temptational | Open post

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.”

Crowley had better be careful, or else just a bath might turn into more than just a bath. But Aziraphale swallows hard and tries to will his body to behave, lest they never actually make it out of this bathroom today. It's just that Crowley just displays himself so effortlessly, so easily like a work of art hanging in a gallery. Aziraphale can feel his breath play against where his skin is wet, feels the tremors of his body vibrating with his voice, and he becomes hotter to touch.

"Anything for you," he murmurs in return, turning his cheek and kissing Crowley's temples. Taking a deep breath, he resumes his work, cupping water in his hands and letting it fall down Crowley's hair, gently washing away all the shampoo and leaving only the light fragrance behind. He's careful not to get any in his eyes.

When he is done with that, he reaches for the soap, wetting it and taking his time applying it all over every single part that he catalogues in his mind. Nothing goes uncared for, ignored or unwashed. His fingers really do start to prune, and his hair is still bone dry. Still, very little is more satisfying than getting to groom Crowley, and he doesn't want to stop.

Heat curls off his skin in little wisps of steam, and he feels as hot as though it isn't just the bath making it happen, lost to his angel's gentle touches and the whisper of words where his lips press at Crowley's temple. Crowley stays very still, aching for Aziraphale's touch, restless and wanting; his body leans languid against Aziraphale's, as though he might just slip down beneath the surface of the water, only his head is turned on his shoulder and his lips are at Aziraphale's throat and Crowley doesn't want to move from this position, doesn't want to do anything to disturb how Aziraphale continues to tend to him as devotedly as though he is some priceless thing.

Water sluices through his hair from Aziraphale's cupped hands, washing away the last traces of the shampoo. The heady scent lingers between them, Aziraphale lathering him with soap that glides everywhere over his skin, as though his angel means to touch and stroke every part of him. His eyes close and his lips part, a soft groan catching in his throat as Aziraphale's hands find intimate parts of him to care for. They really have spent quite a long time here and it would be easy to lose half the morning to this, but Crowley doesn't want to miss a moment.

"Angel," he says again, a little pleadingly; his eyes open and he looks up at Aziraphale with the same impossible need for him that has been with him through six thousand years. A dripping hand lifts to Aziraphale's cheek, and Crowley shifts just a little to be able to turn enough to catch his mouth, the kiss soft but filled with so much wanting.

They might just lose the entire morning like this, but Aziraphale returns the kiss as if they have all the time in the world. They could still take the afternoon, if Aziraphale didn't also get distracted while putting Crowley into his clothes. He'd almost done that a fair few times before, pulling up his skirts and zipping it over the round of his arse, slipping soft silky chemises over his arms. He is so very heartrendingly beautiful.

The water sloshes around them as Aziraphale moves to enclose his arms around Crowley's shoulders, holding him in an embrace in a bathtub that feels decidedly cramped for anything that he wants to do right this moment, but that's alright. To be absolutely fair to the tub, it does allow him to lean forward and kiss Crowley's shoulder, and then lean just a bit further and manage to kiss his knee. Aziraphale attends to Crowley as though he is some priceless thing because he is, the greatest of all the treasures that he's acquired. All jewelry he gets custom designed and some books fall into his lap, but only one snake has ever slithered up to him on a wall to make conversation about having caused the original sin.

To be quite fair, they had both been looking after the humans even then: Crowley, for their knowledge and their free will. Aziraphale, for their safety in the new world they were about to face. It should naturally follow that they be here now, nearing the end of the world, trying so hard to hold onto this thing that they've both influenced so much and whose formation they'd been so integral in.

"Will you at least help wash me first, before we get carried away?" he asks softly, though he wouldn't be too hard-pressed if the answer was no. Likely, they'd need another wash soon, regardless.

Crowley leans into the kiss, into its warmth and the sweet sensation of Aziraphale returning it, reluctantly to press for too much and yet, paradoxically, eager for everything that is his to take. And isn't it just like Aziraphale to give him this, not just the kisses to his mouth, to his shoulder and knee as embraces him so closely, but his arms around him, his touches and caresses, the way he tends to him with such heartfelt and loving care. It's nearly overwhelming. Crowley can't imagine--there's nothing he could have done to deserve such measureless love, but he could never turn it away, could never treat it as anything less than the priceless gift that it is, especially after so many years of quiet yearning. In the end he is an avaricious creature, desiring the love of an angel and more than that, getting it--and he would do anything to keep it, in defiance of every power, every authority that has ever ruled over their lives.

At the moment, though, there's no need for any such defiance, and no need to hurry, either. Crowley turns in Aziraphale's arms, moving close to kiss him again with devout affection and a blaze of desire, but then he eases back and nods in response to his question. This is a gift too, being able to return some of the care Aziraphale gives him; he'll tend to him as many times as is needed, throughout the morning and then perhaps again later tonight after their stroll through the town, their shopping and supper, and whatever follows it.

"Turn around, angel, I'll wash your hair." Crowley's voice is low and husky, and when Aziraphale has turned away from him he cups water in his hands to sluice over his head, being careful that it doesn't run forward over his face. His soft blond locks darken, water trailing down the nape of his neck and over his shoulders, his skin soft and absolutely flawless, so lovely that Crowley has to sneak a taste. He leans down to kiss Aziraphale's shoulder and the join of his neck, nipping with gentle teeth.

As much as Aziraphale is a fan of miracling himself clean, he does enjoy every once in awhile getting to just be groomed by Crowley. He doesn't love to do this himself, though there is something nice about having a book and having a glass of wine and lighting a candle. But, if he's being very honest with himself, he is mostly doing this on account of the fact that he can use it as an excuse to let Crowley touch him everywhere. It's not just in the ways that they do when they're alone together, but in many of the ways after they've made love, or if Crowley gets up particularly early in the morning. It's just something so simple and so pleasing, to be cared for this way by a lover.

His eyes darken just a tad as Crowley washes his hair, as he leans in and bites with just the barest hint of his teeth. He leans into it as if letting Crowley know he doesn't have to be so gentle, but he thinks Crowley already knows. Aziraphale has surprised himself over these last few years with just how incredibly sinful he is, never having thought of himself as particular lustful, even with the various partners he'd had over the years. But with Crowley, oh, with Crowley he could lose himself in the pleasures of their bodies for days at a time: the more Crowley offered, and the more he asked if this was alright, if this was okay, if he was good, the more Aziraphale sought to take from him, greedy for it in all senses of the word.

It isn't really behavior fitting of an angel, but Crowley is hardly a model demon himself. Here they both were, heavily indulgent and hedonistic in what humans may like rather than what angels or demons were supposed to like. And Aziraphale loves the feel of Crowley against his skin, whether his mouth or his fingers or anything else, the contact of him feeling more natural than his own skin, than even the clothes he'd gotten made for himself.

Feeling how Aziraphale leans into the kiss, how he wordlessly urges more, Crowley gives in to the desire to nip at him harder, trailing biting kisses to the nape of his neck and then at last ceasing with a shaken exhale so that he can do what he set out to do and wash Aziraphale's hair. Oh, he is ravenous for Aziraphale, he could consume every lovely bit of him, the sheer physical need for him nearly impossible to resist at times like this, except that he wants to do this for Aziraphale: scrub softly over his scalp with his fingertips, lathering his hair, taking his time to massage and tend to him as carefully as Aziraphale did for him. Then urge him back against his shoulder as he cups handfuls of water to rinse his hair clean, kissing his temple and along the line of his sodden hair, breathing in the heady scent of the shampoo and the wonderful scent that is all Aziraphale's.

Then Crowley reaches for the soap, and now he can touch Aziraphale in all the ways the angel touched him earlier, getting his hands all over every inch of him. A little playful, yet with an unmistakable air of reverence--it still amazes Crowley that he is permitted this, that he is given so much, allowed to indulge in Aziraphale to his heart's content. "Oh, angel," he groans low and entranced against his shoulder, utterly absorbed in his naked skin everywhere he caresses and kisses.

He might tease and torment a little longer if not for how swiftly desire transmutes into need, and as he finishes rinsing the last traces of lather from Aziraphale's skin his kisses to the nape of his neck become headier, intoxicated, lingering there with tongue and teeth, kisses that are halfway between tender and ferocious.

If Aziraphale could be said to be greedy, he wouldn't argue: he loves to have things, wonderful little objects he collects like a raccoon or a crow or a mermaid, particularly loving to read books and understand better the human condition. As well as he's lived among them, he could never truly understand what it was like to be human, and he supposes he has a thirst for that knowledge, that unquenchable goal of understanding.

But this is a different matter altogether, a covetous, possessive thing. He wants Crowley to touch him wherever he pleases, his skin a landscape beckoning for Crowley to make every single scenic tour and inviting him to stay awhile at his neck and his hip and his rather thick thighs.

"Unfair," he whispers as Crowley kisses his neck, so caught is he, so enraptured. His breaths hitch at a drag of teeth, jaw slack and unable to close his parted lips which let all manner of little noises tumble forth from his loose tongue. How can he help it, with Crowley's skillful hands all over and mouth pressed against him? His body is weak and supple, complete putty in Crowley's hands on any day of the week. He can hardly remember why he thought he should survive this bath.

His body is, meanwhile, long past protest from how soon it had been since they'd last made love, and warms and makes its interest known. Aziraphale tries so, so hard to think of something very unattractive. He thinks about the waxy taste of putting Francis' dentures in his mouth, the smell of the spirit gum as he applies it by his ears.

But then he thinks of Ashtoreth's stockings gliding over Crowley's feet, of lifting red hair to link a delicate chain around his neck, and a jeweled glass perfume bottle with a tasseled pump, letting out a spritz of sharp spices and a resinous opium, a haunting sweet floral trying to claw its way from under the hazy smoke. Sometimes, a hint of it would be left by the end of the day, and it always left Aziraphale dizzy.

Yes, this is absolutely not working.

"Unfair? Hm?" Crowley drags Aziraphale as close as he can get him, leaned back against the wall of the tub, his long legs apart so that the angel can settle between them, back against his body. Fingers trail down across Aziraphale's chest, and then lower on to his waist, caressing greedily, tenderly; one of his thighs drags against the outside of Aziraphale's delectably plump one, and Crowley kisses his throat and his jaw, guiding Aziraphale's head back to his shoulder. "Who's being unfair?" Not him, surely. That would be all Aziraphale, with every inch of him so welcoming and available, with his little sighs and sounds tumbling from his mouth, the mouth Crowley craves to kiss so badly it's almost a physical pain. So soft and supple against him, so warm in Crowley's arms, and it's impossible to imagine he could not touch him now any way he likes, that there is anything at all which Aziraphale would deny him. His fingers tease tenderly over the inside of Aziraphale's thigh, moving towards his knee and then slowly back up again. Closer and closer, until he finds Aziraphale's cock, which is most certainly making its interest known; he smooths his palm up against the underside of it and encircles it with his fingers.

"This, angel, this is unfair." Crowley's teeth catch at Aziraphale's ear. He strokes him so very gently, lathing him with kisses. "So: you can lie here and let me tend you, and when I'm done with that you can dress me." His voice almost trembles with wanting, but he holds Aziraphale clasped greedily against him, wanting the taste of his skin and the sensation of him so pliant and yet so urgent in his arms. "You'll like that, won't you? Putting me in my stockings and garters. Dressing my hair." He moves his hand slowly and thoroughly over Aziraphale's cock.

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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