Work Text:
The evening sky spread beyond the thick beige-brown tartan curtains dangling limply from their aged brass rod, swaying listlessly as the damp summer breeze played a tune of dance and cooled down the stale room. Aziraphale laid impeccably stiff, fairy-floss curls bathed in the golden light oozing down from the bedside lamp he had purchased at least a decade or five ago, pyjamas miraculously wrinkle-free as the mattress dimpled under his stout weight, head nestled in an embroidery pillowcase Crowley had no say in purchasing but secretly adored all the same.
It was like that most evenings now, cocooned in a world of their making, beyond the frightening, frigid threat of furious head offices, somewhere far in the English countryside, where the streets smelt of wildflowers and freshly baked bread, where cars and noise and the rumbling London bustle was a nothing but a distant mirage. Aziraphale had worried, at first, that Crowley would find himself blasé, his ever-moving, erratic nature found confined to old walls and steaming cups of tea; but as always his friend had surprised him, blossomed into a wicked gardener, spending most afternoons basking in the warmth of the century-old conservatory, blaming the drag of the hours on the disobedience of plant life but never on the ophidian attraction to heat.
Sometimes, they’d walk down to the shore, feel the sand between their pallid toes, intertwine shy fingers and promenade hidden behind the protective heft of jurassic cliffs, idly talking about everything except the future, too enthralled by the irreality of their current existence to jinx it all away with hope. Too afraid to dare touch too much, to make their dalliance real with words, to let the Universe into their unfathomable secret, to allow themselves to feel the weight of it between their palms for it would be too painful to find it lacking. To have it lost.
And typically, Crowley’s nose bridge and shoulders would burn red, freckles blooming angrily where the sun offended the flesh, and he would rant about the angel’s antiquated swimwear with flailing limbs, about the girth of the straw hat that seemed to create an orbit of empty space between them that he seemed unwilling to withstand.
“Good Lord, Crowley, I have told you you ought to apply suncream or at the very least miracle yourself safe,” Aziraphale scolded now, in the privacy of their chamber, book resting open face down on his belly, stretching an arm to reach for the creaking drawer of the small wooden bedside table, ignoring the grunted complaints emanating from the creature now perched on the edge of the mattress, covered in a sleeveless black shirt and flowy linen trousers, the rouge of his shoulders glowing angrily against the dark tones.
Crowley grumbled under his breath, steadying himself with two hands planted on the supple mattress by his hips, bracing for the cold, electric feeling of aloe vera on angelic palms, the wide stretch of strong fingers over his burnt flesh. He could admit to the somewhat purposeful disregarding of sunblock, or even the conscious forgetfulness of humanity in a body that never felt very human at all, because he knew Aziraphale would fuss, would apply the gelatinous, fragrant substance on his skin, would press gently with wide digits, would ignite every single cell in his corporation like a red-phosphorus match to dry kindling. And just like the pair of times before, the undulating movement of the angel’s weight on old springs filled his stomach with anticipation, the dull thud of an old book dropped on the bedside table, the sharp pop of the plastic lid twisting his innards and making him breathless.
“You really don’t have to bother–“ Crowley began, rudely interrupted by his own sharp intake of breath when cool gel dripped slowly onto his shoulders.
“Oh it's really not a bother at all, dear boy,” Aziraphale soothed, now sitting with crossed legs behind Crowley’s lean frame. He admired it briefly, as often before, a fleeting glance to take in the enticing dip of his waist under the tight cotton, the convex width of his slim hips, the endless stretch of dotted arms, taut tricep muscles flexing and clenching as Aziraphale’s fingers began to make contact. Aziraphale’s eyes locked onto the spreading, gleaming slick over reddened skin, refracting the comforting light of the bedside lamp, covering him like a scrumptious cherry-red glaze, and he felt his tongue moisten his lips, like a ravenous beast threatening to pounce.
But he did no such thing, of course, because angels are pure and contained, repressed down to their marrows, behind constraining, tight collars and false smiles. And angels did not crave, did not desire, did not feel the coiling tightness under their navel at the proximity of another, of a demon of all things, a being God Herself deemed unworthy, unclean.
But how wrong She was.
Because Crowley was the most magnificent, bewitching creature She ever created, put on this Earth to torture a hopeless Principality, made to the image of Temptation herself, perfect from the tips of limp garnet hairs cascading behind his ears to the darling crow’s feet at the edges of his rounded eyes. Kind and as soft as he was cantankerous, when he crouched by the wilting flowers under the kitchen sill, delicately caressing them with long fingers, dripping sweet words into their ears when he thought nobody could hear. When he brought Aziraphale a steaming brew, languidly stretching over the back of the sofa in silent invitation to come back to bed mid-morning, where the world was quiet and tender, and there was nothing but the shy, faint touch of scaly feet against heavenly skin.
Crowley shuddered and tensed under the delicious pressure of Aziraphale’s fingers, unconsciously leaning back towards the touch, pathetically starved, castigating his wretched nature in the eyes of an innocent ritual. He hummed silently, head dropping limp to provide more manoeuvring room to gentle hands, exposing the long stretch of his tendons, the reddened skin at the base of his neck.
“You did quite a number on yourself, darling,” Aziraphale broke the charged silence, noticing how his voice bounced off Crowley’s insulted flesh as he had inevitably been drawn nearer, pulled by the ineffable magnetism of his black-tea body wash and sandalwood cologne, watching it erupt in gooseflesh as the warm breath cooled the aloe vera gel.
“‘S fine, angel, no need to fuss,”
Aziraphale tutted.
“I find it rather difficult to not fuss over you, I admit,” the response came quietly, as a cool nose-tip nuzzled the scorched skin of Crowley’s nape.
“You what?” Crowley answered gingerly, eyes fluttering close at the euphoric sensation of Aziraphale’s lips ghosting his neck.
“It’s just that– well, you said so yourself didn’t you, we’ve known each other a long time, I hardly know how to exist without you.”
The words lingered, loomed heavy in the quiet evening air, the stale heat of summer.
“Angel–“ Crowley croaked, choked, like the admission wrapped tightly around his throat, craning his neck so he could observe Aziraphale’s shape in his peripheral sight. It had been months since, since he had cracked his ribs open and thrown his heart at Aziraphale’s feet, had begged for him not to leave, not to step on it like a wounded insect. They had not really talked about it since, Aziraphale’s silent acquiescence and choice to stay after a single, clumsy slotting of mouths had been enough. Aziraphale’s silence had always been enough, for he spoke of his affection not in words, but in gentle glances, in dimpled smiles, in soft, glistening eyes.
But when he spoke it meant that much more, it meant the melting away of dutiful fear, like Crowley was worth it, worth the risk, worth an eternity spent in Hell, worth coal-black wings and a life of disdain.
“I don’t think I ever properly told you just how frightfully sorry I am. To think I almost left you behind. What kind of a– friend would I be if I had been so blinded.” Aziraphale confessed, dropping a chaste kiss on aloe vera’d skin.
“Friend, is it now.” Crowley jested, the faint grin audible in this voice.
“Oh, be quiet, fiend. Not like you are much better with verbalising such– such matters.“ Aziraphale lifted his head, glancing at Crowley’s side eye with a petulant expression. “Though I must say, group of the two of us was an excellent dance around the subject.” he smiled.
Crowley frowned, hopping from the bed like his bottom grew springs, leaving a slightly alarmed angel to topple somewhat back, balancing his weight on open palms behind an angled back.
Crowley took in the image for a moment, a soldier of Heaven splayed across his bed, soft belly framed enchantingly by oatmeal two-piece pyjamas, cornsilk hairs fanning softly from under the v-shaped neckline of his top. How beautiful he looked then, eyes open round and ocean-grey, glimmering under the low light, pupils wide in expectation and anxiety, legs crossed and plentiful, just supple enough to bring a demon to his knees.
“Did I offend you, I assure you that was not the intention, I was merely poking fun you see–“ Aziraphale rambled, before quieting himself as he observed Crowley’s amused expression. “You’re a right old bastard, you know that.” he added with a defeated sigh.
“Bastard?” Crowley cried in mock offence, snapping his shoulders pale. “Not very heavenly of you, is it now.” He shook his head, dropping a bony knee onto the bed so he could approach the angel once more.
“I wouldn’t call much of what has been going on the past months very heavenly. Perhaps even years.” Aziraphale admitted with a half-hearted shrug.
“Is that regret I hear, angel?” Crowley joked, kneeling completely on the bed, hands spread open over the dark linen covering his thighs, honey-gold eyes observing Aziraphale keenly.
“If you think I would regret any of it then I do fear you don’t know me very well at all.” he responded, straightening his back once more, lightly dusting the tip of his nose over Crowley’s. “And I rather think you should be quiet and do it again right about now.”
“You’re gonna have to be more specific than that, I do loads of things. Oodles of ‘em.” Crowley teased, though his heart raced with the force of spooked horses, thundering hooves behind his sternum, pushing blood through his corporation so quickly he could hardly hear beyond the rushing waves. He moistened his lips with a curious tongue, reminiscing on the almond milk he had tasted on Aziraphale’s months ago, on the hitched breath pushed out of his chest, the tentative hands holding his shoulders. The prospect of repetition had plagued him, had haunted his thoughts even when sleeping, every time Aziraphale pushed a piece of cake into his mouth, every time his tongue sought a rogue spot of strawberry jelly.
Aziraphale’s eyes eagerly observed how Crowley’s tongue made his lips pink, legs prickling with the excitement of it, with the desire to taste the faint afternoon coffee in his mouth. Gosh he wanted it, he wanted it all, he wanted to grab onto those red hairs and never let go, to brush them away from the most marvellous of faces and taste the ocean brine on his skin. He had wanted it a long time, all of it, the afternoon promenades, the shared meals, the faint snores of a sleeping Crowley, the human romance of it all. He didn’t want a friend, he wanted more, he wanted to pour out his soul and mix it with Crowley’s, he wanted to become metaphysically one, to chant how beautiful and worthy he was until he was believed.
And though Crowley was overwrought he couldn’t resist it, not when Aziraphale’s gaze lifted to meet slit pupils, when his eyebrows knitted in a plea, when his lips looked pink and delicious and lonely. So he did it again, as he would have any time he was allowed, clasping a large hand on Aziraphale’s cheek, pads of his fingers digging into the softness of it, slotting clumsy mouths together with a sigh.
Aziraphale inhaled loudly, eyes screwing shut as his hands hovered by his chest, floating in the empty space between magnetised bodies. He hesitated for a moment, motionless, enjoying the tough press of Crowley’s mouth, the faint roughness of stubble on his cupid’s bow. But as though his veins filled with courage, like his corporation no longer belonged to him, like he was puppeteered by the fondness in his heart, his hands moved to grasp at Crowley’s chest, delighting in the cotton feel of his top, lips parting in an involuntary beckoning that was taken immediately, groaning quietly as a long tongue breached his mouth.
They stayed like that for a while, parted by the length of Aziraphale’s crossed legs, gasping and sighing into each other’s dancing tongues, hands scrambling erratically to find purchase, to feel, to ground. Aziraphale’s panted breaths filled the room as Crowley detached from his mouth, a long thumb spreading wet saliva on his swollen lower lip, nose trailing softly down his jawline. He began spreading open kisses there, leaving the skin brilliant with his mouth, succumbing to the urge to give it a tentative pinch of teeth.
“Oh my goodness–“ Aziraphale gasped quietly, head tilting instinctively to offer the length of his neck to curious teeth, sounding both alarmed and aghast at his own reaction.
“Huh,” Crowley interjected against wet skin, watching the constellations of rushing blood behind closed eyelids, sounding genuinely surprised. “Who’d have reckoned you’d like that.”
Aziraphale felt the apples of his face prickle with heat at the rasp in that voice, the filthy realisation of Crowley’s words a dagger to his puritanical soul. But Crowley was right, as he often was – the barely-there pain of sharp teeth against his neck was enthralling, made his whole body tense on the inside, made a tightly coiled feeling boil behind his navel, new and uncharted.
And because Crowley was hardly more than someone who lived to please Aziraphale, whose greatest satisfaction was elicited by a happy, satisfied, and often well-fed angel, he did it again, trapping a piece of his skin between white teeth, harder this time, suckling on it experimentally, delighting in how it made the angel tremble and sigh. It was intoxicating to see a spreading purple-hue against the porcelain expanse of his neck, like a mark, like a flag-post claiming it; claiming Aziraphale as his own, tainting him, staining him with the closeness of a demon, cracking his prim exterior with the obscenity of it all, of a shared life, of happiness, of hedonistic pleasures and confessed thoughts.
Aziraphale felt dizzy, like the room spun against the Earth, like he was floating above the clouds that felt like nothingness under his weight. He finally reached out, a hand like a lifeline, slithering up Crowley’s neck and intertwining with the cranberry hairs sprouting from his nape, pulling him closer, shivering at the silent sound of satisfaction pushed from the demon’s lungs.
But when he felt a spindly hand slide down from his collarbone to the first button at his top he froze, congealed in a moment of panic, heat rising to colour his cheeks and the conches of his ears with merciless speed.
“Wait– Crowley slow down, I haven’t–“ he hated how small he sounded, how shameful, how unsure. But Crowley was a demon after all, experienced and educated on all matters sinful, and he wasn’t. He was an angel, stuck in his ways, wearing the same coat for centuries on end, broad at the middle from millennia of delectable feasts, afraid and pitiful.
“What?” Crowley lifted his head, lips swollen and glimmering, eyebrows lifted in consternation. “D’you want to stop? I’ll leave you to your book if you want, I didn’t mean to push.”
Aziraphale sighed, unable to fight off a feeble smile at Crowley’s preoccupation, at his ever present kindness.
“No, it’s not that,” he began sheepishly, lowering his hands to his lap, observing the pool of digits anxiously. “I am just… Inexperienced, you see. All the dalliances I’ve ever lived, so to speak, have been through the pages of Jane Austen’s books.”
A moment of silence ensued, nestling like a heavy rock in Aziraphale’s chest, and just when he was about to get up, to flee the situation like he often did, as has been his go-to for centuries, especially when it came to the dangerous proximity to the open volcano that was loving Crowley, a familiar, cackling laugh echoed from nearby.
“What are you–” Aziraphale lifted his gaze, half offended, half shocked, mouth agape in mortification. “You are laughing?”
Crowley covered his own mouth with a hand, shaking his head as if to shoo away his own amusement.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just. You with your little,” he gestured, a silly sort of wiggle that surely meant to represent Aziraphale’s innocent and surprised look. “And you think– you are sitting there all fussed thinking what, that I know what I’m doing?”
Aziraphale blew raspberries, crossing arms over his chest.
“Well, you are a demon, it’s not a ridiculous assumption.”
“Hey, your lot is the one that came up with human reproduction and all of that, this is on you.” Crowley wiggled an accusatory digit in Aziraphale’s direction.
“With ribs,” the angel corrected petulantly. “The rest I’m afraid they invented all by themselves.”
Crowley scoffed, plopping down on his side of the bed like his corporation dissolved his bones, arms outstretched in invitation, gazing up at the cracked ceiling absentmindedly.
“And they go and do all sorts of stupid things over it. Blow up their whole lives and whatnot. I reckon that must mean it's a hell of an experience.”
Aziraphale sighed, more relaxed now, tension evaporating from his shoulders as he laid himself beside Crowley, fairy-floss curls resting gently upon the demon’s thin wrist on his pillow.
“I don't think it ought to be hellish. Not if it's with someone you care about. I always thought of it like an act of love.”
“Of course you did.” Crowley responded sarcastically.
“Do you not? Not even a little?” Aziraphale observed Crowley’s profile, how his jaw clenched at the question, how his nose crooked beautifully down the middle, how the shadows cast by the golden light emphasised his gorgeous features.
“I dunno. Never did it. Can’t know how I’d feel about it.”
“But if– well, were we to give it a proper try I mean, would you?” he sounded frail now, like a wounded rabbit laying broken by the road, eyes closing to not observe the scorn on Crowley’s face.
There was silence then, until the moaning of old mattress springs as Crowley’s weight shifted, as he moved about, and soon enough Aziraphale felt the heat radiating off his body, smelt the delectable scent of his skin, felt the wet warmth of a pair of lips on his cheek. A kiss, then another by the edge of his jaw, another at the soft lobe of his ear, another just where his pulse began thrumming again, under the skin of his neck. Aziraphale knew Crowley inside out, would know him just by the cadence of his steps, by the sway of his hips, by the way his atoms shifted when he was around. And he knew Crowley was courageous, had bared his soul once before under the threat of being abandoned, knew he wouldn't be willing to put his vulnerability in words so soon. Not when he still felt his world trembling under his feet, the threat of the life he’d always wanted being given to him just to be taken all at once. So he knew what those pecks meant, meant everything at all, meant six thousand years of silent ‘I love you’s, meant a resounding yes to Aziraphale’s question.
So Aziraphale shifted himself, rolling on his back so he’d be laid like a feast for Crowley’s satisfaction, hummed when bony fingers expertly popped the first button, when garnet hairs tickled his chin as he descended to kiss the exposed column of his neck.
And soon enough, Crowley had plucked the pyjama top from the angel’s body like petals off a wilting flower, exposing the pale broadness of his chest, the delicious softness of his belly, the strength of his arms. Crowley wanted to drown in it, to feel every inch and map it all with his own corporation, spreading a long palm over a round stomach, appreciating the cushion of it under his fingers, leaving a trail of kisses wherever he could find lonely flesh.
Aziraphale’s hands scrambled for purchase on the tight, sleeveless cotton that hid Crowley’s frame, pulling at its hem, edging it upwards in a quiet plea. Crowley balanced his weight between the angel’s ample thighs, his knees dimpling the mattress when he lifted his torso, arms stretched as Aziraphale tugged at his top, pulling it off of him in one, clumsy move. He was going to miracle it folded, neat and tidy by the chest of drawers at the end of the room, but Crowley’s perceptiveness caught on in an instant, snagging it out of his fisted hands and tossing it haphazardly onto the wooden floors.
“You’re not wasting a miracle on a top, Aziraphale.” Crowley scolded with a shake of his hand, gazing down at a decidedly ‘busted’ angel.
“I am not on a miracle count anymore,” Aziraphale excused, lower lip pouting, lifting apologetic hands up to his naked chest.
Crowley raised his brows, laying himself back down shakily on a half-bare angel, elbows stationed firmly on either side of his head, eyes fluttering shut momentarily as his hardened lap pressed harshly against a plush pelvis.
“Fair enough, but um–” Crowley cleared his throat, opening heavy lids, striving to calm his eager corporation by ignoring how it pulsed, how Aziraphale gasped when he felt the hardness press against his skin. “Seems like a waste. Better things to miracle and all.”
“As per example?” Aziraphale spoke, pale eyelashes fanning over his cheeks as his eyes inevitably fell closed again, heels digging into the old mattress as he lifted his knees, pressing Crowley between them, keeping him in place as he arched his spine, pushing himself further into those scorching lips that now mouthed at ridge of his collarbone.
Crowley grumbled intelligibly, busy leaving wet snail trails of saliva up Aziraphale’s neck, brain echoing you go too fast for me Crowley, said so hurtfully and so recently, leaving him too hesitant to continue without explicit beckoning, despite the slick wetness in his trousers, the persistent throbbing of an over excited body.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale spoke through gritted teeth after a while, nails digging into the freckled skin of Crowley’s arms, eyes tightly shut, knees clamped hard around bony hips.
“What? Should I stop?” Crowley’s head popped up from the nook of Aziraphale’s neck, strands of liquid ruby glued to his forehead with sweat, cheeks red and lips bruise-swollen.
“No, no, not at all. It’s just–” Aziraphale’s eyes opened listlessly, observing Crowley’s expression like he was reading dark headlines off his face. “You beautiful creature, you’ve made me rather… eager. I don't wish to wait any longer, I just,” he swallowed hard, one hand coming to caress a demonic cheek, smiling lazily as Crowley nuzzled into it. “I do really want you to continue.”
Crowley’s brain took a moment to buffer, to comprehend the weight of the words uttered by heavenly lips, lips that his tongue knew the taste of, off of which he’d swallowed muffled moans. It seemed absolutely surreal, that an angel laid under him, his angel, half-bare and desperate, all his efforts focused on remaining composed yet fraying around the edges, curls sagging damp by sweat prickling at his hairline.
“Oh you mean– oh fuck, yeah, ‘course angel. Anything.” Crowley tripped on his words, his own euphoric arousal making his limbs tremble as he lifted himself on one palm, looking down to wrap thin digits around Aziraphale’s elastic waistband. One short gaze up was met with a determined and demure nod, and just like that he was tugging down the remaining piece of Aziraphale’s attire, exposing him like a forbidden treat, like a blooming flower baring its core. How beautiful he looked, wet and flushed, body jolting at any sensorial input. And how unbearably wonderful it was that it was just for Crowley’s eyes, that he was given such an opportunity, to know Aziraphale in every way, just the two of them buried in a creaking bed, covered in mouth-shaped bruises and trails left behind by excited nails.
“Please,” Aziraphale implored, hand cupping a lean cheek, ensuring Crowley’s eyes remained focused on his face, forehead nuzzling his. “I want to know how it feels. How… you feel.”
Crowley wasn't proud of it but he whined, eyes closing harshly as his hand worked panicked to remove his own trousers, long legs kicking to speed up an ungainly process.
“Fuck, don’t say such things, or this will be over right bloody now.” he said between gritted teeth, not angrily but rather distressed, like he was walking a tightrope and expected to fall into the abyss at any moment. “Now is the time for a miracle, c’mon, I can’t fucking focus. Help me.” Crowley spoke, agitated, lifting his hand and waving it to clue Aziraphale into his meaning.
And Aziraphale’s brain was rather foggy, covered in a blanket of bliss and anticipation that made it hard to concentrate, but after a few seconds he understood, snapping slick down from the Heavens so it’d cover Crowley’s large hand, perhaps too much or perhaps just enough, making it glimmer under the Edison lightbulb like a sugary treat.
As soon as he felt his hand become humid Crowley hummed, bringing it down to his own stubborn erection with haste, coating himself with it with a shaken breath, arm trembling noticeably by Aziraphale’s head.
“You’re shaking.” Aziraphale noted stupidly, ogling the bewitching creature atop him half-lidded, mouth parted in expectation, heels digging further into the bed for better angling.
“I’m fine, so fine, me.” Crowley grumbled, adjusting his hips to attempt a good enough angle, lowering himself onto his forearm, clean fingers tangling with blond upturned curls. “Never better.”
Aziraphale couldn't help but smile, the all encompassing bliss of loving Crowley bubbling in his chest, an effervescent feeling of fondness that threatened to overflow, to bring prickling wetness to his eyes. How honoured he felt, to be the one making Crowley tremble, to leave him so flushed and desperate, gasping for air with a heaving chest.
Crowley looked up, a last dive for permission that quickly came in the form of a nod, and he nodded then to himself, more so an attempt to psych himself up, to inject himself with one last bit of valour to proceed.
He was nervous, of course he was, but he knew Aziraphale must be too, and somehow, it wasn't lonely then, to be the only demon that was just that little bit good, that little bit human, because he had his angel, who understood without words, who shared the strange existence of a jobless entity.
So Crowley’s hips thrust forward, slowly, one hand grasping at the base of his arousal to keep himself in the right track, head cuddling into the cradling slope of Aziraphale’s neck, breaching the angel’s body in a painfully slow movement, mouth opening against the cotton pillowcase in silent rapture.
Aziraphale felt the burn of it, though unlike it happens with people he had miracled himself ready, the delicious stretch of Crowley’s hardness entering his body a rhapsodic thing, making every limb of his tingle with the elation of it.
It felt good, hellishly good, perhaps heavenly so, as Crowley’s pelvis became flush with broad buttocks, as his nails dug into Aziraphale’s scalp, as their bellies slotted together like the angles and convex curves were created to do just that.
“Oh– Oh my god–” Aziraphale whispered quietly, like a prayer, depositing two splayed hands on shoulderblades so defined they resembled wings.
“You’re so warm,” Crowley admitted quietly, half into the duck feather pillow, voice resounding huffed by Aziraphale’s ear, cursing his reptilian nature for how much more delightful it made the experience of fiery warmth.
A second of pause to steady themselves was necessary – they were currently inhabiting human bodies, after all, with almost all their limitations –, but soon Crowley’s bony hips began working, short bursts of movement that pushed satisfied sighs out of Aziraphale’s lungs every time.
“You feel so good, angel, bollocks you really do,” Crowley said as if it was a castigation, like he cursed Aziraphale for making him feel that way, for making his eyes see the rosy colours of the morning dew, for opening a door to an existence that he would've never known otherwise.
Aziraphale groaned at the praise, one hand sliding down to scratch at the dimples at the base of Crowley’s spine, another reaching to grab the hairs growing from his nape, pulling him closer, like he wanted him to crawl under his skin and become one inseparable organism never to exist alone.
“Oh dear, oh my love, keep going,” Aziraphale babbled quietly, incoherently, eyes widening with shocked pleasure as Crowley grabbed one of his thighs, pushing it against his chest with rough strength, his other hand tasting the expanse of chest, thumb caressing a pink nipple with careless affection.
“Open your mouth,” Crowley demanded, now that both his hands were occupied, observing Aziraphale’s satisfied confusion with keen eyes, diving in for a sloppy wet kiss when those plump lips parted in invitation. A groan from Aziraphale was enough to make Crowley’s breathing quicken, tongues twirling imperfectly against each other, filling the room with the filthy wet sounds of eager mouths and hips.
Soon enough the coiled tension at Aziraphale’s core worsened, and he felt himself scratch at a vaguely familiar door never before opened in company, and his spine tensed with the force of it, with the unstoppable tsunami strength that threatened to overcome him.
“Crowley oh my god– oh I think I’m going– please would you move a bit faster–” Aziraphale cooed into Crowley’s open mouth, and like a fine lover the demon obliged, bucking his hips harshly against a plump behind, nails digging into the thigh he held by a sweat-slick chest.
With a garbled grunt Aziraphale’s body convulsed, pearl-white droplets painting his torso, staining down Crowley’s belly like starburst. He felt himself tighten around Crowley, who let out a pathetically darling whine, whose hips stuttered one last time, releasing sixty decades of suppression into maddening heat, comforting unlike his cold satin sheets at midnight.
And just like that the tightness of limbs evaporated, and cooling bodies collapsed atop each other with satisfied sighs, breathing resuming a tranquil rhythm as the stars danced beyond muntin windows with peaceful brilliance.
“I do.” Crowley stated hoarsely after a while, as if Aziraphale could read his mind, as if nothing had transpired since the last time they’d spoken.
“You do what, darling?” Aziraphale questioned lazily, fingers dusting caresses on a dotted shoulder, now completely covered in scratches but not the redness of a sunburn.
“I feel it too. Like you said. An act of whatever you called it.”
“I believe I called it an act of love.” Aziraphale teased.
“Yeah. That.”