Crowley was draped over Aziraphale’s settee like a damp towel, knees settled comfortably in different timezones. He’d had six-thousand years to learn to sit like a proximate human, but it irritated Aziraphale that he didn’t, which was why he didn't. At present, he was drunk and holding out his glass with a pathetic, pleading expression.
“C’monnnn, angel. Don’t wanna get up.”
“Why on earth I indulge this sloth…” Aziraphale fussed, but he took it and refilled it, delivering it without a whisky drop spilled.
“You’re a dream,” Crowley said, catching the way he froze.
The slight tremble of his touch, the way his body stiffened, the way he wouldn’t catch Crowley’s eye as his face reddened. Crowley liked that. Crowley liked that very much.
They were at some preposterously expensive French restaurant eating a kind of fancy tureen that Aziraphale had insisted was delicious but also, excitingly, in layers. Crowley looked at his critically, poked it with a suspicious fork, and then said: “Pass the salt.”
Aziraphale, who had looked like he was about to defend the dish, was struck dumb on the pass. Crowley took the grinder from his hands and said, “There’s a good boy.”
Aziraphale spluttered helplessly.
“No.” Aziraphale squeaked in a very suspect voice. “Jolly good, tip-top.”
"You sure about that?” Crowley asked with a flick of a forked tongue. He could smell the want in the air as Aziraphale’s eyes shot to the floor, lips pursed tight. “Interesting,” said Crowley, grinding more seasoning just to watch Aziraphale squirm. “Very interesting.”
Aziraphale had packed a brilliant spread. Pickles, preserves, jellies. Cheese aged sharp and hard or mellowed mild and soft, Crowley's favourite opposites. Lounging under the shade of a tree that hadn’t been quite so leafy the day before, Crowley looked tenderly at Aziraphale. He had gone above and beyond, definitely deserved a little praise... “Oh.”
“Oh?” Aziraphale asked, the conniving bastard. Nobody played Crowley for a fool.
Oh indeed, sneaky angel.
“Excellent vittles,” Crowley said nonchalantly, peering over his dark glasses. “You’re too good to me, angel.” Ah, and there it was, that desperate perfect breathless sound.
Aziraphale was nude and needy, flat on his back on a dusty duvet, and Crowley loved it. Loved the freckles up his sides and the curve of his overfed hips. Fuck, those thighs; white and wide and shaking, Aziraphale’s fat left-leaning cock leaking shamelessly on his belly.
“Look at you,” he crooned.
“You don't need to ask. You're already so good for me like this.”
Aziraphale groaned and his cock twitched, reddened head glistening in the low glow of the side table lamp. Crowley tasted the air; fuck, if he could bottle that smell. Murk, and salt, and desperation. Aziraphale was coming undone and all Crowley needed to do was talk low and slow to make it happen. Kneeling on the bed, stripped down to nothing, skinny upcurve prick resting on the velvet of Azirphale's sack, Crowley’s was a predatory smile.
“So wonderful like this. Hot little good thing giving so pretty.” Bony hands roamed over Aziraphale's buttered ribs, pitching his ruddy nipples until he whined.
“Shhh, it's okay. You'll get yours.” Crowley reached for a bottle of clean, clear oil. “Give me your hand. Two fingers, there we go. Nice and wet. Such a quick learner.”
Aziraphale was trembling but obedient, pink crawling across his chest.
Crowley leaned forward straddling Aziraphale's belly, spreading his lean long legs wide and guiding Aziraphale's hand. “Just like that, angel. Fuck me with those pretty fingers.” He rocked back, hissing as the width burned good and deep. “Love it like that; little harder. Make it ache the way I need it. Take care of me. So good at giving me—ahhh, yeah. More.”
Aziraphale was fucking into Crowley's tight ass with his right hand, his left digging iron-grip bruises into the jut of his hips. Crowley was pale and creamy and rocking back onto his hand in a slinky, sinuous rhythm. “Three now. C'mon. Oh—oh yessss, that's it.”
Sweat was glistening on Crowley's brow as Aziraphale forced a third finger deep inside, fumbling for the oil and making a soggy squelchy mess when he poured too much. His wrist was aching but Crowley was asking and his cock twitched desperately against the empty air.
“Tell me,” Aziraphale begged.
“Gahh—fuck! Love the way you touch me—love the way you take me—love the way—” Crowley moaned low and loud as a fourth finger was forced into his aching hole. He felt bruised and tender, Aziraphale's knuckles a punishing rhythm against his overstretched rim. “You're so good, so good. Ahhh, take 'em out baby. Need to feel it wide like that.”
Aziraphale's fingers slipped obediently from Crowley's gape, wrapping around his prick instead. He stroked slow and steady, grip stuttering as Crowley sank down on his girthy cock. Lube trickled over Aziraphale's nutsack as Crowley forced the depth, fucking down for the split and forward for the hand. “So fucking big—so fucking—love the way you break me—”
Aziraphale's hips stuttered, his eyes were wet, he needed and Crowley gave and gave and gave. “That's it, that's it—fuck—you're gonna take me there, right there—there!”
Crowley was fucking down hard, flashes of divinity dragging deep inside. Aziraphale's cock was thick and brutal and—“Stop touching me—I'm gonna come all over you, just from this—” he rocked down deep “—just from the way you’re made to wreck me.”
Aziraphale let go of his cock as Crowley bore down white-hot and desperate; slender hips against wide. Crowley's spine was folding forward as he clenched tight, slamming down for that perfect depth. "There it is, there it is—Aziraphale—FUCK. Fuck... Fuck."
He stuttered, drowning in the way Aziraphale's cock pulsed without permission inside his ruined body, his own creamy spunk painting an angel in debauchery. Crowley collapsed panting on Aziraphale's chest, wet mess trapped between them. Pushing himself up on his forearms he kissed the soft bow of Aziraphale’s lower lip, the damp of his cheeks.
“Tell me,” Aziraphale said, chasing his mouth. “One more time.”
“You’re so good, angel. So good to me.”