They haven’t done it quite this way before. Aziraphale laid out naked and willing before him isn’t exactly novel at this point, although still surprising, but what’s new is the addition of his wings, gloriously corporeal, spread out on his sheets (which had been cream earlier but now are a deep forest green, for the aesthetics).
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, voice quavering, “I’m really not sure if ¬–”
He breaks off with a gasp when Crowley gets up his courage at last and fans his fingers across the tender juncture between his primary and secondary coverts. They both freeze.
After a few seconds, Aziraphale laughs weakly. “Well, the world didn’t end.”
Crowley keeps his hand absolutely still, resting lightly at the center of Aziraphale’s wing, letting them both acclimate. His feathers are warm, and… he’d say sinfully soft, except, it’s the opposite of that.
“You really haven’t…” Crowley murmurs. As if Crowley has. He just wants to bask in the wonder that he’s allowed. Aziraphale’s voice is low and indulgent.
“You know I haven’t.”
Calling Aziraphale’s wing white is like calling a kingfisher blue. His wing is a deep, luscious, rich colour, pearly and complicated. It catches the light in interesting ways, and almost seems to glow.
“You can…” Aziraphale clears his throat. “You can move now, if you like.”
“Right! Right. Moving. Trying new things.”
He barely knows where to start. He had a couple of ideas, he’s sure he did, but they’ve flown right out of his head now, with Aziraphale looking at him with a mixture of terror and bafflement, the way he does when they do something he very, very much feels something about, but isn’t sure if he likes yet. Crowley gently runs his fingertip along the smooth central rachis of one of his larger pinion feathers, close to where his wing disappears beneath his shoulder. It’s bare and smooth, almost waxy, an anchor to the fine, interlocked threads of white that fan outward from it.
“Can you feel that?”
“Not… not really.” A tiny frown of concentration wrinkles Aziraphale’s forehead. “Tickles a little.”
“Makes sense. No nerves in there. How about…”
He runs his finger back up towards the root of the feather, where it disappears into fluffy down. When he dares to run his fingernail along the ridge where the feather buries itself in warm, unseen skin, Aziraphale squeaks, his whole wing twitches and his shoulder jerks right off the bed. Crowley freezes.
“Ah… too much, I think. Maybe… more, but less? At the same time?”
“Like this?” Crowley spreads his fingers, gathers his courage, and strokes Aziraphale’s wing. Aziraphale’s forehead clears and his head thumps back onto the pillow.
“Ah. Yes. Like that.”
It’s like learning to play an instrument. They’re in totally new territory, and every press and flex of his hands against Aziraphale’s wingfeathers elicits new reactions. It’s intoxicating. He’s conservative at first. A flat-palmed stroke along the primaries along the upper ridge of his wings gets pleased noises. Running his fingers lightly across the shorter, more flexible secondaries gets a shivering sigh. Tickling the soft, fluffy tertiaries close to the center of Aziraphale’s back gets a full-body twitch and his hand slapped away.
“If all you’re going to do is tickle me-mmph.”
When Crowley thinks back over the last six thousand years, he wishes they’d done more kissing. But this is familiar now, and their mouths move lazily together, sparking pleasure. He runs his tongue along Aziraphale’s lower lip and, carefully, carefully, sinks his fingers into the lush softness of his wing. Aziraphale goes bowstring-tight underneath him.
“What does it feel like?” Crowley murmurs against his lips.
“Ah – it’s – it’s like – you remember when we tried that thing, with the, ah, the vibrating attachment, and you turned it up to the highest setting and put it right against – and I accidentally kneed you -”
“And split my lip, yes, I remember that vividly, angel – it feels like that? Really?”
Crowley pulls back and stares at him. Aziraphale is flushed pink. “Well, not exactly like that, but it’s very… sensitive.”
This bears closer investigation. Crowley takes the scenic route, kissing his way down Aziraphale’s throat, with a jaunt across his chest and a detour around the nipple that has Aziraphale squirming in exactly the way he likes.
After only a second’s hesitation (of all the things he’s imagined doing to Aziraphale, this is the one he’s buried deepest), he puts his mouth on his wing.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale yelps. “Oh -” he whimpers when Crowley hums into the silky-firm warmth of his feathers, and the noises he makes when Crowley flickers his tongue against the root of a primary feather aren’t words. His feathers smell like angelic things, sunny days and wildflowers and infinite kindness. The high sound that leaks out of Aziraphale when Crowley experiments with digging his fingers a little more firmly into the muscle beneath the largest feathers is decidedly unangelic. Crowley’s skin is burning.
“Turn over.” Crowley isn’t sure when his voice got quite that hoarse, but it certainly has an effect in rapidity of response. The manoeuvre does result in a faceful of feathers, but he embraces the opportunity to rub his cheek against the side of Aziraphale’s wing to the sound of breathless praise. He pulls back and, oh, yes, a very nice picture. It was definitely worth turning the sheets green. Aziraphale’s naked arse and thighs are round and soft, flushed pink in contrast to the blazing transcendence of his wings, the tender strip of skin between them Crowley’s next target. He trails kisses down, down, stroking lightly across the backs of Aziraphale’s wings with both hands, now, and Aziraphale moans and squirms against the sheets and breathes, “Don’t – oh, Crowley, it’s so – oh, you shouldn’t –”, a litany Crowley hasn’t heard in a while which thrills him with delight and bitterness entwined, makes him want to bite.
“You like thisss, angel,” Crowley murmurs, and the hint of a hiss makes Aziraphale moan louder, makes it even better. He licks a path up along the nubs of his vertebrae and sinks his fingers into Aziraphale’s soft wings, presses his erection up against Aziraphale’s arse and lets him feel what he could have next, fucked against the mattress with Crowley’s hands touching him where nobody else ever has, plundering his last forbidden places.
“Oh Go - goodness, oh heaven, oh fuck,” Aziraphale moans hilariously into the pillow.
“Could you come just from me touching your wings, angel?” Even just saying it makes Crowley’s stomach turn to water, not entirely from arousal.
Aziraphale writhes. “I don’t – oh, I don’t – it’s so, why is it so -”
Crowley’s thought processes fizzled out some time ago, and it’s an effort to consider the mechanics. Aziraphale, slightly to his annoyance, gets there, or somewhere, before him, and his wing muscles flex under Crowley’s fingers for an intoxicating second before he’s writhing and twisting to be face up under Crowley again.
“I thought maybe,” he gasps, “like this, if you don’t mind,” and grinds his cunt up against Crowley’s hip, folds slick and wet and eager. Aziraphale sometimes has trouble deciding what genitals to manifest, the way he has trouble deciding between equally delicious items on a menu. No trouble today, apparently.
“I don’t mind, darling,” Crowley grins. He slides a hand between them appreciatively, and Aziraphale makes a breathless noise and squirms against his fingers.
“Oh, don’t tease,” he breathes. Crowley is suddenly desperate to get inside him, whole body crying out for it.
“Yeah?” he says breathlessly, “like this?” and he slides his fingers over Aziraphale’s wing feathers and his cock into his cunt in one easy thrust. The sound Aziraphale makes nearly discorporates him.
They are flush together, panting, slick with human juices and throbbing with human sensations, but Aziraphale is almost bursting at the seams, angelic nature seeped into body, and Crowley is touching the juncture where Aziraphale becomes something else. He loves it, wants it with a hunger he doesn’t want to look at too closely. He fucks him with smooth, powerful strokes just the way he likes, instead, enjoying the way Aziraphale takes him so greedily. Then, heart in his throat, he braces against the mattress and runs the fingers of his right hand through the feathers of Aziraphale’s wing. Aziraphale’s moan jumps upward about two octaves and he surges upward. All of a sudden his legs are around Crowley’s waist and his wings (his wings) are curled upward around Crowley’s shoulders, holding him in place, a cage of white. Startled, Crowley stutters, “Fuck,” fingers dragging mercilessly through Aziraphale’s sensitive tertiaries, and Aziraphale’s teeth sink into his shoulder. Time doesn’t stop, exactly, but it blurs; Aziraphale comes and comes around him as Crowley fucks him in a kind of frenzy, drinking in his stifled, frantic moans.
Somewhere in there is a plea, “Can I, oh, God, Crowley, let me,” and Crowley is conscious of all of Aziraphale pressing against him inside and out, asking let me in. Crowley shudders against the weight of it, the radiance, and gasps, “Yes.” Then Aziraphale is in him, forcing him impossibly open, rough and perfect, filling him up with love so divine it burns, and Crowley’s whole being convulses. Caught in the reverberations, Crowley’s body comes inside Aziraphale and he barely notices, battered by wave after wave of pleasure.
The earthly sound reminds him that he has a body, and he becomes aware that he’s slumped on the angel’s chest, still twitching. He’s still full of Aziraphale, drunk on him, and he wants him to stay inside him, wants more of him, wants all that obliterating force turned on him like a divine hammer. At that thought, Aziraphale pulls back into himself immediately, leaving the taste of gentle rebuke in his wake. Crowley slumps down onto him with a whimper and only a little regret.
They lie together for a while, deliciously warm and sticky. Aziraphale eventually unwraps his wings from around Crowley, then wriggles and stretches until his back pops. Crowley clings. Their beings, larger than their bodies but anchored in them, are still soft at the edges in the afterglow. Hesitantly at first, Crowley sort of just leans against Aziraphale, but when his darkness dips into the surface of Aziraphale’s light, like two nebulae brushing up against each other, Aziraphale doesn’t shrink back. Sensations dance there, shared, both of them careful not to impose. Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s bone-deep satisfaction, and the way a spot just under his chin is itching but he doesn’t want to move. Crowley scratches it for him, then cleans them up just as Aziraphale starts to get uncomfortable with being so sticky, and is rewarded with affection shimmering between them where their souls are touching, and a physical glass of water in Aziraphale’s physical hand before Crowley even notices that his mouth is dry. It’s so easy to give each other the small things bodies like. It seemed so complicated for such a long time.
“We should have talked about that, before,” Aziraphale says eventually, as he drags his fingers through Crowley’s hair. Crowley, tucked against him, feels as though his spine has melted. For a confused second, he thinks he might be a snake, but, he reasons, he does still have hair, ergo, human form. It’s probably fine.
“My… coming into you, like that.”
“Well, yes I did like it, very much, but –”
Crowley rouses himself from his liquid state long enough to growl, “Angel, I liked it.”
“Oh. Good. But you were hardly in a position to –”
Aziraphale presses a kiss to his forehead.
One of Crowley’s hands is still absently tangled in Aziraphale’s primaries. He runs his finger along one silken feather, and Aziraphale sighs.
“Verdict on the wing stuff?”
“A little too rich for my blood, I think.”
“Special occasions only.”
“Lots of variations to try, though.”
“You could fuck me, next time.”
Aziraphale smacks him lightly on the shoulder. “Tempter.”
“Ow.” A memory strikes him. “You bit me, angel.”
“I’m terribly sorry.”
“No, you’re not. You fucking loved it.”
He rubs a feather between his fingers, and Aziraphale shudders beneath him, then pulls his wings back out of reality with a snap.
“Watch it, you nearly took my fingers off.”
“Sorry. Too sensitive.”
Crowley licks his collarbone. Aziraphale’s fingers wander across his back.
“Would you like… I could do the same for you, some time?”
Crowley shrugs. “S’not the same.”
“You did say, but even so...”
Crowley pulls his wings into existence. After a long hesitation, Aziraphale, careful, so careful, runs his finger down the edge of a pinion.
“Can’t feel much back there, angel,” he says gently. “They got burned.”
He feels, rather than hears, Aziraphale’s intake of breath. Then he feels something else, a warm touch at the center of his back. Aziraphale strokes Crowley’s wings slowly, one set of black primaries and then the other, just firmly enough that he can feel it. Everywhere they touch, inside reality and outside of it, Aziraphale is radiating love. If pressing his face to Aziraphale’s chest at that moment hides his expression, it’s a coincidence.
Wings aren’t taboo for demons. Not the way they are for angels. He’s had fun with them, over the centuries; humans go wild for wings. But nobody’s touched Crowley’s in a while. Aziraphale strokes him like a cat, absently, and another layer of comfort settles over Crowley like a blanket. A fantasy – his or Aziraphale’s, he isn’t sure – drifts and surfaces between them: they’re on the couch on a rainy day, curled up just like this. It’s surely one of Aziraphale’s, since it’s saccharine enough to make him squirm. He could lie in Aziraphale’s lap with a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows and get his wings stroked for hours and hours.
“We can do that,” Aziraphale murmurs, a smile in his voice. Aziraphale likes making him squirm, especially when he can tell that, under the embarrassment, Crowley loves it, wants nothing more than to be fussed and tutted into submitting to being made to feel good. That Crowley happens to be wired the right way to enjoy the embarrassment bit and the submitting bit as well as the hot-chocolate-and-petting bit is fortunate for them both. Maybe he’ll make it rain tomorrow.
“That would be selfish,” Aziraphale says reprovingly.
“Consider the lilies of the field,” Crowley yawns, and snuggles closer. Aziraphale plays with his wings some more. He doesn’t mind. It feels nice.
“I suppose the lilies could use the rain,” Aziraphale murmurs. Crowley falls asleep to the sound of Aziraphale’s heartbeat, which he doesn’t always remember to have, and to the wind changing.