temptational | Open post

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.

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.

Pleasure is still rushing through him like a tide when he senses Aziraphale's building, his angel taking hold of him as he fucks him in thrusts that prolong Crowley's release and leave him gasping, the brilliance of being joined with Aziraphale in intimacy like something lighting him up from within. He can barely hold on, awash in love and desire, his own and Aziraphale's tangling together: Aziraphale's love is so vast, as expansive as his glorious wings, enveloping Crowley until it's almost more than he can bear. He cries out again when Aziraphale comes in him, his name a bitten-off sound in the angel's voice, and it's as though Aziraphale's pleasure resonates through him as well, echoing the release he found before. Crowley feels him spill and spill inside him and the sensation makes him moan. So good, so decadent to be stained by the seed of an angel, feeling himself slick and hot and tender when Aziraphale pulls out of him, gentle like Crowley could break.

It does almost hurt, to be empty where he was so filled moments ago, but Aziraphale turns him to his back and takes his mouth in a kiss that seems to demand every gasp, every broken sound Crowley makes, and he lifts his arms around his angel's shoulders, mouth as yielding and sweet beneath his as though he's never forgotten the days when he was an angel himself.

"Angel, Aziraphale," he presses words between kisses, feeling as though he'll overflow. A throb echoes through his body, a fierce pulse of pleasure, tremors still chasing down his spine. "How do you do that, how are you so perfect--" It's something he'll never get enough of, he thinks dazedly: being with Aziraphale, loving him, wanting him with all he has, all that he can give.

His eyebrows draw upward and his mouth curves into a fond, lopsided smile as Crowley mounts on the praises in his afterglow, something about the sweetness of the sentiment juxtaposed with the absolute debauchery of their act just makes him feel all sweet inside and most definitely soft. He draws Crowley's arms around himself and allows himself to be satisfied and proud and content to have this: a perfect slice of paradise, better than any Heaven that Aziraphale has ever known, carved out in the smallest of rooms in a servant quarters housed by an American Ambassador whose son is the actual Antichrist.

"It's you," he replies, even though it's a rhetorical question. "It's on your account I'm this way." He wouldn't nearly be as good of a partner for anyone else, though attempts had previously been made. They were good ones, he'd daresay that he'd been the great love of at least one human's life, though that had been an accident and he'd really tried to do a little post-relationship matchmaking. But no one, absolutely not a single soul, received the sort of love, support, and total openness that Crowley does.

A real rain has started outside, which is a shame, because he'd just watered the garden, but he doesn't mind the idea of being forced to allay whatever plans he might have had for after their mid-morning romp, and staying instead in Crowley's radiating warmth. He's ebullient, even as he remembers and extricates himself reluctantly from the bed to get a towel to clean them off. There were, unfortunately, no miracles allowed for this, but there was a sort of shared intimacy that he liked about having to do this by hand, roughly wiping himself off but taking his time with Crowley.

Crowley kisses Aziraphale rather than try to find the words to answer that, the way it makes his toes want to curl in pure pleasure. He fully returns the sentiment, every sentiment, really, especially the one about this cottage being their own slice of paradise, as though it manifested just for them. How decadent it is to lie here beneath Aziraphale, arms curved around him, tasting the sweetness of his mouth, as a rain begins to start outside like the sky heard his earlier thought about miracling a thunderstorm into existence so that they'd have no better option but to stay in bed all day long. Or at least together in the cottage. He certainly doesn't see any need for Nanny to make an appearance in the main house without her charge there today; no doubt the staff will assume she's wisely taking a holiday.

His arms unwind reluctantly as Aziraphale goes to get a towel to clean away the mess they've made, and Crowley slithers fully onto the mattress to recline and watch him, avoiding the damp spots. He doesn't mind much the hesitance to expend miracles on unnecessary things--it may take more time and involve some inconvenience, but he does so enjoy the intimacy of being groomed by Aziraphale, especially when his angel is helping him dress as Ashtoreth, hair smoothed into order and lipstick applied by hand. His fingers brush over Aziraphale's wrist while he's tending to him with the cloth, being so sweet and gentle about it that it makes a smile curl at the edges of his mouth.

"We should take a bath together," Crowley suggests with a hint of a purr in his voice.

[ Links, whistles. Maybe an AU from their current storyline? ]

"You are insatiable," he complains exasperatedly, though there is hardly any bite. He steals a kiss and then another before he is able to get himself back up, and only on the idea that it becomes increasingly tempting to miracle them a bath. But no, as excusable as that would be, in comparison to what their miracles could be spent on instead at least, it would still be categorized as frivolous. So he leaves Crowley for the barest moment to draw the both of them a nice hot bath.

He really enjoys these, misses taking them more often when it was the social thing to do. And often, Aziraphale could be found in Rome at the bath house, lounging about with young gentlemen and their aspirations flanking him, and blessing each one.

He suddenly realizes that he hasn't bathed with another person since about that time, though he had unsuccessfully tried to get more people to do so in the middle ages to encourage them to prevent disease. He had taken plenty of them alone, but feels rather indulgent about this and pours in a smattering of bubbling foam, as well as procures a rubber duck. The scent is strong, and soon the whole room smells of salt breeze and cypress trees, and with the door open, it seeps to where Aziraphale has returned to lovingly offer lazy Sunday kisses to Crowley in the stead but in the spirit of thick stacked Belgian waffles coated with rivulets of syrup. "Ah, I think our bath is ready, dear."

“It’s only a bath, angel,” Crowley answers, lazily teasing, as though Aziraphale is the one having sinful thoughts. He lays back smiling with a well-kissed mouth once the angel goes, eyes trailing him from the room; he hasn’t once reached for his shades that morning, and sees no imminent need to. Relaxed and willingly bared, body still throbbing faintly from their lovemaking, he listens to the sound of the bath starting, scenting the air as Aziraphale’s addition to the bath reaches him, the salt and cypress smell reminding him of other times. He remembers that he’d encountered Aziraphale once in the bathhouse in Rome—it had been the morning after Caligula’s party. Crowley had been rather anxious to wash off the effects of that evening, and he’d rather thought Aziraphale might be feeling the same, even if he didn’t admit to himself then that he wanted to see the angel again. Was that the first time they disrobed in front of one another? It may have been. A shame it had taken so long for them to share anything more than an innocent glimpse now and again, after that.

But at least the Romans knew how to do baths, and judging by the scent, Aziraphale does as well. Crowley is where he left him when he comes back, eager to return those loving kisses, always beguiled by his angel’s sweetness. “Mmm. Yes, I’m coming.” His body is reluctant to unfold to its feet, but Crowley manages it, his spine as supple as ever as he stands up and slings an arm over Aziraphale’s shoulders as they make their way to the bathroom. “So this is what you were doing in here for so long,” he remarks once they’re standing before the filled tub resplendent with scent and foam, surveying it with hands on his hips. Glancing at Aziraphale, Crowley gives him the same thorough once-over before turning fully to him with a smile, beginning to undo his shirt. “Think you’re a bit overdressed for this.”

Aziraphale still has no idea how Crowley never manages to trip over himself when walking around, as his body is an actual hazard, but maybe he thinks that way because he often finds himself walking into things and tripping over items as he becomes distracted by it. Especially as pants and skirts alike have become obscenely tight in the past several decades; he thought the worst of it was in the 60s only for them to invent such a thing as skinny jeans and God Forbid, yoga pants. It was honestly a very good thing that Crowley never felt the need to exercise, and particularly not in front of Aziraphale.

He lets Crowley do the undressing, since they both prefer it this way in the same vein that they both prefer it when Aziraphale dresses Crowley in the morning. He should have liked, were they coupled all those years ago, for Crowley to attend to dressing him back when it took much longer to do so every day. As he does this, Aziraphale admires Crowley from this distance, the way the bathroom light plays on his skin and the little hairs that refuse to sit with the rest, all the sharp angles and soft curves and discordance of his body put together to make a symphony.

Finally, Aziraphale steps out of his trousers and pants and folds them up to neatly place on a chair and he stands before Crowley completely in the nude. He is still, despite Crowley's apparent utter devotion, sometimes still a little self-conscious about his physical attributes, but it all falls away with Crowley so eager to get him out of all of his clothes.

It's times like these when Crowley's glad for the necessity of avoiding frivolous miracles, when he could so easily snap his fingers and have all those buttons and fastenings of Aziraphale's undone but far prefers to do it by hand, coaxing them apart, taking care not to rip a single one. Even in the role of a country gardener Aziraphale is always so perfectly put-together, and it's that very perfection that Crowley longs to unravel and undo, grasping at the opportunity for it whenever it's in reach. Enjoyment glows in his face as he slides Aziraphale's shirt from his shoulders--taking care as he drapes it over the back of the nearby chair, half-teasing and half-sincere in his constraint--and then unfastens his trousers. He moves back to let Aziraphale step out of the rest, giving him a once-over with eyes that are blatantly covetous. Whatever Aziraphale's sense of modesty or reservations towards his own body might be, there's no doubt that Crowley lusts for every inch of him.

"Come on, then." Still smiling with a self-satisfied air, Crowley slips into the tub, so sinuous he barely makes a ripple as he sinks into the heat and foam, the water hot enough to bring a lovely easing to all the little aches within his body. He leans back against the edge, lifting a lazy hand to beckon Aziraphale to him. His gaze doesn't move away for an instant, taking thorough advantage of this chance to watch his angel in the nude. Once Aziraphale has joined him in the tub he tilts his head with heavy-lidded eyes, making a low sound like a contented purr. Beneath the surface of the water, one of Crowley's legs slides playfully alongside Aziraphale's.

"You'll wash my hair for me, won't you, angel?" he coaxes.

Aziraphale feels his skin turning hot under Crowley's gaze and it's both endearing and alarming how caught off guard he feels that Crowley should be this way, to love him and desire him as if Crowley were a man starved and Aziraphale the only thing that could slake his hunger. He wouldn't want it any other way, but sometimes it still surprises him; he'd never thought of himself as anything particularly worthy of note. Handsome, yes, attractive, sure, charismatic of course, and intelligent and able to hold a good conversation but. Nothing like what Crowley sees in him.

Yet, he supposes the same is true in reverse.

So he dips his toes in and then slides all the way down, moving in the tub so that he is lying against Crowley's chest, and drawing his fingers across it, snagging them in the little hairs there. "Hmm?" he asks, clearly distracted. "Oh, yes, of course." He casts his gaze up for a second, just taking in a deep breath of all of this, before moving to sit up and gesturing for Crowley to turn around instead.

"Have I ever told you I love how you look with long hair?" he muses, drawing his fingers through it from the scalp down. "It's beautiful at any length, of course, but I love the way it frames your face."

Beneath the surface of the water Crowley's hand finds Aziraphale's waist, stroking down to his hip and then up again, and as the angel settles against him he makes another sound reminiscent of pure pleasure. Mmm, those fingers trailing along his chest--innocent, but so enjoyable. It's almost a shame to have to turn away, but at least there will be compensation. His eyes close at the first touch to his hair, Aziraphale's fingers stroking from his scalp to the ends of the wavy strands in a manner that makes him want to arch, though Crowley doesn't move, aside from the reflexive shiver that chases down his spine. "Oh yes, you've told me." In words, of course, but also in gestures, in the way Aziraphale looks at him or how tenderly he helps him dress his hair in the mornings, pinning it just so, or taking it down at night and brushing it to shining smoothness.

This, the sensation of Aziraphale's hands running through his hair, getting it wet and heavy, stroking through and parting the heavy red strands--it's reminiscent of having his wings groomed. The next closest thing, in fact, that Crowley's ever found, which can even be done by ordinary humans. But none of the ones he's permitted to, once in a long, long while throughout the centuries, feel like Aziraphale does. None of them have ever touched him quite like his angel does.

He makes another low noise, head leaning back just a little to Aziraphale’s hands, a hum that begins deep in his chest and emerges more as feeling than sound. “That’s good, angel.”

Crowley is, of course, a tactile creature, and Aziraphale loves to indulge him with pets and light whispers of touches and personal grooming. He derives a pleasure from how nicely Crowley responds, satisfying like having a cat purr on your lap. Even relaxed, he can't help but emanate a magnetic energy, a buzz. Aziraphale loves this about him, how he is constantly in movement, his mind whirring with thought and idea. He would like to take a glimpse inside that brain, see what lies there untouched and personal.

He thinks Crowley has so much to share.

Massaging the shampoo into his scalp, Aziraphale takes his time, piles the suds on so thickly that their hair starts to look alike, both as if dolloped of frosting on a cupcake. He is drawn by the juncture where Crowley's neck meets his shoulder, and traces a finger on this line; how is he so beautiful, so perfect, even as a demon? No, because he is a demon. He dares to say that, as an angel, he would look differently, live differently, and most importantly, move differently.

Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley's long neck as he continues to work the soap into his scalp, hardly necessary as it's very much squeaky clean. Still, it doesn't matter. He rubs Crowley's temples, then the sides of his neck, presses his thumbs in little circles on his back and shoulders. "Mm, we don't have anything else to do today, you know. Perhaps I could find something suitable to wear, and we would go into town," he suggests. He never gets to go out with Crowley in public, not really. But perhaps, as a nanny and a gardener on their day off, they could decide to spend it together, perhaps go see a show or browse through old bookshops and boutiques.

Without a doubt, Aziraphale has the most angelic hands that any of his brethren could claim. Crowley could fall asleep again under his attention, except then he would miss how lovingly Aziraphale touches him, how he seems to seek out every reflexive shiver and response as though it gives him as much pure delight to touch him as Crowley takes in being touched. If God made him, then it must be God who is to blame for his nearly sinful enjoyment of even the most innocent caresses Aziraphale gives him. And this, he thinks hazily as Aziraphale traces the sensitive contour of his neck, and follows it moments later with a kiss--as the longing for him in Crowley is as taut as a bowstring all the time, reaching for him at every moment, regardless of how relaxed the rest of him may be--is not exactly innocent. But it is wonderful, and Crowley is pliant in his hands, sighing out in a breath that becomes a soft groan as Aziraphale works over his shoulders in blissful circles of his thumbs.

"There'll be gossip," he remarks sleepily. "Two of us walking together." Though likely it wouldn't amount to much: his lips curve as he imagines what the Dowlings, if they ever heard, would think. Old Nanny and the gardener, out for an afternoon stroll--how sweet, how perfectly chaste. "Suppose it'd be nice to get out for a bit. I hear there's a place down by the pub that does a nice afternoon tea."

How long has it been, he wondered, since they shared a meal together? Or at least one dining out, not a pilfered bottle of wine and morsels of something tasty in front of the fireplace. He rather misses watching Aziraphale tuck into a sumptuous meal.

Aziraphale is content to stay like this until their fingers prune from the water, and then lament that they won't be able to miracle it away. He doubts that anyone would mind, but it would still be considered a novelty, he supposes. An indulgence. He just wants that for Crowley all the time: indulgence, giving him exactly what he wants and then some. He is a demon starved for love and Aziraphale is an angel who is made of it, whose love only grows larger and more sweet as he dotes Crowley with it, blankets him in it. He would think of nothing else but to sew up all of Crowley's wounds with it, sustain him on it, let him use it as cover when he is cold and shelter when he should need. He knows no other way to love Crowley than fully: any attempts to do else were totally futile.

He should like, someday, that they would not have to put on silly disguises and wait for their employer to leave in order to be seen together, as any other couple could be seen together. But even so, he thinks of all the humans who loved someone they weren't supposed to love, who had to hide behind closed doors and hushed voices, shuttled away by family or friends or society, driven mad with desire and hopelessness. He thinks of all this and remains hopeful, and thinks on his fortunes that they should have this, that they should be able to go out together at all.

"Let them talk," he says, nuzzling Crowley's neck. "I want them to. If anyone else but you know that I love you, let it be the Dowlings: people who would not care, who would have no way to tell Heaven nor Hell if they wanted."

He grows bold, hiding in the shadow, lurking about. That's not really his area of expertise, nor a place where he is comfortable. He wants to be kissed by the sun, and he wants Crowley by his side when he is. He tries, again, and again and again, to weigh the inevitable against the impossible: Always, he comes up short.

It makes him ache, feeling that depth of love in every word and gesture, from all the places that they touch when Aziraphale is at his back like this. It sinks within him, glows deep in his soul like nothing he’s ever felt before, except that he has always felt this from Aziraphale, the love that seemed to emanate from him like blanketing wings. Crowley never let himself think that it meant Aziraphale loved him, at least no more than anyone else. Aziraphale is an angel, made to love, his smiles and kindnesses to mortals something that Crowley had tried not to be jealous of; it’s only in these past few decades that he’s come to realize how much of that love is for him, only him, and how limitless it is, unfurled around him.

He shivers feeling Aziraphale nuzzle into his throat, his hand finding one of the angel’s and dragging it up to kiss his fingers, suds and all. “Keep sweet talking, angel,” he mutters, “and I’ll do something about it.” Really, Aziraphale could probably read the dictionary to him and Crowley would be enamored in spite of himself. It helps that he is all but boneless by now with pleasure, from Aziraphale tending to his hair and the rest of him so thoroughly, melting him into this soft, relaxed state as no one else can. Crowley shifts a little and dips his head back with one of those not-quite human bends of the spine, rinsing away the lather. “You’ll have to help me dress,” he tells Aziraphale as though he couldn’t manage it all perfectly well himself, but then Crowley is never above pressing him into service when he can. “Not that there’s any hurry.”

Aziraphale might be an angel, possibly the most loving of them all, because his love is a personal one. All the other angels love God's creations from afar, but Aziraphale touches and stays near. He noses Crowley's jaw and thinks of all of Creation, creatures great and small, and medium, with leaves or fur or scales or flaming red hair and deep-set eyes and the most expressive eyebrows. He thinks on long fingers with slightly knobbled knuckles and blunt fingertips, bony wrists that encase a wild pulse, sharp shoulders and sharp elbows and bumps and ridges of a fine back and spindly spine, a pronounced cleft down the center of a stomach, slender hips with prominent hipbones, strong thighs and corded calves that go on forever, flanking a generously proportioned sex. Of long feet and perfectly wiggly toes, that had once dramatically burned for him in a Church, so disconcertingly that he had forgotten to shout at their owner to remind him that he has wings and can fly. And then, finally, he thinks on those wings, sleek and downy and, in the right lighting, just the most wonderful shade of midnight blue.

His face grows hot even though he is presented with the most delectable thing in all of Creation, at the thought of gently holding it in his hands and trapping all of it in cloth and cosmetics. "Of course," he replies, leaving more kisses on Crowley's skin and letting his hands wander, treading familiar paths. One of his hands slips from Crowley's mouth and finds its way to spread its width across his neck; anyone else and this might have been a threatening gesture, one press and it would turn violent. But Aziraphale only wants to touch this pulse, this throat, this voice, that he holds so dearly.

"Not that there's any hurry," he repeats, curling an arm around Crowley's waist.

Crowley eases back once again to Aziraphale’s chest, steam curling from the surface of the bath, drops of water trailing from the soaked strands of his hair, over his shoulders, dripping to Aziraphale’s skin. His angel is so warm, such a steady, assuring presence radiating love, brighter than any star Crowley has visited. He swallows when that beloved hand encircles his throat. No fear, not a moment’s mistrust, only the sensation of being held in the most capable hands and an excitement that curls within him, thrums along his nerves.

“Angel,” he says, a low and deep vibration against Aziraphale’s palm, and Crowley leans his head back to his shoulder, offering his throat openly. He turns his head slightly so that his lips brush to Aziraphale’s jaw, easing along the lovely familiar line of it. It’s wonderful to be held so completely, accepted for all that he is—demon, obstinate creature, all raw nerve and tense yearning. His voice soft and low against the side of Aziraphale’s throat. “Mm. So good to me.”

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lie back and think of god, i'm dying

now imagine him explaining to gabriel

just saving souls over here nothing to worry about

if only we could all take this very heroic route

he deserves a commendation really

at least one soul saved a night!

and so many more in danger!

looks like he'll have to amp it up!

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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