He has to stop himself from pulling Aziraphale back, catching his mouth in a kiss again--it feels so breathtakingly good with the angel chasing after his mouth like he can't bear to let it end, and oh, that makes Crowley ache. Aziraphale shouldn't offer him so much, shouldn't give him everything he wants the way he does; he's a demon after all, he'll just end up craving and lusting after more and more. But when Aziraphale turns around it's Crowley who feels like he only wants to give Aziraphale anything that would please him. His wings spread wide, the feathers luminous, looking so soft to the touch--Crowley gets so lost staring at them he almost doesn't notice Aziraphale is taking his shoes off, but he sees out of the corner of his eye the angel tuck them away under the couch, and it makes a quick smile tug at his lips. Both Aziraphale's propensity to be neat and tidy with his clothes, and the implication in the gesture that he'll be staying for a while.
Turning his attention back to Aziraphale's wings, Crowley lays a hand against the edge of one of them, stroking down along it in the direction that the primaries grow, and perhaps it's his imagination, but there's almost a tingle beneath his palm--a sensation that is both pleasurable and has the edge of a bite, something that reminds him distantly of the glorious pain of blessedness. All at once he almost fears to do this, fears that he could hurt Aziraphale in some way, as though it must be sacrilege for a demon to touch an angel's wings-- "Tell me if I hurt you," he begs, but he comes closer and presses in between Aziraphale's wings, mouth at the nape of his neck and trailing kisses towards the soft down, as Aziraphale did for him, and his fingers bury deeper into the feathers and gently ease along their vanes to stroke them smooth.
There's hardly anything that needs attention, and he might have known that Aziraphale would keep his wings in order, but Crowley sees no reason not to caress as much of them as he can reach regardless, simply for the pleasure of touching him and giving touch. Where he does find errant feathers he strokes and teases them smooth, finding the work unspeakably sensual: the softness of Aziraphale's feathers, the strong yet delicate structure of his wings.
Aziraphale certainly intends to stay a while. All night, and even longer if Crowley will have him. Aside from his bookshop, he has no real obligations. Even the idea of performing miracles and blessings is far from his mind. He has all he wants right here.
That first stroke to his wings sends such a rush of pleasure through him that he has to bite his lip and hide his face in his hands. Having spent millennia tending to his own wings, he had forgotten how blessedly sensitive they are, but he doesn't pull his wing away. In fact, when he senses that pause -- that hesitance in Crowley that he can easily guess the source of -- he gently pushes his wing back into Crowley's hand. Touch him, please. He is holy, but he is not a holy relic. His love is not the kind to repel Crowley.
The kisses elicit a moan from him, muffled by his hands. "Okay," he warbles, but he doesn't think it's necessary; he trusts Crowley implicitly and explicitly. That trust is rewarded when Crowley begins to groom his wings in earnest, each caress so gentle that he finds himself whispering words of praise with nearly every exhale. "So good. It's so good, my dear. Thank you." Each feather teased back into place is like a deep itch being scratched, although when Crowley moves on to the feathers normally hidden by the fold of his wings, he can't help but giggle a little as it tickles. "Oh... haha, that's good. Right there, if you please."
If it worries him at first when Aziraphale hides his face in his hands, he’s soon reassured that this isn’t hurting him, quite the opposite—the angel’s voice sounds drunk with pleasure, urging Crowley on as he runs his fingers through the beautiful feathers over and over again, eliciting those whispered words of praise that bring such heat and helpless want into him. Aziraphale’s laugh is like warm effervescent delight, so enticing that Crowley at once gives him what he wants, fingers searching deeper, carefully into the hidden feathers, raking softly between them and smoothing them down. He spends a long time there, nuzzling at the nape of the angel’s neck as he does, breathing in the scent of him and teasing his skin with kisses.
After a while he thinks perhaps he’s lost track of time, unsure how long he’s been grooming Aziraphale’s wings or if there is really anything left to groom, for that matter, only the soft luminous feathers beneath his hands and pleasure of caressing them over and over, finding the places that make Aziraphale shiver and ask for more. Crowley’s all but draped himself over him by this time, wings folded down around Aziraphale’s, intermingling at the edges. He leaves kisses and soft bites over the nape of Aziraphale’s neck, over his shoulders and at the base of his wings, finally simply slipping both arms around him from behind, fitting them beneath his wings and encircling his waist, and leaning against his back with a low sigh.
There is more laughter, peals of it, as Crowley rakes into those tucked away feathers, gradually fading into long, drawn-out sighs of pure bliss. Praise continues to fall from his lips as he is handled so lovingly; Crowley is so good to him, he would never feel so safe or so serene with his back exposed like this for anyone else. Crowley's love seeps into the secret spaces between his feathers, breaches the physical and alights his very soul. Perhaps it is only a trick of the light, but he seems to glow a little under the tender ministrations of his precious demon.
His skin is warm under Crowley's lips, but not burning; it is gratitude that shines for the demon, a gentler, more personal version of his grace. "Praise be," he whispers, as he is touched on those same sweet shivering spots on his wings and body, over and over. When Crowley wraps his arm around him, he turns in them carefully. Their wings, already touching, brush together, white and black sliding together and sending sparks up Aziraphale's spine. He's never felt closer to Crowley.
"I love you," he murmurs huskily, already leaning in for a kiss, one that goes on and on. He wraps his arms around Crowley's shoulders, his wings following suit, tucking himself up against the demon as close as he can, making good on his promise to hold him close and never let him go.
The contact between their wings sends sparks along his nerves, errant shivers down his spine. The caress of those white feathers feels like a kind of blessing made for even a demon to have, a form of Aziraphale's love so concentrated that it almost aches in him, and Crowley pulls him in gratefully when Aziraphale turns in his arms, eager for more. The angel's grace is gentle enough for him, and so intimate it resonates in his soul. Joy and longing wraps him up like those great wings as Aziraphale kisses him, with his sweet tender mouth and his arms encircling him like his wings do, the kiss and the embrace lingering for a long, long time, for what might well be hours for beings like them, because after six thousand years time has a tendency to slip away when Crowley's not paying attention to it. And right now his attention is solely, completely in his angel's keeping.
"I love you," he answers when at last they part, his own voice gone a little hoarse, everything in him reaching for the love Aziraphale offers. Crowley embraces him in return, as tightly as he possibly can. "Stay with me. Please stay."
The kiss is long enough to sate something deep within Aziraphale, to satisfy his urge to explore that particular avenue of pleasure, at least for the time being. His fear of being overwhelmed by the physical is long gone; if they can groom one another's wings and let them brush together like this, revealing their celestial selves to one another, then how can he be possibly afraid of anything else being too much for him to handle?
"Always," he says, gently combing at the curls running down Crowley's shoulders. "Always, my love." It feels a little redundant to say, but if Crowley needs the reassurance, he'll say it, as many times as the demon needs to hear it.
Slowly, the world around them comes back to him, in particular the cold, hard floor that they're both sitting on. "Take me to bed?" he asks. The desire that had been steadily burning within him flares to life and sends a little shiver along his wings. As they rub against Crowley's, he peers up at them with a touch of his usual worry. Nothing serious, just a tiny frown as he adds, "I do hope our wings fit. I'd hate to tuck mine away."
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Turning his attention back to Aziraphale's wings, Crowley lays a hand against the edge of one of them, stroking down along it in the direction that the primaries grow, and perhaps it's his imagination, but there's almost a tingle beneath his palm--a sensation that is both pleasurable and has the edge of a bite, something that reminds him distantly of the glorious pain of blessedness. All at once he almost fears to do this, fears that he could hurt Aziraphale in some way, as though it must be sacrilege for a demon to touch an angel's wings-- "Tell me if I hurt you," he begs, but he comes closer and presses in between Aziraphale's wings, mouth at the nape of his neck and trailing kisses towards the soft down, as Aziraphale did for him, and his fingers bury deeper into the feathers and gently ease along their vanes to stroke them smooth.
There's hardly anything that needs attention, and he might have known that Aziraphale would keep his wings in order, but Crowley sees no reason not to caress as much of them as he can reach regardless, simply for the pleasure of touching him and giving touch. Where he does find errant feathers he strokes and teases them smooth, finding the work unspeakably sensual: the softness of Aziraphale's feathers, the strong yet delicate structure of his wings.
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That first stroke to his wings sends such a rush of pleasure through him that he has to bite his lip and hide his face in his hands. Having spent millennia tending to his own wings, he had forgotten how blessedly sensitive they are, but he doesn't pull his wing away. In fact, when he senses that pause -- that hesitance in Crowley that he can easily guess the source of -- he gently pushes his wing back into Crowley's hand. Touch him, please. He is holy, but he is not a holy relic. His love is not the kind to repel Crowley.
The kisses elicit a moan from him, muffled by his hands. "Okay," he warbles, but he doesn't think it's necessary; he trusts Crowley implicitly and explicitly. That trust is rewarded when Crowley begins to groom his wings in earnest, each caress so gentle that he finds himself whispering words of praise with nearly every exhale. "So good. It's so good, my dear. Thank you." Each feather teased back into place is like a deep itch being scratched, although when Crowley moves on to the feathers normally hidden by the fold of his wings, he can't help but giggle a little as it tickles. "Oh... haha, that's good. Right there, if you please."
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After a while he thinks perhaps he’s lost track of time, unsure how long he’s been grooming Aziraphale’s wings or if there is really anything left to groom, for that matter, only the soft luminous feathers beneath his hands and pleasure of caressing them over and over, finding the places that make Aziraphale shiver and ask for more. Crowley’s all but draped himself over him by this time, wings folded down around Aziraphale’s, intermingling at the edges. He leaves kisses and soft bites over the nape of Aziraphale’s neck, over his shoulders and at the base of his wings, finally simply slipping both arms around him from behind, fitting them beneath his wings and encircling his waist, and leaning against his back with a low sigh.
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His skin is warm under Crowley's lips, but not burning; it is gratitude that shines for the demon, a gentler, more personal version of his grace. "Praise be," he whispers, as he is touched on those same sweet shivering spots on his wings and body, over and over. When Crowley wraps his arm around him, he turns in them carefully. Their wings, already touching, brush together, white and black sliding together and sending sparks up Aziraphale's spine. He's never felt closer to Crowley.
"I love you," he murmurs huskily, already leaning in for a kiss, one that goes on and on. He wraps his arms around Crowley's shoulders, his wings following suit, tucking himself up against the demon as close as he can, making good on his promise to hold him close and never let him go.
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"I love you," he answers when at last they part, his own voice gone a little hoarse, everything in him reaching for the love Aziraphale offers. Crowley embraces him in return, as tightly as he possibly can. "Stay with me. Please stay."
no subject
"Always," he says, gently combing at the curls running down Crowley's shoulders. "Always, my love." It feels a little redundant to say, but if Crowley needs the reassurance, he'll say it, as many times as the demon needs to hear it.
Slowly, the world around them comes back to him, in particular the cold, hard floor that they're both sitting on. "Take me to bed?" he asks. The desire that had been steadily burning within him flares to life and sends a little shiver along his wings. As they rub against Crowley's, he peers up at them with a touch of his usual worry. Nothing serious, just a tiny frown as he adds, "I do hope our wings fit. I'd hate to tuck mine away."