Aziraphale does not like to sleep, though he does love to wake with Crowley, and on occasion get dressed with him the old fashioned way. He would brush Crowley's hair and buckle his brasserie, laying delicate kisses on his shoulder when he allowed it, tying his bow for him and rolling his stockings up his pretty feet and slender legs. Then she was Ashtoreth, and he Francis, and before dawn she would sneak back to her quarters and no one was any the wiser. And during the night, if they would be careless and she would leave lipstick marks on his jaw and neck and really, anywhere else, he didn't mind a lick.
Today, he had awoken and run his fingers through long red hair and kissed like lacework all along Crowley's exposed temple and behind the shell of his ear. "You can keep sleeping, darling," he had murmured softly."It's still early." But before the sun rises is the best time to water the plants in the summer, as well as his usual waking of his currently live-in boyfriend. He'd reluctantly snuck out of bed to do so, having to put the costume on for the neighbors, but lingered in the doorway and just appreciated all this for an extended moment.
It's the end of the world soon, and Aziraphale wouldn't want to spend it any other way- if they were to be apart for the rest of eternity, at least they had these last few years together. It wasn't enough and it could never be, and as the years creep closer, Aziraphale feels a little more of his heart turn to ash to think of a life without Crowley. Too long he had spent bending to Heavenly will and scared of divine punishment, and he was paying for it now in numbered stolen nights.
Still, it was more time than they ever got, able to essentially live under the same roof. And with the Dowlings on holiday, and Aziraphale finally return from duties, he toes off his shoes and takes a seat on the edge of his bed - of their bed. His dentures gone and sideburns tucked away into a vanity, he is there in his little capelet, bouquet of deep red roses in his hand.
Crowley is haunted by Aziraphale's leaving that morning, much later than they must usually wake to remake him into Ashtoreth. The fingers in his hair, the kisses at his temple and ear, and oh he wishes he'd tugged Aziraphale down into the bed with him and coiled arms and legs around him so that he had no choice but to stay. Summoned up a thunderstorm and left the gardens to care for themselves. Kissed any token protest from Aziraphale's mouth. It's not even a proper late lie-in, his longing for the angel entering even into his dreams. In truth Crowley loves the mornings when Aziraphale dresses him into the trappings of a nanny again, lusts for them, for the stolen illicit kisses and the tender way Aziraphale pins her hair and checks her stocking seams. And the nights when she leaves lipstick smears at his throat and stains Aziraphale's mouth for him, when she takes his cock between those painted lips...Crowley rolls over and makes a smothered sound into the pillow, his own hard cock caught against the soft mattress.
He's still aching when he wakes fully sometime later, turning his head so that squinting yellow eyes can see Aziraphale sitting on the bed beside him, a bouquet of wine-dark roses in his hand. That is a sight to charm anyone, even a demon woken somewhat bad-tempered from unrestful sleep. Crowley shifts to his side, the sheets sliding away from his naked shoulders as he props himself up on an elbow. This way his state of aching arousal is still hidden, though it won't be for long, he imagines. Glancing at the roses and then up to Aziraphale's face, he arches a brow. "You're so good to me, angel," Crowley tells him in a voice soft and rough from sleep, still with a hint of Ashtoreth's brogue.
He doesn't think often of the end of the world, himself, beyond what they are doing to try and prevent it: no sense in brooding over the Great Plan and all the rest, for God certainly isn't answering his questions, and as for his side they are as bloodthirsty for war as any bored pack of demons could be. On a day like this he'd much rather imagine he and Aziraphale have all the time in the world for one another.
The cruelty of the thing is that this was almost everything that Aziraphale had ever imagined for the two of them in these short years since he had told Crowley he wasn't planning to leave, the years he has been allowed to dream. Dream he does, of reading in the bookshop and a swishy-hipped demon sllithering around him to announce his presence and ask him profound questions like what are you reading and how was your day. And sometimes he dares, in a bus or a museum, to dream of taking Crowley's hand somewhere where others are present; one time, he had popped into the house for a moment and when he and nanny had both reached for one of Warlock's toys, their hands had touched briefly. That had stayed with him until nightfall, when she had stolen away to him and stoked all the flame in his chest.
Here he is now, flowers placed on the side table and gentle hand reaching to smooth down sleep-roughed hair. "Dear," he says, purposely sprinkling a little teasing of Francis in his voice. "Are you still sleepy?" He does, in fact, lift the rest of the blankets with the purpose of getting back into bed and having a lie-in, but then his face flushes a color that could rival some of the other shades of roses outside. No matter how many times he's seen Crowley's body and no matter how intimately acquainted he gets with it, this is always a pleasant surprise.
Aziraphale climbs, clamorous and inelegantly, back into bed where the first order of business is to take Crowley's cheeks in his hands and claim him with a kiss.
Crowley watches every motion, though his eyes close briefly as a pleasurable shiver chases the stroke of Aziraphale’s hand in his hair. He turns his head to kiss the inside of the angel’s wrist while it’s still in reach, but then—even better—Aziraphale is lifting up the blanket to clamber in beside him, color flushing becomingly into his cheeks as he takes in the state of Crowley’s body. Delight curls into his chest, easing the yearning he woke with, as Aziraphale doesn’t hesitate to take his face between his hands and give Crowley the kiss he aches for. His arms link languidly around Aziraphale’s shoulders as he tilts his head into the kiss, offering up more of himself, a supple and, yes, sleepy demon for Aziraphale to taste as much as he likes. “Now who can be at fault for that?” Crowley murmurs against his mouth, deliberately making his voice soft, husky, a little feminine—reminiscent still of his nanny. “Keeping me up so late to please you...what an appetite you have.” He nips lightly at Aziraphale’s lower lip. If anyone could be said to be insatiable, it would probably be Crowley, but oh, they do suit each other.
It would be a dream to live just this way, returning to one another, to a place that is theirs. To wake like this every morning, assured that they have as much time to linger as they would like. Even the stolen moments they have late at night—it’s more than Crowley is used to, so he takes as much as he can, with the special greed he reserves for Aziraphale. His naked body against Aziraphale’s clothed one, he presses insistently close and kisses him with a soft languid mouth, brushing his lips to his cheek when they part, his eyes still closed.
Crowley, ever the chameleon, is nonetheless perfect in each of his many forms: a serpent, a French pauper, a Scottish nanny. To be entirely honest, whenever Crowley came to him still dressed and still made up and with that pretty voice of Nanny's, he did feel a little cheeky accepting kisses and affections and whispers of sweet nothings. He was sure Crowley knew, and he was sure Crowley milked it for all it was worth.
"How could I resist you," he asks in response, breathily and amused, lips pulling at Crowley's as his tone switches to a mocked annoyance. "When you come to my bed after I've thought of you all day?" He slips his arms around Crowley's waist and returns the kiss, taking his time to savor and explore the now-familiar curves of his mouth. But then he climbs over Crowley and deposits a knee between his legs, hands abandoning their post to take slender wrists instead, and hold them to the pillow on either side of Crowley's head. "Should I," he asks, "refuse you? And let you sleep, and go hungry?"
He would, of course, if Crowley had a real complaint about Aziraphale's conduct and general insatiability. But the truth was that the both of them just couldn't get enough of each other in body or conversation or any other general company: somehow though they'd sometimes spent hundreds of years apart, he thinks his heart may burst if they were to be parted longer than a day. It's not a new love, but it has the energy of one, Aziraphale's mind utterly trapped and heart beating furiously for the sake of one soul. It is both incredible and also infuriating, how much his universe revolves around the keeping of his beloved friend.
He's been wont to remake himself over and over throughout history, while Aziraphale stays much the same--Crowley appreciates that consistency, especially any opportunity that comes to measure himself against it. He enjoys this role very much, so much more because Aziraphale is here where Crowley can see him every day, can whisper and flirt and torment him with a glance or a brush of silk-gloved fingers, and then come to him in the night and give him everything he desires. And though they tease one another it makes him ache, too, as Aziraphale's arms slip around his waist, and he returns his kisses with ones that savor his mouth as though Crowley is some especially delectable treat, to imagine Aziraphale thinking of him all day, sighing and lusting for him, so that he can't possibly keep his hands to himself when Nanny slips into the cottage. "Do you, angel," he breathes, half coquettish and half consumed with hunger and need.
A hunger which swells when Aziraphale rolls him to his back and pins him by the wrists, Crowley's eyes darkening as he looks up at him. A knee intrudes between his thighs, a hint of pressure that makes his hips arch a little, sinuous and eager, and his lips part with a low greedy exhale. "No, you mustn't do that." He lets his teeth catch at his lower lip and his eyes fall away briefly before he glances back up at Aziraphale, as though there is any real worry that the angel would turn him away or leave him to his own devices when he is so obviously in need. "You're much too kind."
And oh, how he means those words to the bottom of his soul, even while he teases. Aziraphale is too kind. Too generous, too wholehearted in his love, and Crowley could never go far from him now, could never bear it. He marvels at himself sometimes, that he stayed away for years, decades at times, telling himself it was better this way, it hurt less, and always finding his way back as though to a lodestar.
Certainly, Aziraphale having stayed the same over the years has made it much easier for Crowley to find him after discorporation. Aziraphale is never quite sure if Hell might accidentally assign Crowley to another form, though his identifying features of yellow eyes might always be a constant. Seems rather silly to worry about now, that they could just call each other on the telephone, but it hadn't always been so simple. And Aziraphale hadn't always stayed in one spot, either; he'd flit around from spot to spot in those first few thousand years, flowing like a long river until he took root finally in England and built up his little empire of books.
"No, I would never deny you." He's reminded of all the times they've spent together and all the times they've spent apart, and finds that despite all its faults and all of his what-ifs, that he doesn't actually regret a thing. Not with Crowley lying underneath him, asking him to stay and keep him up late at night with their lovemaking. He recalls, quite sharply, just whose fault it was last night, and a vivid memory of Crowley making the stars come out all behind Aziraphale's eyelids, bringing him sweet ecstasy. In the present, he lets his knee press a little further, before dropping to kiss at Crowley's neck and half-biting against the skin of his breast, dotingly leaving a trail of them down his stomach, and sliding until his hands are at Crowley's hips and his nose is nuzzling Crowley's cock.
He is feeling particularly possessive as of Crowley's comments, and quite like a hunter, he reserves very little time or trepidation, and takes the whole of Crowley's cock into his mouth. He teases at the underside of it with delighted tongue, nose pressed into a shock of red as he adjusts to breathing. Clearly, he's practiced a little since first he'd had Crowley this way, and as he starts to move, he's determined to show him just how much he'd learned.
It's the one thing that has really come to matter to him, over centuries and millennia of being: that Crowley can find Aziraphale, wherever he may be. Though perhaps not as easy in the beginning of their friendship, in later millennia it's become so instinctive that he thinks Aziraphale was a part of him long before they became lovers, essential to his very being. Crowley needs only think of him and he finds himself taking it into his head that, hey, Rome's got an emperor or two he could try tempting, or Revolutionary France seems like just the place to stir up some trouble. And all of that before the bookshop, before his discorporation, before the holy water...now there is no denying that Aziraphale will be waiting for him when they're apart.
Coming to him is like coming home, a sense that is still too new and fragile and joyful for Crowley to entirely trust, but when they're together he forgets everything except the need to give and receive pleasure and love. His hips arch again to the pressure of Aziraphale's knee, head tilting back against the pillow to offer up his throat to the angel's tender attention, and he makes a sound between a purr and an entreaty. Devoted kisses and bites to his collar, his breast, trailing down his stomach as Aziraphale slides down, dragging the sheet out of the way, and when Crowley's hands are freed he grasps in the bedclothes beneath him, thighs parting when Aziraphale takes hold of his hips and nuzzles at his cock.
"Angel--pleassse--" An extra sibilance comes into his voice, into the word, as Aziraphale takes his cock into his mouth and Crowley moans aloud at the pleasure of it, wracked and stunned by the warm wet sweetness enveloping him as the angel's tongue does things that make him breathless. Oh, he's--he's taken all of him, when did he learn to do that--Crowley groans, hips jerking faintly as he starts to move, to suck him, sunlight drenching the bedroom and falling warm over his naked body as he comes alight with sensation.
Aziraphale devours Crowley with lips and tongue and almost a drag of teeth in his haste; he usually draws this out with light teases but this morning sucks Crowley down as if he may not get another chance. He's starved for it, as he finds that he always is whenever the opportunity presents itself, Crowley in his bed with welcome limbs and mischievous tongue, both made to fit perfectly in all the corners and edges of Aziraphale's body. He had never craved like this before Crowley came along; or, maybe, it was on his account that Aziraphale had been elsewise completely unable to feel so pulled and so enchanted to anyone else. He is, without a doubt, wholly ruined for anyone else as a lover or as partner or as friend. Whatever relation they are to each other, Crowley always manages to wriggle his way to each superlative until at last he is the only one left.
As Aziraphale's mouth comes over and over to taste between Crowley's legs, he can feel the slide of him down his throat and filling him up and moans, gripping his firm thighs near where the flesh is just a little bit softer to the back of him. There is nothing to him quite like pleasing Crowley, taking into his heart each twitch of his hips and each little noise as praise, discovering all the ways his body can comply to his want and his ever-growing need. He owes a lot, of course, to his mentor, he the apt pupil who hangs on all plentiful demonstration and word that Crowley has to offer him.
Aziraphale’s hunger almost stuns him. He’s come to expect softness and sweet, teasing touches made to torment him until he’s hissing with pleasure; but the way Aziraphale swallows him down now, taking him to the hilt, flushes him with almost unbearable heat and sends a shudder through his body. The wet slide of his tongue, the seal of his lips—Aziraphale sucks at him as though they’ve been apart for years rather than an hour or two, as though getting his mouth around as much of his cock as he can is all that matters. Head thrown back against the pillows, Crowley feels his hands gripping his thighs, keeping them parted for him—oh—Aziraphale could stay there as long as he wanted, taste and devour as much of him as he liked. He shivers, a knee dragging up along Aziraphale’s thigh.
The sensation of sliding in and out of Aziraphale’s mouth wrenches another low moan from him as he jerks up, pushing himself a little deeper. “Fuck—ah, fuck—“ he bites out curses, words that Nanny Ashtoreth would not let touch her lips unless she meant to be delightfully obscene, subsiding to the bed with a gasp. “Aziraphale—“ He tries to ask if he is all right, if it’s too much the way his hips keep rocking up helplessly into the hot mouth and throat Aziraphale offers him, but he can’t find the words, he can’t find anything other than gasps and low moans, utterances of the angel’s name, sounds that praise and plead. Aziraphale’s deliciously greedy mouth takes him again and again, and Crowley feels lost to it, a wild throbbing need beating within him, resonating from the physical sensations to the yearning he feels for Aziraphale in his very soul.
Wherever Crowley is concerned, nothing is too much. He'd tried to hide from it once, to deny him what they both understood was too true to be ignored. And Aziraphale had, for once, lost a battle of wills to him, but he couldn't feel so horrible about it when it had been about the inevitability of his love for Crowley run deep. It wasn't a fight he could have won and he would have been much worse off having done so, pining and lonely and devastated by his own self-flagellation.
No, he holds his head still and guides one of Crowley's hands into his hair, encourages him to fuck into his mouth as hard, as deep as he so desires, for his desire is paramount. He looks up from where he is, and in his eyes there's nothing but fondness, so much that there's almost an innocence in them despite currently having Crowley's cock buried down his throat as far as he can take him. And his throat, these near hundred years not quite getting used to the invasive sensations, compensates with a mess of saliva that Aziraphale lets dribble down his chin and get all over his shirt.
He needs a short break, gently tapping Crowley on the thigh and pulling off of him, mouth slick and red and swollen and eyes wide and dark and still with a bottomless voracity. He feels a sore pulse in his throat and a relief of breath come fill his lungs and still it makes him hunger. He comes forward and presses a kiss below the base of his cock, letting his mouth fall open and taking one of his balls into it, tongue and mouth as eager and as ravenous as he had been.
Crowley's fingers clench helplessly when Aziraphale guides his hand to his hair--grips in those soft pale curls, the other squeezing tight in the sheets beneath him, white-knuckled, for he can't hold onto Aziraphale that hard even if he wants him to, he can't bear to be so ungentle. But the hand in his hair clenches as tight as he dares, and his hips rock up and up, again and again, cock sliding between Aziraphale's lips--Crowley's gaze fixed on him, unable to look away--and deep into his mouth, his throat. Bless it all, it's as obscene a sight as he's ever seen, with Aziraphale's eyes meeting his and all that affection shining out of him, making him luminous: beautiful beyond all measure, the wet slick heat of his mouth so welcoming. His lips wet with saliva, swollen and red from Crowley fucking helplessly between them, unable to hold back for a moment longer when Aziraphale offers so much of himself, inviting him into his clenching throat, as deep as he can swallow him.
He bucks and moans, writhes atop the mattress, barely held in place by Aziraphale's hands on his thighs. Gasps curses and pleas, and at last subsides shaking to the bed when Aziraphale pulls off of him, dazed and devastated by the dark hunger he sees in the angel's gaze. Crowley's cock is wet and flushed and achingly hard, curving towards his belly as Aziraphale bends to press a kiss at the base of it, mouth trailing lower-- "Oh--oh fuck, angel--" Crowley's head falls back but his fingers stay buried tight in Aziraphale's hair, dragging at him a little; his body arches as Aziraphale's wicked mouth plays over one of his balls, tonguing and sucking. How indecent of him, how shameless. Crowley feels as though he'll tremble to pieces beneath these attentions, stripped down to raw nerve.
Aziraphale loves to hear Crowley swear with the heat of their lovemaking, because Aziraphale does it so rarely himself that when it happens, he knows it's a thread he must pull on until Crowley is all unraveled and trembling beneath his hands. It urges him on, Crowley's pleasure calling his name in the dark and hooking a finger and inviting him to come take it. How could he refuse, indeed?
He would, in the meantime, not leave Crowley's cock neglected for too long, and touch him with a practiced hand, soft where he likes it and firm elsewhere, although where his tongue is industrious his hand is instead lackadaisical, meandering.
He comes to a crossroads and, with his hand to take care of Crowley's aching need, he wonders if he shouldn't see just how many delightful noises he can eke from Crowley's mouth. His thumb pressed to the base of his cock, he lets Crowley's testicle go with a wet pop and a whirl of his tongue, and crawls back a bit to wipe his chin on his sleeve. The mattress groans under his moving, as he slips off the bed and onto his knees, arms hooked around Crowley's legs and dragging him to the edge of the bed. He lifts those thighs to suck kisses at the pale flesh there, lower and lower still until he nudges Crowley's sex aside with a gentle palm and with the flat of his tongue licks him at his entrance.
No, Aziraphale would never deny him, he's far too good for that. He must feel how Crowley is shaking, the premonition in him of coming entirely undone. A pulse throbs in his chest, the hollow of his throat and the inside of his wrists, deep in the base of his cock--he gasps for breath, all these human reactions, and though his body may not be human it is just as weak to pleasure as theirs are. There's something so good about every helpless reaction, every physical response, to Aziraphale's lascivious sucks and lathing tongue, to his hand wrapping around his cock to ease its need, stroke and soothe him where he begs for touch. His fingers clench in Aziraphale's hair and then loosen, petting frantically over his head and down his cheek, the other cupping at his throat and urging him on. Both fall away when Aziraphale at last moves back, mouth and chin wet--Crowley swallows, curls his fingers again into the sheets, waits taut and panting on the mattress, eyes widening a little when Aziraphale moves off the bed to his knees and drags him to the edge of the mattress.
Oh--oh, his thighs spread apart, eager for his kisses, the bruising suck of his mouth at his tender skin, Aziraphale's arms catching them to hold them open as his mouth moves lower, and there, he feels his tongue lathing over his hole, and Crowley arches again, helplessly sinuous in the motion, moaning Aziraphale's name as though it's the most obscene sound his tongue has ever shaped.
"Angel--" His throat is so taut, he feels as though he can barely speak, all of him coiled and tense, wracked with sensation. His cock twitches, precome spilling onto his stomach.
Slowly he runs his tongue over Crowley, testing to see what reactions he could pull from him. But soon his tongue grows relentless, practically trying to breach Crowley with it. But the ring of muscle is so tight and he barely can. The way that Crowley chokes out the word, the name of Angel, only serves to encourage him to continue this effort, trying to fuck him on his tongue. And there is just something so carnal about this act that spurs Aziraphale on, so filthy and at the same time sacred, an intimate thing that he seeks to share only with his friend, his partner, the great love of his life who has eclipsed what else had ever taken residence in his mind.
And he, naturally, desired to kiss every square inch of Crowley, to come worship this skin and all the frenetic energy that it was able to contain within itself somehow. He does, while he's there, take short pauses to nip kisses at Crowley's thighs, though only in places where no one but Aziraphale could see later if he broke the delicate blood vessels right underneath his skin. They kept so many secrets about each other, why not this as well? It could serve as a little reminder of this morning, when Aziraphale was so overcome with lust he sought to brand his love, if only temporarily, with gnawing lips.
His hand is busy with Crowley's cock, spreading the precome all over him and using it as a lubricant to make his hand slick. He laps and lathes like a man who had come in from a long days' work to sit ravenously at a meal. He would say, the only downside to this is that it becomes exponentially harder to catch a glimpse of Crowley's eyes. But watching him writhe, and peering up only for a full view of the curve of his cock and how much his ribs separate from his stomach when he's holding onto exhale, are prize enough.
He's never felt anything as hot and carnal as Aziraphale trying to open him this way, his eager tongue working just that slightest bit into him, and Crowley is as tense and rigid on the bed as a man racked, tormented by sensations that are feverishly searing and soothingly delightful by turns. His mouth opens in a moan, tongue running over his lower lip, as if in imitation of the filthy, lovely things Aziraphale's tongue is doing over his hole, his mouth taking to him so sweetly, moving off to press biting kisses at the underside of his thighs, kisses that make him jerk helplessly as he imagines the little bruises he will find there--he could miracle them away, of course, but he won't, oh he won't, it'll be their secret to share, yes, to admire when Aziraphale is helping him roll up his stockings and check his seams in the morning. Rolling his head against the mattress, Crowley looks down to Aziraphale between his legs, such a lovely and obscene sight, reaching with trembling fingers to brush his mouth.
"So good to me, angel," he whispers, through his throat gone tight with aching desire and carnal delight. His head falls back again when Aziraphale returns to the task at hand, stroking Crowley's cock and lapping hungrily at the entrance to his body, and moans work incessantly from his throat as his body gives way, tension ebbing, his hole not so tight, now, that Aziraphale could not easily slide fingers into him--he wants him to, oh, he wants to feel his angel inside him, a heel dragging over Aziraphale's back as he gasps out the request: "Fuck--fuck me on your fingers, please, Aziraphale--" tongue stumbling over the syllables of his name. Oh fuck he'll come like this soon, between the angel's hand around his cock and his luscious mouth.
Aziraphale would smile if his face wasn't wholly preoccupied, and his feathers would fluff up if they were out, with pride, of seeing Crowley in this state murmuring his praises. "Pass me the lubricant, darling," he requests, as his kisses return momentarily to the plane of Crowley's lower abdomen. They'd purchased some lubricant like a regular human couple sometime when this had started, because Aziraphale refused to have any miracles of the sort show up on his records. He doesn't think Gabriel actually reads them, probably hasn't for millennia, and he had spent some miracles on this historically, but he highly doubts that if it should somehow catch his eye, that he'd have an excuse. For the better part of a century now, he's had a stock one saved up just in case the accusation caught him off guard: no, he was keeping Crowley from tempting another, saving their immortal soul. He would have fallen if it had been for a less holy purpose, no? And anything after, well, he would lie back and think of God and all the souls he was keeping from Hell in his stead, obviously.
He spreads slick onto his fingers and presses into Crowley with one; he's still tight, and so, so hot. His cock, from underneath its confines, twitches up in interest and he tries to abate it. No, this is about Crowley. And once Crowley's body has adjusted to one of his fingers pressing in and out of him, it's joined by a second; Aziraphale usually wasn't watching while this happened, but finds a distracted perversion in watching his fingers slide in and out of Crowley, watching him stretch around the digits. He scissors his fingers, and moans.
He kisses the skin pulled taut by his fingers and licks the curve, slips in his tongue until he's fucking Crowley on that, too, almost all the different parts of him that extend from his body working him open in unison. Idly, he wishes he had more such parts to do this with when his cock angrily reminds him of its presence dribbling precome into his trousers. Right. "Let me fuck you," he says, between Crowley's thighs. "Please, please Crowley."
Crowley digs his heel in pleadingly against Aziraphale's back, making a wretched little sound in his throat. Almost miracles lubricant in place himself, but his mind is too dazed, too preoccupied, and they're trying to stay under the radar after all, and oh what a fine job Aziraphale is doing thwarting Crowley's wiles, keeping him so wholly occupied in his own bed that there is no possibility of him looking elsewhere for an innocent soul to tempt. Flinging an arm out sideways he manages just to reach to the drawer of the little bedside table (conjured there by the angel in residence no doubt just for this purpose, that's where humans traditionally keep such things as bottles of lubricant, isn't it?) and fetch it out and press it into Aziraphale's hand. "Come on," Crowley pleads, voice low and fervent, breaking into a sound that is halfway between a curse and a moan when that slick finger pushes into him. Almost immediately he pushes into it, sinuous and writhing, wanting it with haste, but Aziraphale works him open on the one before pushing another into him, and by the time he's fucking them in and out of them Crowley's more or less subsided again, glassy-eyed with pleasure and breathing out pleas and curses as Aziraphale's fingers slide slickly into him, again and again.
He slides his legs wide apart, knees bent and feet braced at the edges of the mattress and no concept of shame, laid out like a sumptuous offering for Aziraphale to feast on as he likes. Cock leaking on his stomach, twitching in his pleasure as Aziraphale's mouth comes to him again and his tongue penetrates him with his fingers, making everything that much more slick and hot and wet. It's delicious, and Crowley thinks he might expire if he takes much more than this, except that when Aziraphale asks to fuck him, pleads for it, there's no hesitation in him at all.
"Yes, yesss, fuck me, I'm yours." Crowley's wide eyes meet Aziraphale's, his teeth drag over his lower lip, while all sorts of delicious ideas writhe through his dazed and scattered thoughts. "Will you--bend me over the bed?"
Every part of Crowley is a feast for Aziraphale to enjoy with touch and taste and sight, and he gladly lifts his head only to kiss his legs and stomach and whatever skin is closest. And with that request, he pulls Crowley's hips further off the bed, licking his lips and considering this for a moment because he swears that somehow even in this form, Crowley hadn't manifested the requisite two hundred and six bones, must be missing some in his spine or his hips to be still so sweetly serpentine. He thinks he could bend Crowley any which way he wanted, and his body would just comply as it is wont to do for him, no matter how improbable the configuration.
But as his feet hit the floorboards, Aziraphale recalls his request and crowds his space, turning him in his arms and pressing up against his backside. Breath hot on Crowley's neck, he gives in and leaves a soft bite where his neck meets his shoulders, this broad back that held within them the secret of glorious black wings.
He places his hand on where the feathers would retract, pauses for a second, and then pushes Crowley gently forward.
He's beautiful, always, but something so exquisite as this, the arch of his back and the planes of his shoulders, the slope of his arse and swell giving way to his waiting hole, leave Aziraphale speechless. With more lubricant spread on his fingers, he presses in with three, and hooks them downward. Pushing and stretching, he can hardly wait but forces himself to do so. And finally, finally, he withdraws, pulls his trousers down far enough to retrieve his cock, giving it a few wet tugs until he can align himself and push forward.
just saving souls over here nothing to worry about
Aziraphale could certainly have Crowley any way he wanted, bent into any position--it would hardly be a challenge at all. His spine knows the trick of folding or twisting itself implausibly, in contours unlike anything a human could manage, but then again it's all a very simple matter to be so eager to be bent over for Aziraphale's cock. Letting the angel turn him in his arms, he feels that biting kiss at the nape of his neck and the answering shudder down his spine, the way his mouth falls open on an almost frantic moan. Beneath his skin his wings itch to unleash their full dark spread, to arch up black and gleaming to the sky where once he lived among the stars, but Crowley shivers and holds them within, unwilling to divert even for a moment either of their attention from what he so desperately needs. Aziraphale's hand comes to the center of his back, and he knows that he can almost feel them manifested, the near-solidity of feathers against his fingers, as he pushes Crowley forward against the bed. He folds down willingly, eagerly, spine curved in an invitation so blatant as to be almost obscene.
His fingers clench once more in the sheets, Crowley's forehead pressed down as his eyes close. He's nearly overcome like this, aching to feel Aziraphale inside him, hissing at the sensation of three of his fingers sliding slick and hot within him, curving to stretch him open. He groans aloud at that, the arch of his spine lengthening in a plea for more--almost too much, that hot stretch, and yet not enough. "Angel," Crowley pants, voice given to breathlessness, and even his clever tongue can't find the words to beg again but his body speaks eloquently enough, hips braced and thighs urging helplessly apart.
And then at last Aziraphale's fingers slide out of him, he feels the press of his hips, his trousers slipping down, and then his cock pushing into him, stretching him brilliantly, and Crowley hisses again, his own hips pressing forward against the edge of the mattress and then back into the slide of Aziraphale's cock to take him deeper. "Aziraphale," he says the angel's name in bitten-off syllables, clenching his teeth to feel him push deeper, to fill him just so. "Ah--G--fuck, that's so good."
Crowley is so, so warm and Aziraphale finds that when he's buried all the way inside of Crowley that he needs to take a brief pause for his body to recover from the sensory overload. Hands on Crowley's hips and looking down at the mathematically perfect curve of his spine, he feels inspired. He wonders if this is how humans feel, receiving holy visions; the way that Crowley grips the sheets and how his hair is fanned on the mattress is a venerable sight, so beautiful that his eyes come closed as if it might blind him.
Aziraphale draws himself out almost all the way, only to press his hips forward again, back until their skin is flush together. He moves slowly, both because the electric impulses in his mind are overloading and overriding his fine motor skills, and also because Crowley is still so tight around him that he has to wonder if he perhaps rushed too quickly; he wouldn't want to hurt Crowley, in his haste or otherwise. Despite all this, Aziraphale can't help but to think that the stars all aligned at once to provide him with such an equal and opposite that they both clicked together like two pieces of a puzzle.
Only Heaven or Hell or Armageddon could keep them from each other, and he prays that none of them come for some time yet.
One hand perched on the small of Crowley's back, he finally feels confident enough to move, hips attaining a good rhythm that is completely decided by the deepest, darkest part of his Id taking over. The hand snakes up Crowley's back and taps a few of his vertebra like he were playing an instrument, sliding into his hair and tugging his neck gently backwards to expose his column of neck. Oh, how he wishes he were on the other side to see it.
It gives him just enough overlap between their bodies to lean in, to whisper to Crowley: "You're doing so well for me, dear. All this, just for me."
A sound like a choked whimper comes from his throat when Aziraphale pulls almost all the way out, Crowley at once desperate to have him back: then his cock slides in again, Aziraphale's hand resting kindly on the small of his back, holding him steady as he pushes in, too damned slowly, but oh, he feels again the satisfying ache and stretch around his cock, the sensation of being filled. Aziraphale can't hurt him like this, he couldn't possibly hurt him, however tight he is; they fit together like they were made for it, a shiver that is pure wanton need going through him as this thought occurs to him--that he was made for Aziraphale's cock.
Urging him on with little motions of his hips, with the way Crowley arches his spine and pushes himself back into the thick slide of Aziraphale's cock in his arse, he tries to make himself as tempting, as irresistible as possible, biting out low groans and catches of sound when Aziraphale begins to fuck him in earnest. Yes, oh please yes, Crowley wants to tell him, his tongue nearly forming words and then losing the shape of them again with the sweet sensation of the angel's hips snapping against his backside, cock penetrating him again and again. But he moans wantonly when Aziraphale gets that grip in his hair and tugs back his head, eyes closed and lips parted, as hot eager pleasure resonates through him. That's perfect, that's...
No, nothing is as perfect as Aziraphale's voice in his ear as his cock is driving into him, those honeyed words that make Crowley tremble all over. His hips jerk against the bed, his own cock caught against the sheets, rubbed over and over as the rhythm of Aziraphale's thrusts rock him forward. "Tell me," he gasps, pleading for more, for Aziraphale to say it again, say he's good, call him those sweet names.
The bounce of Crowley's arse, in time to the slap of their skin, makes Aziraphale wild with pleasure. He likes to think that, if his body would allow it, they might not leave this bed all day. He would just fuck Crowley through his orgasms, one after another without pause, until at last he'd had enough and he begged his angel for mercy. How many could they last through, he wonders, before they're both exhausted?
"You're perfect," he says upon being prompted, with no hesitation. "Absolutely perfect and all for me; how could I ever be so lucky?" he adds, punctuated by clipped breath and little groans he makes as his hips cant forward. It had taken them several tries in the past before Aziraphale would fuck Crowley with anything but the sweetest, intensely intimate lovemaking. But he finds that Crowley likes this so immensely, Aziraphale holding his body down and fucking him with an abandon that had made him blush to perform, even as he'd gladly and shamelessly begged for it himself. Now, he rounds his hand on Crowley's arse and gives it a playful smack, letting the sound resonate as he joins to it something like a purring.
He wedges his hand in between Crowley's cock and the bedsheets, the mattress giving way under his touch as he dips his fingers against the mess of precome and makes a fist around him. His hips and hands are furious and wicked, and Crowley is so supple and so wanting for him; all Aziraphale wants to do is give and give.
The cadence of Aziraphale's hips drives gasps and eager, breathless moans, that fall from Crowley's lips as though his clever tongue was made to shape these sounds, just as surely as he was made to take Aziraphale's cock for however long the angel pleases. Oh yes please, let Aziraphale fuck him over and over if he likes, wring him out with pleasure and leave him blissfully spent, until he couldn't bear any more; but right now Crowley is insatiable, bracing his elbows on the mattress so that he can writhe and arch sinuously back into every thrust, eager to feel Aziraphale's grasp in his hair and the smack of his hips as he fucks him brazenly into the mattress. It may have taken some time to convince Aziraphale that he could take Crowley like this, as cheeky and audacious as he is loving--and what's more, that Crowley would love it--but oh, he always knew his angel had it in him.
He shivers at being called perfect, at the aching delight of it, and more than that being Aziraphale's, all for him. His hips jerk with the smack of Aziraphale's hand against his arse, the way it makes his cock twitch beneath him, precome staining the sheets damp. The audacity, Crowley loves it, loves every word and gesture that claims him shamelessly.
"Oh, angel," he groans aloud, thick-tongued and drunk on pleasure, "anything--anything for you--"
Aziraphale's hips will drive him mad, striking hard and perfect against his backside and driving his cock deep within him again and again, sundering him; he chokes out a moan when his angel's hand finds his own cock where it's trapped under him, wrapping around it and stroking in time to his thrusts. The slick of his own precome serves very well and Aziraphale's hand feels mercilessly hot and tight, Crowley losing the rhythm of their fucking and jerking hard and helplessly into his hand, between the grip around him and the cock inside him, his knees going weak. And then abruptly the pleasure peaks, the vividness of it whiting out all thoughts as he shouts wordlessly, coming hard against the bed with his hips grinding forward into Aziraphale's hand, against the edge of the mattress.
Aziraphale feels, on the whole, entirely undeserving of such a love as Crowley's, because how else is he supposed to categorize this but divine? With the sweat dripping up his spine, Crowley appears to be nearly glowing, incandescent, and his body shivering as his soul seeps out of his skin; he is incredible to behold. And when he comes, Aziraphale can feel all too well the convulsions of his muscle that rattle his brain and send a clap of thunder through his whole form.
He stays his hand on Crowley until he is all spent, only then returning a hand to his side and up his front, anchoring on his chest with a firm grip. He rather feels like a snake then, his hips rolling waves against Crowley's until he can feel it build and run over; it isn't long before his orgasm strikes him behind the eyes and takes him to a dizzying array of sensations. He bites back Crowley's name as he comes, long and hard spilling inside of his beloved so deeply he wouldn't be terribly surprised if he could taste it on the back of Crowley's tongue.
Oh, that was magnificent.
His breath still broken, he slowly pulls out of Crowley so as not to hurt him, and then takes his shoulder to turn him to his back, so Aziraphale can cover Crowley's mouth with his own and drink in the last vestiges of the moans and sundry noises. He is a collector of things, of books and objects and all the things he finds fascinating and that he loves. The only thing he'd never indulged in was anything of Crowley's, lest they be caught. But he loves the immaterial things, the taste of his lips and the press of his tongue and the swing of his hips back and forth as he walked. These are the things not even an impending doom could take away.
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Today, he had awoken and run his fingers through long red hair and kissed like lacework all along Crowley's exposed temple and behind the shell of his ear. "You can keep sleeping, darling," he had murmured softly."It's still early." But before the sun rises is the best time to water the plants in the summer, as well as his usual waking of his currently live-in boyfriend. He'd reluctantly snuck out of bed to do so, having to put the costume on for the neighbors, but lingered in the doorway and just appreciated all this for an extended moment.
It's the end of the world soon, and Aziraphale wouldn't want to spend it any other way- if they were to be apart for the rest of eternity, at least they had these last few years together. It wasn't enough and it could never be, and as the years creep closer, Aziraphale feels a little more of his heart turn to ash to think of a life without Crowley. Too long he had spent bending to Heavenly will and scared of divine punishment, and he was paying for it now in numbered stolen nights.
Still, it was more time than they ever got, able to essentially live under the same roof. And with the Dowlings on holiday, and Aziraphale finally return from duties, he toes off his shoes and takes a seat on the edge of his bed - of their bed. His dentures gone and sideburns tucked away into a vanity, he is there in his little capelet, bouquet of deep red roses in his hand.
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He's still aching when he wakes fully sometime later, turning his head so that squinting yellow eyes can see Aziraphale sitting on the bed beside him, a bouquet of wine-dark roses in his hand. That is a sight to charm anyone, even a demon woken somewhat bad-tempered from unrestful sleep. Crowley shifts to his side, the sheets sliding away from his naked shoulders as he props himself up on an elbow. This way his state of aching arousal is still hidden, though it won't be for long, he imagines. Glancing at the roses and then up to Aziraphale's face, he arches a brow. "You're so good to me, angel," Crowley tells him in a voice soft and rough from sleep, still with a hint of Ashtoreth's brogue.
He doesn't think often of the end of the world, himself, beyond what they are doing to try and prevent it: no sense in brooding over the Great Plan and all the rest, for God certainly isn't answering his questions, and as for his side they are as bloodthirsty for war as any bored pack of demons could be. On a day like this he'd much rather imagine he and Aziraphale have all the time in the world for one another.
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Here he is now, flowers placed on the side table and gentle hand reaching to smooth down sleep-roughed hair. "Dear," he says, purposely sprinkling a little teasing of Francis in his voice. "Are you still sleepy?" He does, in fact, lift the rest of the blankets with the purpose of getting back into bed and having a lie-in, but then his face flushes a color that could rival some of the other shades of roses outside. No matter how many times he's seen Crowley's body and no matter how intimately acquainted he gets with it, this is always a pleasant surprise.
Aziraphale climbs, clamorous and inelegantly, back into bed where the first order of business is to take Crowley's cheeks in his hands and claim him with a kiss.
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It would be a dream to live just this way, returning to one another, to a place that is theirs. To wake like this every morning, assured that they have as much time to linger as they would like. Even the stolen moments they have late at night—it’s more than Crowley is used to, so he takes as much as he can, with the special greed he reserves for Aziraphale. His naked body against Aziraphale’s clothed one, he presses insistently close and kisses him with a soft languid mouth, brushing his lips to his cheek when they part, his eyes still closed.
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"How could I resist you," he asks in response, breathily and amused, lips pulling at Crowley's as his tone switches to a mocked annoyance. "When you come to my bed after I've thought of you all day?" He slips his arms around Crowley's waist and returns the kiss, taking his time to savor and explore the now-familiar curves of his mouth. But then he climbs over Crowley and deposits a knee between his legs, hands abandoning their post to take slender wrists instead, and hold them to the pillow on either side of Crowley's head. "Should I," he asks, "refuse you? And let you sleep, and go hungry?"
He would, of course, if Crowley had a real complaint about Aziraphale's conduct and general insatiability. But the truth was that the both of them just couldn't get enough of each other in body or conversation or any other general company: somehow though they'd sometimes spent hundreds of years apart, he thinks his heart may burst if they were to be parted longer than a day. It's not a new love, but it has the energy of one, Aziraphale's mind utterly trapped and heart beating furiously for the sake of one soul. It is both incredible and also infuriating, how much his universe revolves around the keeping of his beloved friend.
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A hunger which swells when Aziraphale rolls him to his back and pins him by the wrists, Crowley's eyes darkening as he looks up at him. A knee intrudes between his thighs, a hint of pressure that makes his hips arch a little, sinuous and eager, and his lips part with a low greedy exhale. "No, you mustn't do that." He lets his teeth catch at his lower lip and his eyes fall away briefly before he glances back up at Aziraphale, as though there is any real worry that the angel would turn him away or leave him to his own devices when he is so obviously in need. "You're much too kind."
And oh, how he means those words to the bottom of his soul, even while he teases. Aziraphale is too kind. Too generous, too wholehearted in his love, and Crowley could never go far from him now, could never bear it. He marvels at himself sometimes, that he stayed away for years, decades at times, telling himself it was better this way, it hurt less, and always finding his way back as though to a lodestar.
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"No, I would never deny you." He's reminded of all the times they've spent together and all the times they've spent apart, and finds that despite all its faults and all of his what-ifs, that he doesn't actually regret a thing. Not with Crowley lying underneath him, asking him to stay and keep him up late at night with their lovemaking. He recalls, quite sharply, just whose fault it was last night, and a vivid memory of Crowley making the stars come out all behind Aziraphale's eyelids, bringing him sweet ecstasy. In the present, he lets his knee press a little further, before dropping to kiss at Crowley's neck and half-biting against the skin of his breast, dotingly leaving a trail of them down his stomach, and sliding until his hands are at Crowley's hips and his nose is nuzzling Crowley's cock.
He is feeling particularly possessive as of Crowley's comments, and quite like a hunter, he reserves very little time or trepidation, and takes the whole of Crowley's cock into his mouth. He teases at the underside of it with delighted tongue, nose pressed into a shock of red as he adjusts to breathing. Clearly, he's practiced a little since first he'd had Crowley this way, and as he starts to move, he's determined to show him just how much he'd learned.
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Coming to him is like coming home, a sense that is still too new and fragile and joyful for Crowley to entirely trust, but when they're together he forgets everything except the need to give and receive pleasure and love. His hips arch again to the pressure of Aziraphale's knee, head tilting back against the pillow to offer up his throat to the angel's tender attention, and he makes a sound between a purr and an entreaty. Devoted kisses and bites to his collar, his breast, trailing down his stomach as Aziraphale slides down, dragging the sheet out of the way, and when Crowley's hands are freed he grasps in the bedclothes beneath him, thighs parting when Aziraphale takes hold of his hips and nuzzles at his cock.
"Angel--pleassse--" An extra sibilance comes into his voice, into the word, as Aziraphale takes his cock into his mouth and Crowley moans aloud at the pleasure of it, wracked and stunned by the warm wet sweetness enveloping him as the angel's tongue does things that make him breathless. Oh, he's--he's taken all of him, when did he learn to do that--Crowley groans, hips jerking faintly as he starts to move, to suck him, sunlight drenching the bedroom and falling warm over his naked body as he comes alight with sensation.
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As Aziraphale's mouth comes over and over to taste between Crowley's legs, he can feel the slide of him down his throat and filling him up and moans, gripping his firm thighs near where the flesh is just a little bit softer to the back of him. There is nothing to him quite like pleasing Crowley, taking into his heart each twitch of his hips and each little noise as praise, discovering all the ways his body can comply to his want and his ever-growing need. He owes a lot, of course, to his mentor, he the apt pupil who hangs on all plentiful demonstration and word that Crowley has to offer him.
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The sensation of sliding in and out of Aziraphale’s mouth wrenches another low moan from him as he jerks up, pushing himself a little deeper. “Fuck—ah, fuck—“ he bites out curses, words that Nanny Ashtoreth would not let touch her lips unless she meant to be delightfully obscene, subsiding to the bed with a gasp. “Aziraphale—“ He tries to ask if he is all right, if it’s too much the way his hips keep rocking up helplessly into the hot mouth and throat Aziraphale offers him, but he can’t find the words, he can’t find anything other than gasps and low moans, utterances of the angel’s name, sounds that praise and plead. Aziraphale’s deliciously greedy mouth takes him again and again, and Crowley feels lost to it, a wild throbbing need beating within him, resonating from the physical sensations to the yearning he feels for Aziraphale in his very soul.
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No, he holds his head still and guides one of Crowley's hands into his hair, encourages him to fuck into his mouth as hard, as deep as he so desires, for his desire is paramount. He looks up from where he is, and in his eyes there's nothing but fondness, so much that there's almost an innocence in them despite currently having Crowley's cock buried down his throat as far as he can take him. And his throat, these near hundred years not quite getting used to the invasive sensations, compensates with a mess of saliva that Aziraphale lets dribble down his chin and get all over his shirt.
He needs a short break, gently tapping Crowley on the thigh and pulling off of him, mouth slick and red and swollen and eyes wide and dark and still with a bottomless voracity. He feels a sore pulse in his throat and a relief of breath come fill his lungs and still it makes him hunger. He comes forward and presses a kiss below the base of his cock, letting his mouth fall open and taking one of his balls into it, tongue and mouth as eager and as ravenous as he had been.
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He bucks and moans, writhes atop the mattress, barely held in place by Aziraphale's hands on his thighs. Gasps curses and pleas, and at last subsides shaking to the bed when Aziraphale pulls off of him, dazed and devastated by the dark hunger he sees in the angel's gaze. Crowley's cock is wet and flushed and achingly hard, curving towards his belly as Aziraphale bends to press a kiss at the base of it, mouth trailing lower-- "Oh--oh fuck, angel--" Crowley's head falls back but his fingers stay buried tight in Aziraphale's hair, dragging at him a little; his body arches as Aziraphale's wicked mouth plays over one of his balls, tonguing and sucking. How indecent of him, how shameless. Crowley feels as though he'll tremble to pieces beneath these attentions, stripped down to raw nerve.
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He would, in the meantime, not leave Crowley's cock neglected for too long, and touch him with a practiced hand, soft where he likes it and firm elsewhere, although where his tongue is industrious his hand is instead lackadaisical, meandering.
He comes to a crossroads and, with his hand to take care of Crowley's aching need, he wonders if he shouldn't see just how many delightful noises he can eke from Crowley's mouth. His thumb pressed to the base of his cock, he lets Crowley's testicle go with a wet pop and a whirl of his tongue, and crawls back a bit to wipe his chin on his sleeve. The mattress groans under his moving, as he slips off the bed and onto his knees, arms hooked around Crowley's legs and dragging him to the edge of the bed. He lifts those thighs to suck kisses at the pale flesh there, lower and lower still until he nudges Crowley's sex aside with a gentle palm and with the flat of his tongue licks him at his entrance.
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Oh--oh, his thighs spread apart, eager for his kisses, the bruising suck of his mouth at his tender skin, Aziraphale's arms catching them to hold them open as his mouth moves lower, and there, he feels his tongue lathing over his hole, and Crowley arches again, helplessly sinuous in the motion, moaning Aziraphale's name as though it's the most obscene sound his tongue has ever shaped.
"Angel--" His throat is so taut, he feels as though he can barely speak, all of him coiled and tense, wracked with sensation. His cock twitches, precome spilling onto his stomach.
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And he, naturally, desired to kiss every square inch of Crowley, to come worship this skin and all the frenetic energy that it was able to contain within itself somehow. He does, while he's there, take short pauses to nip kisses at Crowley's thighs, though only in places where no one but Aziraphale could see later if he broke the delicate blood vessels right underneath his skin. They kept so many secrets about each other, why not this as well? It could serve as a little reminder of this morning, when Aziraphale was so overcome with lust he sought to brand his love, if only temporarily, with gnawing lips.
His hand is busy with Crowley's cock, spreading the precome all over him and using it as a lubricant to make his hand slick. He laps and lathes like a man who had come in from a long days' work to sit ravenously at a meal. He would say, the only downside to this is that it becomes exponentially harder to catch a glimpse of Crowley's eyes. But watching him writhe, and peering up only for a full view of the curve of his cock and how much his ribs separate from his stomach when he's holding onto exhale, are prize enough.
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"So good to me, angel," he whispers, through his throat gone tight with aching desire and carnal delight. His head falls back again when Aziraphale returns to the task at hand, stroking Crowley's cock and lapping hungrily at the entrance to his body, and moans work incessantly from his throat as his body gives way, tension ebbing, his hole not so tight, now, that Aziraphale could not easily slide fingers into him--he wants him to, oh, he wants to feel his angel inside him, a heel dragging over Aziraphale's back as he gasps out the request: "Fuck--fuck me on your fingers, please, Aziraphale--" tongue stumbling over the syllables of his name. Oh fuck he'll come like this soon, between the angel's hand around his cock and his luscious mouth.
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He spreads slick onto his fingers and presses into Crowley with one; he's still tight, and so, so hot. His cock, from underneath its confines, twitches up in interest and he tries to abate it. No, this is about Crowley. And once Crowley's body has adjusted to one of his fingers pressing in and out of him, it's joined by a second; Aziraphale usually wasn't watching while this happened, but finds a distracted perversion in watching his fingers slide in and out of Crowley, watching him stretch around the digits. He scissors his fingers, and moans.
He kisses the skin pulled taut by his fingers and licks the curve, slips in his tongue until he's fucking Crowley on that, too, almost all the different parts of him that extend from his body working him open in unison. Idly, he wishes he had more such parts to do this with when his cock angrily reminds him of its presence dribbling precome into his trousers. Right. "Let me fuck you," he says, between Crowley's thighs. "Please, please Crowley."
lie back and think of god, i'm dying
He slides his legs wide apart, knees bent and feet braced at the edges of the mattress and no concept of shame, laid out like a sumptuous offering for Aziraphale to feast on as he likes. Cock leaking on his stomach, twitching in his pleasure as Aziraphale's mouth comes to him again and his tongue penetrates him with his fingers, making everything that much more slick and hot and wet. It's delicious, and Crowley thinks he might expire if he takes much more than this, except that when Aziraphale asks to fuck him, pleads for it, there's no hesitation in him at all.
"Yes, yesss, fuck me, I'm yours." Crowley's wide eyes meet Aziraphale's, his teeth drag over his lower lip, while all sorts of delicious ideas writhe through his dazed and scattered thoughts. "Will you--bend me over the bed?"
now imagine him explaining to gabriel
But as his feet hit the floorboards, Aziraphale recalls his request and crowds his space, turning him in his arms and pressing up against his backside. Breath hot on Crowley's neck, he gives in and leaves a soft bite where his neck meets his shoulders, this broad back that held within them the secret of glorious black wings.
He places his hand on where the feathers would retract, pauses for a second, and then pushes Crowley gently forward.
He's beautiful, always, but something so exquisite as this, the arch of his back and the planes of his shoulders, the slope of his arse and swell giving way to his waiting hole, leave Aziraphale speechless. With more lubricant spread on his fingers, he presses in with three, and hooks them downward. Pushing and stretching, he can hardly wait but forces himself to do so. And finally, finally, he withdraws, pulls his trousers down far enough to retrieve his cock, giving it a few wet tugs until he can align himself and push forward.
just saving souls over here nothing to worry about
His fingers clench once more in the sheets, Crowley's forehead pressed down as his eyes close. He's nearly overcome like this, aching to feel Aziraphale inside him, hissing at the sensation of three of his fingers sliding slick and hot within him, curving to stretch him open. He groans aloud at that, the arch of his spine lengthening in a plea for more--almost too much, that hot stretch, and yet not enough. "Angel," Crowley pants, voice given to breathlessness, and even his clever tongue can't find the words to beg again but his body speaks eloquently enough, hips braced and thighs urging helplessly apart.
And then at last Aziraphale's fingers slide out of him, he feels the press of his hips, his trousers slipping down, and then his cock pushing into him, stretching him brilliantly, and Crowley hisses again, his own hips pressing forward against the edge of the mattress and then back into the slide of Aziraphale's cock to take him deeper. "Aziraphale," he says the angel's name in bitten-off syllables, clenching his teeth to feel him push deeper, to fill him just so. "Ah--G--fuck, that's so good."
if only we could all take this very heroic route
Aziraphale draws himself out almost all the way, only to press his hips forward again, back until their skin is flush together. He moves slowly, both because the electric impulses in his mind are overloading and overriding his fine motor skills, and also because Crowley is still so tight around him that he has to wonder if he perhaps rushed too quickly; he wouldn't want to hurt Crowley, in his haste or otherwise. Despite all this, Aziraphale can't help but to think that the stars all aligned at once to provide him with such an equal and opposite that they both clicked together like two pieces of a puzzle.
Only Heaven or Hell or Armageddon could keep them from each other, and he prays that none of them come for some time yet.
One hand perched on the small of Crowley's back, he finally feels confident enough to move, hips attaining a good rhythm that is completely decided by the deepest, darkest part of his Id taking over. The hand snakes up Crowley's back and taps a few of his vertebra like he were playing an instrument, sliding into his hair and tugging his neck gently backwards to expose his column of neck. Oh, how he wishes he were on the other side to see it.
It gives him just enough overlap between their bodies to lean in, to whisper to Crowley: "You're doing so well for me, dear. All this, just for me."
he deserves a commendation really
Urging him on with little motions of his hips, with the way Crowley arches his spine and pushes himself back into the thick slide of Aziraphale's cock in his arse, he tries to make himself as tempting, as irresistible as possible, biting out low groans and catches of sound when Aziraphale begins to fuck him in earnest. Yes, oh please yes, Crowley wants to tell him, his tongue nearly forming words and then losing the shape of them again with the sweet sensation of the angel's hips snapping against his backside, cock penetrating him again and again. But he moans wantonly when Aziraphale gets that grip in his hair and tugs back his head, eyes closed and lips parted, as hot eager pleasure resonates through him. That's perfect, that's...
No, nothing is as perfect as Aziraphale's voice in his ear as his cock is driving into him, those honeyed words that make Crowley tremble all over. His hips jerk against the bed, his own cock caught against the sheets, rubbed over and over as the rhythm of Aziraphale's thrusts rock him forward. "Tell me," he gasps, pleading for more, for Aziraphale to say it again, say he's good, call him those sweet names.
at least one soul saved a night!
"You're perfect," he says upon being prompted, with no hesitation. "Absolutely perfect and all for me; how could I ever be so lucky?" he adds, punctuated by clipped breath and little groans he makes as his hips cant forward. It had taken them several tries in the past before Aziraphale would fuck Crowley with anything but the sweetest, intensely intimate lovemaking. But he finds that Crowley likes this so immensely, Aziraphale holding his body down and fucking him with an abandon that had made him blush to perform, even as he'd gladly and shamelessly begged for it himself. Now, he rounds his hand on Crowley's arse and gives it a playful smack, letting the sound resonate as he joins to it something like a purring.
He wedges his hand in between Crowley's cock and the bedsheets, the mattress giving way under his touch as he dips his fingers against the mess of precome and makes a fist around him. His hips and hands are furious and wicked, and Crowley is so supple and so wanting for him; all Aziraphale wants to do is give and give.
and so many more in danger!
He shivers at being called perfect, at the aching delight of it, and more than that being Aziraphale's, all for him. His hips jerk with the smack of Aziraphale's hand against his arse, the way it makes his cock twitch beneath him, precome staining the sheets damp. The audacity, Crowley loves it, loves every word and gesture that claims him shamelessly.
"Oh, angel," he groans aloud, thick-tongued and drunk on pleasure, "anything--anything for you--"
Aziraphale's hips will drive him mad, striking hard and perfect against his backside and driving his cock deep within him again and again, sundering him; he chokes out a moan when his angel's hand finds his own cock where it's trapped under him, wrapping around it and stroking in time to his thrusts. The slick of his own precome serves very well and Aziraphale's hand feels mercilessly hot and tight, Crowley losing the rhythm of their fucking and jerking hard and helplessly into his hand, between the grip around him and the cock inside him, his knees going weak. And then abruptly the pleasure peaks, the vividness of it whiting out all thoughts as he shouts wordlessly, coming hard against the bed with his hips grinding forward into Aziraphale's hand, against the edge of the mattress.
looks like he'll have to amp it up!
He stays his hand on Crowley until he is all spent, only then returning a hand to his side and up his front, anchoring on his chest with a firm grip. He rather feels like a snake then, his hips rolling waves against Crowley's until he can feel it build and run over; it isn't long before his orgasm strikes him behind the eyes and takes him to a dizzying array of sensations. He bites back Crowley's name as he comes, long and hard spilling inside of his beloved so deeply he wouldn't be terribly surprised if he could taste it on the back of Crowley's tongue.
Oh, that was magnificent.
His breath still broken, he slowly pulls out of Crowley so as not to hurt him, and then takes his shoulder to turn him to his back, so Aziraphale can cover Crowley's mouth with his own and drink in the last vestiges of the moans and sundry noises. He is a collector of things, of books and objects and all the things he finds fascinating and that he loves. The only thing he'd never indulged in was anything of Crowley's, lest they be caught. But he loves the immaterial things, the taste of his lips and the press of his tongue and the swing of his hips back and forth as he walked. These are the things not even an impending doom could take away.
such a selfless angel
i do now want a thread where he has to use this excuse
i put crowley on the arranged marriage meme this morning just saying
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