confidence, although there's a long pause before he elaborates. It's not easy to think of the right words to explain himself, not when desire burns within him, hot and insistent, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He shivers happily at Crowley's kiss, then reaches up to toy with the bit of ribbon holding in place the two braids he made earlier that day. "I want this, what we've been doing, very much so. But I want to savor it, too."
With a deft tug, he pulls free the ribbon and lightly tosses it aside. He gently unwinds both braids, brushing them back into Crowley's hair. "You've seen how long I take to eat. How I enjoy each bite. And you watch me when I read, don't you?" He brings a hand to Crowley's chin to tilt his face up so he can see Aziraphale's tender smile. "How sometimes I need to put the book down, because I'm close to the ending and I don't want to rush through it? It's like that. Does that make sense?"
He hopes it does. He nuzzles the side of Crowley's face and purrs into his ear, "Besides, we have all night, don't we?" Lest he think that he doesn't want to get to the ending at all.
Crowley could tell him, it's beyond any dream he once had just to be held by him, to feel Aziraphale rub soothingly along his back, offering love and comfort and assurance, all the things Crowley's gone without since the day he fell. Except with the angel, except at those times when he could feel Aziraphale's affection radiating towards him: half wondering if he only imagined it, not at all daring to think of it as love, but basking in it nonetheless. Now he can't mistake what Aziraphale feels, or deny his own desire for him, but he hopes the angel knows that he would never--whatever he is, whatever temptations he's done, he would never press Aziraphale for more than he's willing to give.
It's good to be assured, then, that this is what the angel wants too. Crowley feels his hands tangled in his hair, the heavy spills of red strands gathered up to be gently toyed with, and it lulls him, his body feeling heavy with pleasure and longing as he rubs his face a little into Aziraphale's shoulder and listens to him talk as though it's a kind of spell. Oh yes, he's very familiar with how Aziraphale eats a meal--he's spent a great deal of time watching him at it. Even with his reading, and it makes him shiver a little to think that Aziraphale wants to pore over him like he does with his books, to study and tease out every secret, every hidden meaning. Crowley looks up at his urging, beguiled by his smile and the way he draws close and purrs in his ear, his own hands trembling faintly as they caress his bare skin.
"Yeah," he whispers, feeling certain that really he has no secrets at all from Aziraphale. "Angel--you can have anything you want, you know that, don't you?"
Aziraphale presses soft kisses to the side of Crowley's face. "I know," he replies, his voice nearly as low as Crowley's. How could he not know, after all the times that Crowley has done him favors? Little miracles here and there that were never part of the Arrangement. Aziraphale needed only to look at him with his eyebrows raised and a small worried tilt to his mouth, and Crowley would give him just about anything.
It's why he's so careful now, running soothing hands up and down Crowley's spine. He's so warm -- they both are -- and pliant, like he's been bewitched. As if they've switched roles, and Aziraphale is the one to tempt him into earthly pleasures. "You can have that too, Crowley." He looks into his eyes again, gentle but insistent. "Whatever you want -- whatever you need, I want to give that to you."
His head drops so he can lavish Crowley's neck with open-mouthed kisses, his arms holding him close, his sudden urge to demonstrate how much he loves Crowley making him shake a little. He tries to suck a love bite onto Crowley's collarbone, but finds to his chagrin that he doesn't really know how. He settles for mouthing that spot a little while, hoping the sentiment comes through. "Tell me what you want," he murmurs between nibbles. "Tell me what you want and it's yours."
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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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He caresses Aziraphale's waist, the small of his back, up along his spine, with hands that ache to touch him, that love the feeling of his soft warm skin. He loves where they press together, too, his face buried against Aziraphale's bare shoulder as he takes him again into his arms. He can feel where Aziraphale urges him to be still and obeys, resting against him with a shaky sigh, close to being overwhelmed himself. His hands pet him in vague apology. "Is it--too much?"
Worry is there, but it's overlaid by the enchantment of holding onto Aziraphale and feeling himself held, surrounded and comforted, and if all he wants to do is this, Crowley wouldn't argue. He nods and kisses Azirphale's shoulder devoutly, resting there, the only place in the world he longs to be.
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"No, it's not that, my dear." He says it with confidence, although there's a long pause before he elaborates. It's not easy to think of the right words to explain himself, not when desire burns within him, hot and insistent, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He shivers happily at Crowley's kiss, then reaches up to toy with the bit of ribbon holding in place the two braids he made earlier that day. "I want this, what we've been doing, very much so. But I want to savor it, too."
With a deft tug, he pulls free the ribbon and lightly tosses it aside. He gently unwinds both braids, brushing them back into Crowley's hair. "You've seen how long I take to eat. How I enjoy each bite. And you watch me when I read, don't you?" He brings a hand to Crowley's chin to tilt his face up so he can see Aziraphale's tender smile. "How sometimes I need to put the book down, because I'm close to the ending and I don't want to rush through it? It's like that. Does that make sense?"
He hopes it does. He nuzzles the side of Crowley's face and purrs into his ear, "Besides, we have all night, don't we?" Lest he think that he doesn't want to get to the ending at all.
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It's good to be assured, then, that this is what the angel wants too. Crowley feels his hands tangled in his hair, the heavy spills of red strands gathered up to be gently toyed with, and it lulls him, his body feeling heavy with pleasure and longing as he rubs his face a little into Aziraphale's shoulder and listens to him talk as though it's a kind of spell. Oh yes, he's very familiar with how Aziraphale eats a meal--he's spent a great deal of time watching him at it. Even with his reading, and it makes him shiver a little to think that Aziraphale wants to pore over him like he does with his books, to study and tease out every secret, every hidden meaning. Crowley looks up at his urging, beguiled by his smile and the way he draws close and purrs in his ear, his own hands trembling faintly as they caress his bare skin.
"Yeah," he whispers, feeling certain that really he has no secrets at all from Aziraphale. "Angel--you can have anything you want, you know that, don't you?"
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It's why he's so careful now, running soothing hands up and down Crowley's spine. He's so warm -- they both are -- and pliant, like he's been bewitched. As if they've switched roles, and Aziraphale is the one to tempt him into earthly pleasures. "You can have that too, Crowley." He looks into his eyes again, gentle but insistent. "Whatever you want -- whatever you need, I want to give that to you."
His head drops so he can lavish Crowley's neck with open-mouthed kisses, his arms holding him close, his sudden urge to demonstrate how much he loves Crowley making him shake a little. He tries to suck a love bite onto Crowley's collarbone, but finds to his chagrin that he doesn't really know how. He settles for mouthing that spot a little while, hoping the sentiment comes through. "Tell me what you want," he murmurs between nibbles. "Tell me what you want and it's yours."
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