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."
Of course he would, he always has, giving up little miracles for every pleading glance Aziraphale offers, or to get him out of trouble, or...what reason does Crowley need, truly? He's never thought very much about why he does it, either; it always just comes instinctively, as much as teasing his angel does. It has always somehow seemed vital, as though this is all he has to give, all that a demon can offer an angel...and Aziraphale takes what he offers with the kindest hands, and promises him anything he desires in return, and it makes Crowley ache for him. A shiver goes down his spine beneath Aziraphale's stroking hands, trembles through his hidden wings, where he so longs to feel the angel's touch. Looking back at him, every part of him reaching out for the love that is woven into his voice, his words, Crowley is breathless, unable to speak. He wants--so much, wants to move against Aziraphale again and wantonly, recklessly chase relief in his arms, and wants to stay just like this for as long as Aziraphale will have him, linger with him for hours, for long, long nights...
"Angel." His voice is wracked with emotion, with need and wanting, Crowley's fingers caressing restlessly through Aziraphale's hair in return while he lavishes kisses to his throat. Such light, soft hair, like sunlight slipping through his fingers, the angel's mouth gentle and tormenting at his collar, his tenderness far more piercing to Crowley than pain would be. He swallows, closing his eyes briefly, and tries to speak. "Can I--"
Words elude him, but he grips Aziraphale with resolution, arms firmly clasped around him as he lifts them both from the couch and lowers down to the floor on his knees, with Aziraphale still straddling his lap. He rubs up Aziraphale's spine a rough affectionate palm, and then with a sigh he manifests his wings into the space around them, stretched out dark and gleaming for a few moments before folding back in and arching around them both. Please, Crowley wants to beg. Please touch them.
Aziraphale continues to work his mouth along Crowley's collarbone in the space between that gasped term of endearment and whatever request is hopefully to follow. He has so much love to give Crowley. Left to his own devices, he would simply kiss him senseless and use his hands to map out the boundaries of the body that contains the soul he holds so dear. But he wants to know what Crowley wants, what he can do to ease that tender ache within him, to prove without a doubt that he is loved.
Anyway, he doesn't mind waiting. Crowley's hand in his hair is so nice, it reminds him of all the beautiful red hair, so he reaches for it again. It's just in time as Crowley lowers them from the couch to the floor; he makes a small sound of surprise, instinctively shifting his balance in Crowley's lap as they settle. The displacement of air as Crowley's wings manifest raises goosebumps on his back, and he lifts his head up to find them surrounded by gleaming black wings.
Immediately, he knows what Crowley wants.
"They're beautiful," he says with a touch of awe. Has he ever seen them up close like this? He had other things on his mind when they were last manifested, and the only other time before that was Eden, when Crowley kept them much closer to his back. Without hesitation, he runs a hand along the large primary feathers, as gently and methodically as he had brushed through Crowley's hair. His other hand, wrapped around Crowley's shoulders, lightly ruffles the little downy feathers at the base of his wings, loving every part of Crowley that he can reach. "So beautiful, darling. Just like the rest of you."
An edge of one wing urges forward against Aziraphale's palm, wordless encouragement to stroke harder, to bury his fingers in the feathers if he likes. It won't hurt, it'll feel lovely, Crowley thinks, so much like having his hair stroked yet a sensation on another level, intimate and almost forbidden, the way it feels to smooth his own hands along an angel's bare skin...
His eyes close when Aziraphale calls them beautiful, his head tipping forward to rest against the angel's shoulder. Longing pierces into him and the shiver that follows the words chases through his wings as well, with a soft rustling like a murmur of cymbals. Crowley kisses Aziraphale's shoulder ardently, dragging him hard against him once more. With his wings filling up the sleek dark space of his flat, Aziraphale caressing gently over the long, inky-black primaries, a sense of unexpected peace steals over him: as if he could reveal any part of himself to the angel and trust that the whole of him is loved and wanted. Arousal still simmers beneath the surface, the pleasant ache not forgotten, but his body relaxes into Aziraphale's touch as Crowley mirrors it along his back, one hand stroking slowly up and down his spine.
After a little while he lifts his head and leans in to kiss Aziraphale, absolutely bewitched by him. "You can get behind me if you want," Crowley tells him in a voice lulled by pleasure, not thinking of the double entendre in the words until a moment later, and burying a smile against Aziraphale's throat. "To reach more of them, I mean."
Aziraphale's touch is maddeningly soft. He knows what Crowley wants, and he'll get there, but this is a new, sacred level of intimacy for them and he takes his time to cherish it. Even angels don't groom each other's wings, letting self-care and a miracle or two take care of things. They're too sensitive, too tied up in the true form of a celestial being. For Crowley to offer his wings to him signifies more than simple desire. It's a sign of vulnerability and of trust, and it resonates deep within the angel, plucks the cord of love that connects them like a harp string and sends it singing.
The way Crowley relaxes into him makes him smile, and he's glad to have the demon's face tucked up against his shoulder so he can't see how soppy that smile is, tears prickling the corners of his eyes while he caresses those magnificent feathers. Oh, his beloved, beautiful Crowley. The drag of their hips together reminds him of his arousal; it's a heavy, sweet feeling in his belly, swirled up in all his love and affection for his precious demon.
He returns the kiss languidly; if Crowley is bewitched, then Aziraphale is equally under the same spell. Crowley's request gets a throaty laugh out of him. "Oh, I want. Very much so." Although when he does slide off Crowley's lap, it is done with some reticence, already missing his touch. He scoots around to Crowley's back, but the first thing he does is not reach for the feathers, but for that cascade of red hair. Carefully, he gathers it up into a bundle and then drapes it over a shoulder, leaving his back clear so he can concentrate on his wings.
"Let me know if anything prickles," he says as he begins to comb nimbly through the feathers. Crowley's wings are well-groomed, but there's always a few errant feathers in an angel's wings, fallen or not. Each one he finds, he sets to rights, smoothing out the barbs with a gentle pinch of his fingers. His touch is firmer now, working his way through each wing along the grain of the feathers. His touch lingers where the feathers emerge, skimming the delicate flesh buried beneath. Periodically he stops to plant kisses on the back of Crowley's neck and between his shoulder blades, not wanting to ignore the rest of him in favor of the wings. Every twitch and rustle of those broad black wings sends a sympathetic shiver through his own. "Crowley," he asks tentatively while he works. "Do you think... when I'm done, you might want to touch mine?"
There's no question that he wouldn't trust any other demon with this level of vulnerability, with the care of his wings, the part of him still closest to ethereal as it is possible to be. He wouldn't trust anyone else in all of creation with it. Nor would it surprise him much to learn that Aziraphale's never entrusted another angel, either, knowing how he likes to be apart and minding his own business, be left alone on earth without the imposition of angelic company, however much he might welcome a certain demonic element. With Aziraphale there's no reason to be cautious, nothing he needs to protect himself against, not even the fear of his infatuation for the angel being gently rejected. His wings again urge demandingly into Aziraphale's touch; he's being so careful, so tender, but Crowley is greedy for more.
But it seems Aziraphale is very willing, kissing him back and then tugging free of his grasp to move around behind him--paradoxically, Crowley holds onto him a little longer than necessary, reluctant to let go--and then gathering up the heavy spill of his hair in hands that treat it with such care and almost reverence, draping the lot over Crowley's shoulders. It makes breath tighten in his lungs, his spine tingling at the thought of those clever, kind fingers working through his feathers. He shifts around so that he's sitting on the floor rather than kneeling, legs bent before him, elbows resting on his knees. This way Crowley can lean forward, chin resting over his folded forearms, waiting for Aziraphale's touch. Breathless with anticipation of it.
"Yeah," he breathes out when Aziraphale begins, hazily and nonsensically, resisting the urge to arch his back or roll his head. It doesn't hurt, truly it doesn't, but there is a sensation that is almost pain, like a good, long stretch of a tired, overworked muscle, soreness edging into pleasure. He can't help the low groan that issues from his throat after a few moments, the way his spine seems to melt the longer Aziraphale goes on, so that he ends up with his cheek resting against a forearm and his eyes heavy and focused on nothing in particular. He was right--it is as lovely as having his hair stroked. Possibly better. His skin prickles with goosebumps at the kisses Aziraphale scatters to the nape of his neck and the middle of his shoulder blades, his wings twitch in his hands, alight with the most wonderful sensations. "Do I..." he answers with a heavy tongue, trying to keep up, and then understands. "Oh--yes. Oh angel. Yes. Please yes."
The sounds that Crowley makes are encouraging; Aziraphale is familiar with the exquisite release of tension that comes from grooming one's wings. He knows that Crowley is enjoying himself, and it fills him with warmth to know that he's the source. He derives the same pleasure as he did from running his fingers through Crowley's hair, except now it's not only the delectable physical sensation, it's as if he's touching a bit of Crowley's soul, made manifest in those beautiful black wings.
He continues to kneel while he finishes giving attention to one wing and begins working on another. Taking his time, like he does with every other activity he loves. Crowley's answer sets off a sweet, fluttering feeling in his chest and he exhales in a happy rush of air. He leans forward and kisses the fluffy down at the edge of where his wings emerge, the tiny feathers tickling his nose. They smell like Crowley, which means they smell wonderful, and he places another kiss there for good measure. "Oh... oh, good. A little later, then. I'm not done with you, yet."
Sitting back, he resumes grooming the other wing. His back itches a little with the prospect of releasing his wings, but he ignores it for now. Not until he's got every last feather in line and every last bit of tension drained out of the demon underneath his capable hands. "There," he says, once he's satisfied. "Right as rain. They're glorious, my dear." Another kiss to the nape of the neck. "Thank you for granting me the honor."
Absolute bliss radiates from the places Aziraphale has soothed and smoothed out and brought to pleasurable order, filling his whole body with the sensation of lowering himself into a warm bath. Surely this is the kind of sensation more suited to a hedonistic angel than the likes of him, but Crowley will take it anyway as the gift that it is. He'll get to return it before long, after all. Lassitude spreads to every limb, soft groans worked from him now and again by Aziraphale's deft hands--he can feel the time and care he takes with him, studying and teasing each errant feather to order as though he's working out some complex bit of reading, and it's so good to be the subject of Aziraphale's full attention, to be given such care and love that he never wants it to end.
All good things must end, but he has the promise of returning the favor to Aziraphale to look forward to. The kiss at the nape of his neck reminds him of how much he'd love to twine himself around the angel like the snake he is, possessive and eager for him, though it's a tall order to move very fast now that Aziraphale's grooming has all but melted the bones in his body. He finds Aziraphale's hand with his, tugging his arm around him and bringing his hand to his mouth, pressing his lips against it. Crowley kisses across his fingers and knuckles, across the back of his hand, holding it to his mouth for several moments as though it's something precious.
"Love you, angel." His voice is low and languid, thick with pleasure and desire. "Want me to do it for you?"
((Sorry for my slow! Slammed with work this week.))
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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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"Angel." His voice is wracked with emotion, with need and wanting, Crowley's fingers caressing restlessly through Aziraphale's hair in return while he lavishes kisses to his throat. Such light, soft hair, like sunlight slipping through his fingers, the angel's mouth gentle and tormenting at his collar, his tenderness far more piercing to Crowley than pain would be. He swallows, closing his eyes briefly, and tries to speak. "Can I--"
Words elude him, but he grips Aziraphale with resolution, arms firmly clasped around him as he lifts them both from the couch and lowers down to the floor on his knees, with Aziraphale still straddling his lap. He rubs up Aziraphale's spine a rough affectionate palm, and then with a sigh he manifests his wings into the space around them, stretched out dark and gleaming for a few moments before folding back in and arching around them both. Please, Crowley wants to beg. Please touch them.
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Anyway, he doesn't mind waiting. Crowley's hand in his hair is so nice, it reminds him of all the beautiful red hair, so he reaches for it again. It's just in time as Crowley lowers them from the couch to the floor; he makes a small sound of surprise, instinctively shifting his balance in Crowley's lap as they settle. The displacement of air as Crowley's wings manifest raises goosebumps on his back, and he lifts his head up to find them surrounded by gleaming black wings.
Immediately, he knows what Crowley wants.
"They're beautiful," he says with a touch of awe. Has he ever seen them up close like this? He had other things on his mind when they were last manifested, and the only other time before that was Eden, when Crowley kept them much closer to his back. Without hesitation, he runs a hand along the large primary feathers, as gently and methodically as he had brushed through Crowley's hair. His other hand, wrapped around Crowley's shoulders, lightly ruffles the little downy feathers at the base of his wings, loving every part of Crowley that he can reach. "So beautiful, darling. Just like the rest of you."
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His eyes close when Aziraphale calls them beautiful, his head tipping forward to rest against the angel's shoulder. Longing pierces into him and the shiver that follows the words chases through his wings as well, with a soft rustling like a murmur of cymbals. Crowley kisses Aziraphale's shoulder ardently, dragging him hard against him once more. With his wings filling up the sleek dark space of his flat, Aziraphale caressing gently over the long, inky-black primaries, a sense of unexpected peace steals over him: as if he could reveal any part of himself to the angel and trust that the whole of him is loved and wanted. Arousal still simmers beneath the surface, the pleasant ache not forgotten, but his body relaxes into Aziraphale's touch as Crowley mirrors it along his back, one hand stroking slowly up and down his spine.
After a little while he lifts his head and leans in to kiss Aziraphale, absolutely bewitched by him. "You can get behind me if you want," Crowley tells him in a voice lulled by pleasure, not thinking of the double entendre in the words until a moment later, and burying a smile against Aziraphale's throat. "To reach more of them, I mean."
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The way Crowley relaxes into him makes him smile, and he's glad to have the demon's face tucked up against his shoulder so he can't see how soppy that smile is, tears prickling the corners of his eyes while he caresses those magnificent feathers. Oh, his beloved, beautiful Crowley. The drag of their hips together reminds him of his arousal; it's a heavy, sweet feeling in his belly, swirled up in all his love and affection for his precious demon.
He returns the kiss languidly; if Crowley is bewitched, then Aziraphale is equally under the same spell. Crowley's request gets a throaty laugh out of him. "Oh, I want. Very much so." Although when he does slide off Crowley's lap, it is done with some reticence, already missing his touch. He scoots around to Crowley's back, but the first thing he does is not reach for the feathers, but for that cascade of red hair. Carefully, he gathers it up into a bundle and then drapes it over a shoulder, leaving his back clear so he can concentrate on his wings.
"Let me know if anything prickles," he says as he begins to comb nimbly through the feathers. Crowley's wings are well-groomed, but there's always a few errant feathers in an angel's wings, fallen or not. Each one he finds, he sets to rights, smoothing out the barbs with a gentle pinch of his fingers. His touch is firmer now, working his way through each wing along the grain of the feathers. His touch lingers where the feathers emerge, skimming the delicate flesh buried beneath. Periodically he stops to plant kisses on the back of Crowley's neck and between his shoulder blades, not wanting to ignore the rest of him in favor of the wings. Every twitch and rustle of those broad black wings sends a sympathetic shiver through his own. "Crowley," he asks tentatively while he works. "Do you think... when I'm done, you might want to touch mine?"
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But it seems Aziraphale is very willing, kissing him back and then tugging free of his grasp to move around behind him--paradoxically, Crowley holds onto him a little longer than necessary, reluctant to let go--and then gathering up the heavy spill of his hair in hands that treat it with such care and almost reverence, draping the lot over Crowley's shoulders. It makes breath tighten in his lungs, his spine tingling at the thought of those clever, kind fingers working through his feathers. He shifts around so that he's sitting on the floor rather than kneeling, legs bent before him, elbows resting on his knees. This way Crowley can lean forward, chin resting over his folded forearms, waiting for Aziraphale's touch. Breathless with anticipation of it.
"Yeah," he breathes out when Aziraphale begins, hazily and nonsensically, resisting the urge to arch his back or roll his head. It doesn't hurt, truly it doesn't, but there is a sensation that is almost pain, like a good, long stretch of a tired, overworked muscle, soreness edging into pleasure. He can't help the low groan that issues from his throat after a few moments, the way his spine seems to melt the longer Aziraphale goes on, so that he ends up with his cheek resting against a forearm and his eyes heavy and focused on nothing in particular. He was right--it is as lovely as having his hair stroked. Possibly better. His skin prickles with goosebumps at the kisses Aziraphale scatters to the nape of his neck and the middle of his shoulder blades, his wings twitch in his hands, alight with the most wonderful sensations. "Do I..." he answers with a heavy tongue, trying to keep up, and then understands. "Oh--yes. Oh angel. Yes. Please yes."
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He continues to kneel while he finishes giving attention to one wing and begins working on another. Taking his time, like he does with every other activity he loves. Crowley's answer sets off a sweet, fluttering feeling in his chest and he exhales in a happy rush of air. He leans forward and kisses the fluffy down at the edge of where his wings emerge, the tiny feathers tickling his nose. They smell like Crowley, which means they smell wonderful, and he places another kiss there for good measure. "Oh... oh, good. A little later, then. I'm not done with you, yet."
Sitting back, he resumes grooming the other wing. His back itches a little with the prospect of releasing his wings, but he ignores it for now. Not until he's got every last feather in line and every last bit of tension drained out of the demon underneath his capable hands. "There," he says, once he's satisfied. "Right as rain. They're glorious, my dear." Another kiss to the nape of the neck. "Thank you for granting me the honor."
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All good things must end, but he has the promise of returning the favor to Aziraphale to look forward to. The kiss at the nape of his neck reminds him of how much he'd love to twine himself around the angel like the snake he is, possessive and eager for him, though it's a tall order to move very fast now that Aziraphale's grooming has all but melted the bones in his body. He finds Aziraphale's hand with his, tugging his arm around him and bringing his hand to his mouth, pressing his lips against it. Crowley kisses across his fingers and knuckles, across the back of his hand, holding it to his mouth for several moments as though it's something precious.
"Love you, angel." His voice is low and languid, thick with pleasure and desire. "Want me to do it for you?"
((Sorry for my slow! Slammed with work this week.))
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