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.
"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.
"Oh, Crowley, what are you doing--?" asks Aziraphale breathlessly, even as he lies back against Crowley's chest, even as his legs fall apart at his touch. How easily do his hips buck when Crowley's hands stray near, and finally to grasp him and grip him in those wicked fingers. "Mm--" he agrees, snapping his mouth closed to muffle the noise as his body moves naturally to shift against Crowley's, trying to get as close to him as possible, water sloshing everywhere on the bathroom floor in the urgency of his movement.
"Yess," he hisses, before letting out a gasp and a moan. Yes to him being unfair, yes to the unspoken question of whether Aziraphale would allow Crowley to touch him any way he so pleased, yes to all of it and then some. "Any excuse to get your hair and your legs in my hands, dear," he confesses, words sweet as torched marshmallow.
Head cradled against Crowley's chest, Aziraphale turns his cheek to kiss the juncture of his shoulder, to lean up and get a little bit of his collar bone. And despite all the soap and the scented bath, underneath the layers of cypress and sea spray and water, his nose is drawn to that warm spice underneath, dark and bittersweet skin, just ever lightly sulfurous as the hint of a smoking match. And Aziraphale, helplessly wound with lust, gives into it, fingers sliding from their vicegrip on the side of the bath.
"Don't worry about a thing," Crowley murmurs in his ear, aching for him even as Aziraphale bucks up into his hand. "I know just what to do with you."
There are a hundred things, a thousand things Crowley would like to do with him, but right now what he wants is for Aziraphale to lie back and let him do all the work: it's time Crowley were the one to get his hands all over him, to tease and torment him until he moans with pleasure. He grasps him tightly around the waist, not letting him move far as he shifts and seeks more contact, his mouth doing ardent, wicked things along his throat before he lets Aziraphale's head tip back to his shoulder, and his hand beneath the water working over Aziraphale's cock--thumb rubbing tenderly along the vein on the underside, palm rolling gently against his balls for a breath or two before he wraps his hand around him again and strokes.
Crowley noses at Aziraphale's hair, his brow as the angel turns toward him. "You don't know what it does to me, angel," he says a little breathlessly, "when you're rolling my stockings up my legs for me." Aziraphale always seem to love to hear him talk, to hear him murmur his fantasies and thoughts, so Crowley freely obliges. "And when you take my chin in your hand to apply my lipstick...mm, I love to get my mouth on you, see you marked up all red." His thumb rubs beneath the head of Aziraphale's cock, and he says raspily, "I could do that for you. I could suck you, my mouth all beautifully scarlet."
Not that Aziraphale had ever doubted Crowley's ability to take care of him, as it were, but the announcement flickers a little excitement in his core, lets himself be taken over completely. Despite his usually demure attitude, practically puritanical by anyone else who knows him, Aziraphale finds himself more often than not with such a hunger for Crowley's embrace. It humbles him to be so ensnared by lust that he can hardly think of anything else sometimes, and yet, when Crowley turns to him and responds with such equal and open thirst, he can't help but to feel relieved.
He supposes it's why Crowley likes to be assured that Aziraphale is pleased; Aziraphale likes to be reassured that Crowley wants him, desires him more than anything and definitely more than is convenient. "Oh, darling," he starts, momentarily speechless. "We'd never leave for work. They'd grow suspicious. We'd get sacked." He tries to list off all the reasons why he hadn't indulged Crowley before, rolling up his stockings and then lifting them over his waist and letting the fabric drag across his back as he thrust into him. If Crowley should start to say anything, he could shut him up by snapping the garter. He would, if he were so wickedly inclined.
"I love rubbing away at my skin and finding the red still there," he says. "All of me, yours as you want it." He makes a very unintelligible noise as Crowley describes what it might be like to paint Aziraphale's cock with his lipstick, and he feels as if he might shatter. "You are unholy," he responds, hips still arcing into his touch anyway.
It nearly makes him groan aloud, to realize how Aziraphale must have thought of it too, all those mornings when he dressed Crowley up in Nanny Ashtoreth's severe skirts. How easily he could bend him over and flip up that long hem and give him a good seeing-to. Lose the rest of the day with him, all thought of their employers and even their mission forgotten. He rubs his mouth at Aziraphale's temple, leaving wild, tender kisses, fingers working eagerly over his hot, thick shaft. "Promise we will, one of these mornings," he says in a voice wracked with lust. "They won't sack us." Oh, Crowley would spend a miracle for that, even knowing he shouldn't. It would be such a small thing to make the Dowlings forget about them for a day; the hard part would be to restrain themselves to only one.
Touching Aziraphale in this openly lustful way, hands and mouth greedy on him, letting himself murmur these secret and much-visited fantasies and desires into his ear is so perfect, feeling Aziraphale tremble and gasp and arch to his hand. Crowley closes his eyes, fighting for control. "That's right," he whispers, his throat feeling tight and the rest of him scorching with lust. "Unholy, incorrigible, depraved demon I am. And you are--so lovely--" He groans then, fingers tightening just a little, stroking thoroughly Aziraphale's cock from base to head. "So divine, delectable..." Crowley catches his mouth, brief but ravishing, tasting all that he can.
"After you've dressed me," he tells him, "and you've put up my hair and painted my lips, I'm going to go to my knees for you and suck your cock. And I won't let you return the favor until we come back from our afternoon out. So you can think about that, angel, while we're strolling through the meadow green."
"Only you could come up with a plan so diabolical," he responds in kind, wondering whether or not he should just swat Crowley away now. Seems rather unfair for Crowley to give him two orgasms and not even be able to return one until the evening. And evenings were already reserved for Aziraphale to map out all the parts of Crowley and explore all the ways there were to bring him pleasure. "Completely incorrigible to deny me this," he whispers, grinding back into Crowley's lap.
No, it wasn't as if Aziraphale had kept count over the years, but if he had, he would be sure that he walked away with more net orgasms than Crowley had, and that was just unacceptable. He isn't a selfish lover, no. He will save those moments for when he needed rescuing, because that was another thing that, although no count existed, he was sure his corporation had been saved many more times than the favor had been repaid.
"You just want me to be driven mad by the time we get home, enough to throw you on the bed and love you until you beg me for mercy," he accuses. "Would you allow me to reciprocate for you if I told you I'd do that anyway?" he asks, gently prying. He hopes that he has not left Crowley starved for attention that he should have to feel the need to do this. But then again, sometimes Aziraphale just called Crowley nice for the express purpose of being thrown up against a wall, goading him into a bit of rougher, possessive play.
It's times like these he wonders if they're at all any different, deep down.
"That's right," Crowley whispers, teeth catching at Aziraphale's ear. Utterly diabolical is what he is, and Aziraphale had better not forget it: though he's certainly fond of reminding him when the need arises. And he so loves to be on his knees for Aziraphale, to feel him clutch in his hair and hear his groans as his cock slides down his throat, to taste him, to lavish on him every bit of attention that Aziraphale pays him threefold in the deliciously long hours of the evening. It's more than a fair trade, if you ask him. Aziraphale loves him so deeply and so well, there are times Crowley can hardly bear it, that it leaves him throbbing with a desperate eagerness to please; to touch and taste Aziraphale all he wants is already such a gift. He bucks up against Aziraphale's arse when he grinds into his lap.
"Greedy angel," he returns, words whispered at his temple with nothing but love and aching desire in his voice. The thought of being thrown on the bed and being made to beg for mercy leaves him a little dazed, his own breath going to tatters now as his cock presses into the delectable round of Aziraphale's arse. "Let me, please..." Crowley moves against him as he strokes him relentlessly, and his cock catches between the angel's sweet thighs, nudging behind his balls, and he moans in abandon. Let him take this, if Aziraphale wants to reciprocate, indulging in every inch of him. Stroking his cock, his hips urging up, pressed between thighs so lovely they should be considered sinful if they didn't belong to an angel, Crowley so ardent for him, utterly devoted.
Later, in the depths of the evening and late at night but with nowhere to be in the morning (truly, honestly this time, as Aziraphale won't have to get up and tend to the plants), he'll wring Crowley dry of orgasms until he tells the angel no more, that his body can't take it, that he is exhausted. And Aziraphale will have him sprawled bonelessly over his lap, cock in his fist and stomach held gently under a broad fan of fingers, telling him one more, one more.
Aziraphale squeezes his thighs together over Crowley's cock, rocking lightly up and down, soapy waves splashing around and gone uncared for while they attend to more pressing matters. He feels the pressure against his balls, and with his back bridged, holds onto the slippery tub for purchase. He speeds up, down onto Crowley's lap and up into his grip, eyes prickling and rolling back into his head as he continues.
It takes very little else but a little time for Aziraphale to come, streaking the soap-clouded water a milky white. His body shudders as wings do before they take flight, and he feels the freefall all around him, exhilarating and free.
He redoubles his efforts then, though his shins and knees are killing him on the porcelain. He thinks if anything, he'll want to turn around, face Crowley as he glides his cock in and out from between his thighs. He finds that if he bows his back far enough, he could possibly tip Crowley's chin enough for a messy half-kiss, so he does, greedily takes a gnash of lips and teeth.
Only Aziraphale has ever had such power over Crowley, to make him beg, to have him wrung out and throbbing in spent exhaustion and be able to persuade him to submit just once more to his tender attentions, to give him everything, his body and his love and all his aching, yearning soul. And Crowley has never in all their long acquaintance resisted him, in this or any other matter, even in their disagreements or the worst of their arguments he's always come back to him again. Aziraphale is everything to him, love and acceptance and a glimpse of paradise.
Oh, how good it is now, how perfect to thrust up between his thighs and feel the heat of his cock in his hand, to feel Aziraphale's thighs tense and tight around him as he works himself up and down, water spilling out over the edge of the tub but Crowley doesn't care, doesn't pay it a moment's attention. His mouth against Aziraphale's hair, pressing tender kisses, and his arm around him holding him as tight and close as possible when Aziraphale comes, trembling in his embrace. It makes Crowley gasp harshly against his hair, feeling his cock jerk in his grasp and watching him spend into the water, and Aziraphale--always so generous, always the very definition of kindness--does not neglect him, doesn't stop rocking over his cock. If he looks down he can see the flushed, taut head emerge between cream-pale thighs as he thrusts up, as Aziraphale moves up and down, and the sight makes him groan into the angel's hair, a desperate, guttural sound.
"You--angel, you--" Words almost fail, but Crowley heaves a tattered breath and tells him, "you're so lovely I can't stand it, so good, so perfect for me--" wanting him to know, to feel how Crowley loves him and lusts for him in equal measure. Shuddering, so close to release, he turns into the kiss Aziraphale twists back to give him, messy and wet and open-mouthed, and a few moments later he comes like this, moaning into Aziraphale's mouth, spilling greedily into the water. What a shame he can't see the mess of it on Aziraphale's thighs, watch it drip down his comely legs. But as always there are a thousand things Crowley wants from him, and how much shorter their time seems to get with each passing year.
Still clutching Aziraphale close, dropping his head when the kiss breaks and breathing heavily, he spends a little miracle to instantly dry all the water from the floor and purify the water in the bath, so that it's as clean and warm as it was when they first got into it. Hell won't notice anything so small and inconsequential.
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"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.
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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."
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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.”
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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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.”
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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.
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“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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"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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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"Yess," he hisses, before letting out a gasp and a moan. Yes to him being unfair, yes to the unspoken question of whether Aziraphale would allow Crowley to touch him any way he so pleased, yes to all of it and then some. "Any excuse to get your hair and your legs in my hands, dear," he confesses, words sweet as torched marshmallow.
Head cradled against Crowley's chest, Aziraphale turns his cheek to kiss the juncture of his shoulder, to lean up and get a little bit of his collar bone. And despite all the soap and the scented bath, underneath the layers of cypress and sea spray and water, his nose is drawn to that warm spice underneath, dark and bittersweet skin, just ever lightly sulfurous as the hint of a smoking match. And Aziraphale, helplessly wound with lust, gives into it, fingers sliding from their vicegrip on the side of the bath.
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There are a hundred things, a thousand things Crowley would like to do with him, but right now what he wants is for Aziraphale to lie back and let him do all the work: it's time Crowley were the one to get his hands all over him, to tease and torment him until he moans with pleasure. He grasps him tightly around the waist, not letting him move far as he shifts and seeks more contact, his mouth doing ardent, wicked things along his throat before he lets Aziraphale's head tip back to his shoulder, and his hand beneath the water working over Aziraphale's cock--thumb rubbing tenderly along the vein on the underside, palm rolling gently against his balls for a breath or two before he wraps his hand around him again and strokes.
Crowley noses at Aziraphale's hair, his brow as the angel turns toward him. "You don't know what it does to me, angel," he says a little breathlessly, "when you're rolling my stockings up my legs for me." Aziraphale always seem to love to hear him talk, to hear him murmur his fantasies and thoughts, so Crowley freely obliges. "And when you take my chin in your hand to apply my lipstick...mm, I love to get my mouth on you, see you marked up all red." His thumb rubs beneath the head of Aziraphale's cock, and he says raspily, "I could do that for you. I could suck you, my mouth all beautifully scarlet."
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He supposes it's why Crowley likes to be assured that Aziraphale is pleased; Aziraphale likes to be reassured that Crowley wants him, desires him more than anything and definitely more than is convenient. "Oh, darling," he starts, momentarily speechless. "We'd never leave for work. They'd grow suspicious. We'd get sacked." He tries to list off all the reasons why he hadn't indulged Crowley before, rolling up his stockings and then lifting them over his waist and letting the fabric drag across his back as he thrust into him. If Crowley should start to say anything, he could shut him up by snapping the garter. He would, if he were so wickedly inclined.
"I love rubbing away at my skin and finding the red still there," he says. "All of me, yours as you want it." He makes a very unintelligible noise as Crowley describes what it might be like to paint Aziraphale's cock with his lipstick, and he feels as if he might shatter. "You are unholy," he responds, hips still arcing into his touch anyway.
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Touching Aziraphale in this openly lustful way, hands and mouth greedy on him, letting himself murmur these secret and much-visited fantasies and desires into his ear is so perfect, feeling Aziraphale tremble and gasp and arch to his hand. Crowley closes his eyes, fighting for control. "That's right," he whispers, his throat feeling tight and the rest of him scorching with lust. "Unholy, incorrigible, depraved demon I am. And you are--so lovely--" He groans then, fingers tightening just a little, stroking thoroughly Aziraphale's cock from base to head. "So divine, delectable..." Crowley catches his mouth, brief but ravishing, tasting all that he can.
"After you've dressed me," he tells him, "and you've put up my hair and painted my lips, I'm going to go to my knees for you and suck your cock. And I won't let you return the favor until we come back from our afternoon out. So you can think about that, angel, while we're strolling through the meadow green."
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No, it wasn't as if Aziraphale had kept count over the years, but if he had, he would be sure that he walked away with more net orgasms than Crowley had, and that was just unacceptable. He isn't a selfish lover, no. He will save those moments for when he needed rescuing, because that was another thing that, although no count existed, he was sure his corporation had been saved many more times than the favor had been repaid.
"You just want me to be driven mad by the time we get home, enough to throw you on the bed and love you until you beg me for mercy," he accuses. "Would you allow me to reciprocate for you if I told you I'd do that anyway?" he asks, gently prying. He hopes that he has not left Crowley starved for attention that he should have to feel the need to do this. But then again, sometimes Aziraphale just called Crowley nice for the express purpose of being thrown up against a wall, goading him into a bit of rougher, possessive play.
It's times like these he wonders if they're at all any different, deep down.
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"Greedy angel," he returns, words whispered at his temple with nothing but love and aching desire in his voice. The thought of being thrown on the bed and being made to beg for mercy leaves him a little dazed, his own breath going to tatters now as his cock presses into the delectable round of Aziraphale's arse. "Let me, please..." Crowley moves against him as he strokes him relentlessly, and his cock catches between the angel's sweet thighs, nudging behind his balls, and he moans in abandon. Let him take this, if Aziraphale wants to reciprocate, indulging in every inch of him. Stroking his cock, his hips urging up, pressed between thighs so lovely they should be considered sinful if they didn't belong to an angel, Crowley so ardent for him, utterly devoted.
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Aziraphale squeezes his thighs together over Crowley's cock, rocking lightly up and down, soapy waves splashing around and gone uncared for while they attend to more pressing matters. He feels the pressure against his balls, and with his back bridged, holds onto the slippery tub for purchase. He speeds up, down onto Crowley's lap and up into his grip, eyes prickling and rolling back into his head as he continues.
It takes very little else but a little time for Aziraphale to come, streaking the soap-clouded water a milky white. His body shudders as wings do before they take flight, and he feels the freefall all around him, exhilarating and free.
He redoubles his efforts then, though his shins and knees are killing him on the porcelain. He thinks if anything, he'll want to turn around, face Crowley as he glides his cock in and out from between his thighs. He finds that if he bows his back far enough, he could possibly tip Crowley's chin enough for a messy half-kiss, so he does, greedily takes a gnash of lips and teeth.
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Oh, how good it is now, how perfect to thrust up between his thighs and feel the heat of his cock in his hand, to feel Aziraphale's thighs tense and tight around him as he works himself up and down, water spilling out over the edge of the tub but Crowley doesn't care, doesn't pay it a moment's attention. His mouth against Aziraphale's hair, pressing tender kisses, and his arm around him holding him as tight and close as possible when Aziraphale comes, trembling in his embrace. It makes Crowley gasp harshly against his hair, feeling his cock jerk in his grasp and watching him spend into the water, and Aziraphale--always so generous, always the very definition of kindness--does not neglect him, doesn't stop rocking over his cock. If he looks down he can see the flushed, taut head emerge between cream-pale thighs as he thrusts up, as Aziraphale moves up and down, and the sight makes him groan into the angel's hair, a desperate, guttural sound.
"You--angel, you--" Words almost fail, but Crowley heaves a tattered breath and tells him, "you're so lovely I can't stand it, so good, so perfect for me--" wanting him to know, to feel how Crowley loves him and lusts for him in equal measure. Shuddering, so close to release, he turns into the kiss Aziraphale twists back to give him, messy and wet and open-mouthed, and a few moments later he comes like this, moaning into Aziraphale's mouth, spilling greedily into the water. What a shame he can't see the mess of it on Aziraphale's thighs, watch it drip down his comely legs. But as always there are a thousand things Crowley wants from him, and how much shorter their time seems to get with each passing year.
Still clutching Aziraphale close, dropping his head when the kiss breaks and breathing heavily, he spends a little miracle to instantly dry all the water from the floor and purify the water in the bath, so that it's as clean and warm as it was when they first got into it. Hell won't notice anything so small and inconsequential.
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