Crowley has been flitting about the study like a hummingbird, chattering away, for about – well, if one were to take Aziraphale's word for it, it's been approximately forever. There's a sort of wild look in the demon's eyes these days, all the time, and Aziraphale can't particularly blame him – it's a stressful time, after all – but he wishes Crowley would calm down just once in his life. It doesn't have to be stressful, Crowley just can't stop thinking about every little detail and weighing every single option and just talking about it all, so much.
Currently, he’s facing the opposite wall, tugging at his sleeves and tapping his foot, the picture of nervous energy. "D'you think a knee-length skirt would be better, or a mid-calf?” He turns around to face the angel, but keeps going. “I want a pure white, none of this eggshell nonsense, but I'm not sure about how it'll sit at my knee."
Aziraphale is listening, he is, but he doesn't bother to form an opinion on the matter, because Crowley won't wait for his answer. He knows the drill by now, the well-worn path of Crowley's feet on the carpet of the study, the frantic tone of his voice as he talks about gerber daisies versus painted daisies or shasta daisies or whatever other kinds of daisies there are. Now Aziraphale is trying to remember the difference between the different kinds of daisies, and Crowley continues talking.
"I think a pure white will accentuate my calves, but I wonder if it might not accentuate them too much," the demon says, and that gets Aziraphale's attention dialed all the way up to eleven.
"That's impossible," he says, looking up at where Crowley has paused to rest against a bookshelf. "Your calves are a wonder."
Crowley pouts a bit. "I know," he replies, a hint of a whine in his voice. "But so is the rest of me, and what if people don't notice the rest of me because my calves are too marvelous?"
"Nobody could ignore any part of you, darling," the angel coos, putting on his most soothing tone although he knows Crowley won't be soothed.
"I guess,” Crowley sighs. He knows it’s true, and he’s not even really worried about any aspect of his appearance on the big day, but he has to worry about something, and he’s starting to run out of fuel.
For his part, Aziraphale has been infuriatingly calm about wedding planning from day one. He cares about the event, he does, and he has no trouble reminding Crowley how much he cares when they happen to disagree on something that’s important to him. He has ideas and opinions about the music and the decor and all of that. It’s just that he isn’t driving himself absolutely mad with anxiety over it, not like Crowley is, because he knows several things.
First, they have all the time in the world. Literally. They could spend the next thousand years planning the perfect wedding, getting every detail completely correct, if they wanted to.
Second, they can have whatever they want. The availability of a caterer isn’t a problem, the flowers aren’t a problem. No matter how much it costs, or how dreadfully unlikely it is, the two of them will get the exact wedding that they desire.
Third, Crowley will worry himself sick for days on end, but when it comes down to making an actual, final decision, it’s strikingly simple. When he really needs to choose, that’s when he’ll listen to Aziraphale’s opinion, and they’ll talk it out together, and it will be fine. Until then, Crowley just needs to keep himself occupied as he works through every possible outcome of every possible decision.
So. Aziraphale is calm, slightly amused, and heavily endeared as he watches Crowley pace and talk to himself. They haven’t set a date yet, or even discussed an approximate timeline. They’ve only been engaged, technically, for about a month and a half, which in the grand scheme of things may as well be the blink of an eye.
The proposal itself wasn’t a big ordeal, not like the whole wedding business – Aziraphale bought the ring years ago, and then one night they were in bed, lying on their sides, nose-to-nose, and he couldn’t help himself. He used a miracle to place the ring under his pillow, to make it seem at least a little bit planned, and then he just asked, and Crowley said yes, and they celebrated with certain bedroom activities, and that was that.
Crowley’s hysteria began first thing the next morning, and it hasn’t stopped since. Aziraphale has picked up on when to respond and when to keep quiet, when he can get away with nodding and smiling and when he has to listen closely, when to let Crowley run wild with it and when to rein him in. He is living in utter bliss, and he is horribly, disgustingly, completely in love.
Having moved on from the dress conversation, Crowley is now babbling about other bits of his wardrobe, and Aziraphale is paying attention just enough to know he needn’t pay attention. He’s holding a book in one hand, returning to it every few minutes to read a paragraph or two; he figures he’ll finish it by the time the wedding rolls around.
“I’m not wearing a veil,” Crowley says with a resolute firmness. “I don’t know about a tiara, haven’t decided yet, but I am not wearing a veil. Unless – should I wear a veil? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll wear a veil. I’m not wearing a tiara.” He is just as sure of this statement as he was about the first. “I don’t want too much flashy jewelry, I’ll keep it minimal. The garters are – I’ll have to shop around for garters.”
Aziraphale looks up. That has his interest.
“I think they should be black,” Crowley continues, oblivious to the way the angel is now watching him. “Black garters, black panties, I think. Just have to make sure the dress is very opaque.”
“Or very, very sheer,” Aziraphale says without thinking, a smile playing across his lips. “Depends what kind of look you’re going for.”
Crowley shoots a deadly glare at him, unamused, and resumes his planning out loud and the idle occupation of his hands as if uninterrupted.
The shelves and the desk in the study are pristine, because Crowley has been tidying and straightening things the entire time he’s been talking. Aziraphale thinks if he gently placed a duster in the demon’s hand, Crowley would start dusting without even noticing. Right now, he’s alphabetizing the items on the desk: binder, envelopes, journal, lamp, pen, stapler.
“And the neckline,” he says, back to the dress again, and Aziraphale almost tunes out completely – he could, and Crowley wouldn’t blame him, because the dress talk is the one area where they both know that Aziraphale’s opinion doesn’t hold an ounce of weight. So he almost tunes out, but for what Crowley says next: “It has to be deep. I want the neckline of my dress to plunge so hard that it could have a plumbing license.”
Aziraphale’s mouth goes dry, and he admonishes himself mildly in his head. Now’s not the time, Crowley is simply talking logistics, all business. Although, he notes, the demon looks to be flagging a bit, and that means soon he’ll become irritable, and if Aziraphale lets it go too far without stopping him, he may start picking fights.
“The thing is – the thing is, you’re not allowed to shove cake in my face.” Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose and makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. His mind moves so fast; there may be a connection between the dress and the cake conversation, but Aziraphale can’t see it. “It’ll be such a mess, and I won’t allow it, so don’t think about it.”
“No, of course not,” says the angel, who was thinking nothing of the sort. He smiles to himself, proud of how well he knows Crowley, how accurately he can predict these moods. The demon’s found a sticking point, and when he’s this worked up, he could interpret the slightest twitch as disagreement.
“What’s that face for?” Crowley doesn’t snap, but he teeters on the edge of it.
Aziraphale shakes his head fondly. “Nothing,” he says. “Come here.”
Crowley complies, though he rolls his eyes ostentatiously as he makes his way across the room to where the angel is seated. "Yes, angel?"
"Sit with me." Aziraphale moves his book arm, offering his lap for Crowley to sit.
"Aziraphale, I'm busy," the demon scolds.
Aziraphale looks up at him, cups his hip with one strong hand. "You need to take a break, love," he says in as soft a tone as possible. Crowley is usually more likely to listen to a gentle suggestion than a command, but Aziraphale has an uncanny ability to make anything sound like a gentle suggestion. "Won't you sit with me, relax a moment?"
Mulling it over, Crowley makes a series of thoughtful humming noises, and Aziraphale… he's a patient angel, but those sounds are certainly appealing. He slides his hands up the demon's sides, gripping him at the waist, and then he just watches. He watches Crowley's face for several seconds before it brightens, the gears no longer turning.
"I will sit," Crowley declares imperiously. "But I have a few more things to figure out."
"Figure them out here," Aziraphale implores.
He feels a bit shameful, wheedling Crowley into sitting with him, knowing what his endgame is, but only a bit. Crowley really does need the break, and he needn't do anything if he doesn't want to, and he's used plenty of underhanded tactics before to get Aziraphale into bed. Besides, Aziraphale does so love to hold him.
Crowley releases a sigh, and it sounds like a breath he's been holding for days. He throws himself into the angel's lap, graciously softening the blow with some demon magic; he's all elbows and chin and even his ass is bony, and Aziraphale has miracled away none too few bruises over the years. He leans his face into Aziraphale's chest, tucks his feet between the armrest and one plump, warm thigh, raises a hand to idly caress the cable knit of the angel's sweater. Aziraphale smiles, wrapping an arm around him, satisfied with the way the demon melts against him, all the tension draining from his body.
It doesn't drain from his mind, apparently, because Crowley keeps talking, although he sounds marginally less panicked. "I know we aren't the greatest at dancing," he says, speaking more to a vague point in the distance than to Aziraphale, "but I want the first one to be good. Can we do that? Can we practice the first one? Make sure it's good?"
"Of course we can," Aziraphale promises, and he means it.
"Good," Crowley breathes. He seems to close his eyes for a few seconds, but then he's back with a vengeance; Aziraphale can hear his heart pounding. "What are you going to wear? Oh, angel, we haven't even thought about what you're going to wear!" Crowley’s voice rises in pitch, volume, and speed as he looks up at Aziraphale's face. "What do you want? You want a suit? Or a dress? An old-fashioned thing, probably, with a tailcoat? A top hat, gloves, the whole thing? We can do the whole thing, angel, if you want."
Aziraphale tenses his jaw for just a moment, biting his tongue to suppress a comment about how much he’d currently enjoy doing the whole thing. Instead of making that remark, which would be crude and rather lazy, he says, "I would marry you in my pajamas, dearest."
"You certainly would not," Crowley admonishes him.
Smiling, the angel doubles down on his efforts. "I'd marry you in a potato sack," he says, and he's not so cruel as to enjoy upsetting Crowley, no, he's just trying to lighten the mood, but the indignant groan that escapes the demon is nothing short of adorable.
"I'd never marry a man wearing a potato sack," Crowley replies, shuddering. "Be serious, please."
"Why should I be serious?" Aziraphale asks, keeping his tone light and playful. "You've got enough serious for the both of us. Serious in reserve. Surplus seriousness."
"Now you're making fun of me," Crowley mumbles petulantly.
Aziraphale shakes his head, turning to press a kiss on Crowley's forehead. "I'm not, I’m not,” he says with a breath of a laugh. “I’m sorry, Crowley, but I do fear if you don’t lighten up, your head may explode, and how would you explain such a mode of discorporation to the people Downstairs?”
Glaring up at the angel, Crowley blinks several times, as if Aziraphale has asked the stupidest question in the world. “Well, I would say: Sorry lads, know the body department’s been pretty clogged up lately, hate to add onto the pile for you lot, but you see, my idiot angel couldn’t pick an outfit for our wedding.” Crowley’s doing voices, now, really hamming it up, and Aziraphale is delighted by it, even if it’s at his own expense. “And they would all say: Oh my word, Crowley, what a dreadful sort is that angel; and I would say: I know, I know, that’s why I need to get up topside as soon as possible so I can throttle him; and – mmm.”
The demon’s little tirade is interrupted by Aziraphale kissing him soundly, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and leaning down to press their lips together. The angel’s lips are warm and soft, like always, and Crowley quickly gets over his surprise and kisses him back. When Aziraphale licks into his mouth, however, Crowley pulls back by a fraction of an inch, holding the angel’s face in his hands, and looks into his eyes.
“What are you doing?” Crowley’s tone isn’t accusatory, but his piercing gaze is, a bit.
Aziraphale smiles a bit too innocently, bats his eyelashes. “I’m trying to kiss my beloved; is that a crime?”
“Not a crime, no,” Crowley mutters testily, “but a convenient way to deflect from the very important business I’m trying to get done? Probably.”
“I’m not trying to deflect from anything, Crowley,” the angel replies, filtering the exasperation out of his voice. “I’m trying to get you to relax.”
Crowley huffs, burrowing his face into Aziraphale’s chest again. “How can I relax when you won’t even tell me what you want to wear?”
“I’ll have to think about it, darling,” Aziraphale says to appease him, and then he leans in and kisses him again.
He keeps it at a low level, just lips on lips and mingling breaths, until Crowley makes a little noise, one that Aziraphale can’t quite classify, a sigh or a moan or a hum, and brings his hand to the side of Aziraphale’s neck, his fingers curling into the hair behind the angel’s ear. At that point, Aziraphale slips his tongue into Crowley’s mouth again, and the demon doesn’t protest, but he only lets it continue for another few seconds before he pulls away again.
“Don’t think I’m letting this go,” he warns, his grave tone offset only slightly by his breathlessness. “You can’t distract me every time I need your opinion on something.”
Aziraphale smiles at him like a warm fire, like a soft lamplight, adoration pouring from his every feature. “I’m not distracting you because you asked for my opinion,” he says sweetly, sincerely. “I’m distracting you because you started talking about garters and panties and necklines, and it’s simply a travesty that your mind is moving too fast to take those thoughts to their natural conclusion.”
“And what conclusion would that be?” Crowley asks dryly.
“I just think, if we’re planning a wedding,” Aziraphale explains, “we should take some time to practice what comes after.” He trails a finger along the side of the demon’s neck, feather-light, feeling him tense up at the sensation. “You never know; we might forget how to do it right.”
“Impossible, I’m an expert,” Crowley says offhand, but he’s softening under the angel’s touch; at this point, he’s only arguing for the sake of it.
“Of course you are, dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, stroking the demon’s hair. “Now, why don’t you show me some of that expertise?”
Crowley stretches his neck up to kiss him again, effortlessly shifting his position so he’s straddling the angel’s lap – too effortlessly, almost without moving at all – and Aziraphale breathes a quiet little laugh through his nose. When Crowley rears back to give him a quizzical look, the angel just says, “The way you prioritize your miracles,” by way of explanation.
“Some things are important, angel,” Crowley replies with a grin. “Like this,” he adds, rolling his hips down against Aziraphale’s, watching the way his mouth falls open with a soft gasp.
After taking a moment to breathe, Aziraphale grabs Crowley’s face in his hands and pulls him into another kiss, tugging lightly at the demon’s lower lip with his teeth. Only when he’s sure that Crowley is deeply engrossed in the kiss does he perform a small miracle of his own, transporting them to their bedroom. Crowley feels the shift of matter around him and opens his eyes, then mumbles something that sounds like “Impatient tempter,” an issue which Aziraphale doesn’t feel the need to press.
Instead, he lifts the demon from his lap – without any difficulty, which Crowley can’t help but find incredibly sexy – and lays him out on the bed, handling him as if he’s light and fragile. He isn’t; he’s about as large and as heavy as an average adult human, and much more durable, but then, Aziraphale is much stronger than the average adult human, as well.
Aziraphale begins peppering light kisses along Crowley’s jawline, down his throat, and the demon tries to reach up to touch him, but Aziraphale captures his wrists swiftly and pins them down beside his head. Crowley groans and squirms as the angel drags his teeth along the sharp protrusion of his collarbone, sucks a mark into the skin there.
“Can’t demonstrate my expertise if you’re doing all the work,” he says breathlessly, but it’s an empty complaint.
"You very well can," the angel replies, not contradicting him so much as encouraging. "I happen to know you are an expert in many things, including lying there and looking splendid while I do wonderful things to your body."
“Angel, did you get rid of my clothes when you moved us?” Crowley looks down at his chest, which he is only now noticing is completely bare. “You cheater.”
Aziraphale beams, the kind of smile that bathes Crowley’s soul in a warm light, with only the slightest hint of mischief in his eyes. “It seemed only practical,” he explains innocently. “For wedding planning purposes, you see.”
Swallowing hard, Crowley blinks up at him with wide eyes. “I don’t see what you’re getting at, actually. Please enlighten me.”
Without warning, Aziraphale swoops down and starts kissing him again, first on the lips, deep and messy, then trailing down past his chin, until he reaches the soft dip at the hollow of the demon’s throat. He lifts his head slightly, to look Crowley in the eyes, and murmurs, “Tell me how deep you want that neckline, again?”
Crowley doesn’t get the chance to answer, however, because in the next second, Aziraphale’s tongue is on his skin, hot and soft against the base of his throat. “Here?” the angel asks quietly, then he moves, licking slowly down the length of the demon’s sternum, then excruciatingly slowly all the way back up. He places a kiss there at the top, soft and warm, and chuckles under his breath.
“No, no,” Aziraphale continues, his lips moving against Crowley’s skin. “Deeper, right?” He kisses a line back down the center of Crowley’s chest, stopping a few inches down to look up and ask, “How about here?”
Quickly, without missing a beat, Crowley shakes his head. He’s more than happy to let Aziraphale drive in the bedroom, he almost always does, but he’ll be blessed if he isn’t going to get a word in edgewise. “No, angel, deeper,” he says, his voice low and dark.
Aziraphale smiles at him, and Crowley might call it a smirk, if the angel’s face weren’t so… angelic. Crowley envies him that sometimes, the way he can maintain his innocent expression through anything, but then he supposes there must be times when Aziraphale would prefer to look like trouble, so it’s a trade-off. In any case, Crowley gets what the angel is trying to convey with his smug little smile, and it makes his stomach tighten in anticipation.
The angel moves lower once again, kissing and licking his way down the center of the demon’s torso, coming to rest a few inches above his navel. Crowley expects him to ask the question again, but Aziraphale surprises him by biting and then sucking hard at the spot where his mouth has landed, pulling a high, breathy moan from the demon. His hands move to Crowley’s waist, holding him firmly as he tries to arch his back off the bed.
When he does look up, Aziraphale’s eyes are dark, his movements fluid and languorous. “How about here?” he asks, smoothing one hand across Crowley’s stomach to press a thumb into the blooming bruise on his skin.
“Angel, I don’t want to talk about the dress anymore,” Crowley whines, shifting slightly uncomfortably under the angel’s touch. “If I give you an honest answer about the dress, then I’ll have to stop you before the fun part.”
Aziraphale licks his lips, raking his gaze down the length of the demon’s body. The hand that rests on Crowley’s stomach moves downward, past his navel, and two fingers slip between the slick folds of him, moving slowly and delicately. “What, you mean you don’t want a neckline down to here?” he teases, punctuating the question with a firm stroke against the demon’s clit.
“I want something down there,” the demon mutters, a healthy dose of petulance seeping through the desperate want in his tone.
Leaning down, the angel slips his tongue into Crowley’s navel, just for a second, just enough to make him shiver from the sensation, and then he mouths all the way down, until his lips meet his hand. Crowley spreads his legs and attempts to push his hips down impatiently, but Aziraphale’s free hand on his waist holds him fast.
“For Hell’s sake, angel,” he says, and immediately realizes his mistake.
Aziraphale lifts his head and moves his hand from between the demon’s legs, which Crowley thinks should be classified as a felony, and laughs gently. “For whose sake, Crowley?”
Crowley’s face flushes dark and he averts his gaze. “For my sake, angel.”
The angel gives him a satisfied nod, but doesn’t return to his ministrations. “And what would you like me to do,” he asks casually, “for your sake?”
“You seduced me,” Crowley points out, “and you have me completely at your mercy. So what I’d like you to do, angel, is anything. Put your mouth on me, or your cock in me, or your cock in my mouth, I don’t care, angel, please.”
“Well,” Aziraphale murmurs low and rough. “That certainly is a menu of options.”
Before Crowley can think to say anything else, Aziraphale is pushing two fingers inside him, impossibly deep, and the demon gasps and rocks down against the blissful pressure. Aziraphale pumps his fingers in and out of the wet heat of him, dipping his head to take Crowley’s clit between his lips and suckle gently.
Aziraphale hooks those fingers inside him, twists and scissors them, while Crowley whines and moans. It’s dawning on him that the angel intends to draw this out one way or the other, and he tries to decide if the torture of being kept on the edge for several hours would be better or worse than the torture of being made to come countless times. They’ve done both before, and he loves it, he does, loves how insatiable Aziraphale is, sometimes.
“I love you,” Crowley pants desperately, unable to contain himself.
The angel hums pleasantly with his lips around Crowley’s clit, sending sweet vibrations straight to the molten core of him, and at the same time rubs at a spot inside the demon that makes him cry out. The way he’s flicking his tongue over the oversensitive nerves, moving his fingers as if he’s searching for something, it’s clear he has a plan.
His plan comes to fruition only a few seconds later, when he feels Crowley’s whole body tighten as he coaxes an orgasm from him. Aziraphale rides out the wave with him, lapping up his juices; as soon as Crowley is past the aftershocks, the angel lifts his head, and then he has three fingers in the demon’s cunt, fucking him slow and deep and hard.
“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Crowley moans, overstimulated and oversensitive.
“That’s right, darling,” Aziraphale purrs. The rhythm of his hand unwavering, he slinks up the length of the demon’s body to kiss him, to let Crowley taste himself on the angel’s tongue. Crowley whines when he pulls away, and then he whines in an entirely different manner when Aziraphale laves his tongue over first one sensitive nipple, then the other. He alternates his attention between them, biting and sucking to his heart’s content, all the while fucking Crowley on his fingers, opening him up.
Aziraphale manages to pull another orgasm from him like that, his mouth on Crowley’s chest, his fingers inside him, and he revels in the delicious sounds Crowley makes. He pulls his fingers out and hesitates for just a moment, hovering over the demon, indecisive.
“Are you going to…” Crowley trails off.
“Am I going to what?”
Crowley shrugs, attempting to appear nonchalant as he jerks his head toward the angel’s hand that was just inside him. “Let me suck them,” he says quietly, and he’s not just finishing his initial question, he’s properly asking for it.
“If you insist,” says the angel.
He raises his fingers to Crowley’s mouth, pushing all three past his lips and in deep, almost in his throat. Crowley accepts them dutifully, moaning and sucking the angel’s fingers, swirling his tongue around and in between them to clean all of his juices off. He closes his eyes, sighing contentedly, and then Aziraphale takes his hand away, all too soon.
“I’m not done with you yet,” Aziraphale says in answer to the demon’s expression and his whine of protest. “You do look so pretty sucking on my fingers, my love, but I think you’ll look even prettier with my cock inside you.”
Crowley can hardly eke out a “Yes, please,” before Aziraphale is pressing his cock against his entrance, but he doesn’t go any further. He pauses, so close to being exactly where Crowley wants him, yet so far, and brushes his fingers against the demon’s cheek, feeling his skin heat up under his touch.
“Aziraphale, please,” Crowley whimpers, his thighs spreading further apart. He turns his head to kiss the angel’s hand, to graze his lips ever so lightly against the skin that was caressing his cheek moments before.
If asked, Aziraphale would say he likes to indulge Crowley, likes to make him feel good, likes to make him happy. This is true, but it’s also a rather convenient way for him to spin his own burning desire, to make it sound as if he does these things out of the goodness of his angelic heart, rather than because he has never been very good at resisting temptation.
In reality, it’s a decent mix of both that makes him respond to Crowley’s plea and slowly push into him, a brilliantly hot pressure inside the demon growing more intense the further he goes. When he’s seated to the hilt, Aziraphale grinds his hips against Crowley’s, pressing in just that much deeper, and the two groan in unison.
“Fuck, I love you so much,” Crowley murmurs, wrapping his limbs around the angel like a constrictor, his blunt fingernails digging into Aziraphale’s shoulderblades.
Aziraphale moans as he begins to move, pulling out a few inches before slamming his cock all the way back in. He gives a few slow, deliberate thrusts of his hips, leans in close to the demon’s ear to answer him in a rough whisper. “You’re only saying that because I fuck you so well.”
Letting out a short giggle, Crowley nods his head. “Yeah, that’s it,” he teases the angel. “If we weren’t already getting married, I’d ask you to marry me right now, just for your – oh, fuck, Aziraphale – just for your beautiful cock.”
“Just for my cock?” Aziraphale asks breezily, still so put together, his voice smooth and level even as he fucks into Crowley more forcefully. “It’s a bit of a shaky foundation for a marriage, but I’ll take it.”
“Alright, not just your cock,” the demon concedes, struggling to maintain the lighthearted tone of the conversation when he can only get the words out between gasps and moans. “Your tongue, too, and – ah, shit – and, and your fingers. You’ve got such gorgeous fingers, angel.”
Aziraphale slips a hand down between Crowley’s legs, pressing gently at the demon’s clit with the pad of his thumb, his fingers splayed out on Crowley’s thigh. “What, these old things?” He’s panting now, hair sticking to his forehead, stroking and rubbing Crowley with his fingers as he fucks him, and he breathes out a soft laugh that transforms into a choked moan of pleasure as Crowley tenses, tightening around him. The angel’s tone is smooth and dark again when he murmurs, “Will you come for me again, love?”
Crowley tumbles over the edge with only a little more encouragement, keening as he rocks down on the angel’s cock. “Angel,” he gasps as soon as he can gather enough breath to speak. “Angel, it’s too much.”
Aziraphale softens his voice and asks in a velvety whisper, “Is it?”
“No,” Crowley answers without hesitation. “No, it’s so good, keep going.”
“Do you want to come one more time?” The angel’s voice is almost sickly sweet, dripping with fondness.
“I know you want me to,” is Crowley’s soft reply, “and you know I’ll do anything you want.”
Aziraphale catches him off guard with a kiss, his moans muffled against the demon’s mouth, sucking hard at his lip and pulling back with a wet, messy groan. “I do love you ever so much,” he whispers, his lips grazing Crowley’s as he speaks. “My dearest, my heart, such a perfect little thing.”
A whimper bubbles up from the back of Crowley’s throat, from the words or from the feel of Aziraphale’s skin on his, or from some combination of the two. He doesn’t bother trying to speak; he knows that Aziraphale doesn’t expect much from him, not when he does it like this, not when he insists on pulling orgasm after orgasm from the demon until he’s wrung out and nonverbal.
“I’m going to have you forever,” the angel murmurs close to Crowley’s ear, and it could easily sound possessive and objectifying, but it doesn’t sound like that coming from Aziraphale, not ever. It sounds like a promise. It sounds like a vow. “I’m going to have you forever,” he repeats, fucking into Crowley with renewed vigor, “keep you forever. I would marry you a thousand, a million times, do you know that?”
Crowley nods his head frantically, making little moaning sounds of affirmation, and the angel rewards him with a kiss to the side of his neck, a hand threading through his hair. “There we are, sweetheart, so good for me,” Aziraphale murmurs softly. “Can you do something, Crowley? Can you tell me something?”
Hesitating, Crowley nods again, slower, more cautious. Aziraphale smiles at him, pausing his rhythmic thrusts to give the demon a bit of a clearer head. Then he says “Do you want my come inside you?” and Crowley just about faints. “That’s okay, love,” Aziraphale coos, stroking his hair, “take your time. You don’t have to say anything, just nod yes or no, whenever you’re ready.”
With that, he dips his head low again, capturing the demon’s mouth in a quick kiss before turning his attention to his chest again. He rubs a thumb over one nipple, flicks his tongue over the other, resuming the work of his hips at the same time, relishing the way Crowley arches his back off the bed as another high, whining moan escapes him. Aziraphale notices distantly that he’s making noises as well, little hums of pleasure as he sucks at Crowley’s skin, the kind of sound that comes with the first bite of a crème brûlée, but Crowley is much more delicious.
He looks up at the demon’s face and watches intently, without interrupting the movement of his hips or the hand gently rubbing and pinching at Crowley’s nipples, watches as Crowley’s breaths come faster and shallower until he’s hardly breathing at all. “You’re close,” Aziraphale says, and it’s not a question; he knows these things, he knows Crowley’s body better than his own. “Do you want it?”
Crowley’s mouth hangs open in a silent gasp, his eyes are screwed shut, his head tipped back to expose his long neck. He tenses, his muscles coiling tight, until Aziraphale asks again, “Do you want it?” and Crowley manages a nod of his head, a whimpered little plea.
“Come for me, then,” the angel says in a low, warm voice. He takes Crowley’s nipple into his mouth again, sucking hard and then tugging at it ever so gently with his teeth, and Crowley cries out, clenches down around him as he comes again. Aziraphale has been holding back for a while, trying to make it last, drawing out Crowley’s pleasure and building up his own; when he lets loose and starts to thrust hard and fast, it takes only a few moments before he’s spilling inside Crowley with a long sigh of satisfaction.
Aziraphale kisses Crowley again as he pulls out, and then he hovers over the demon, not rolling onto his side or taking Crowley in his arms like he normally does. Crowley looks up at him curiously, and the angel smiles. “Do forgive me,” he says tenderly. “It’s just – I know I said one more, but I would so love to get my mouth on you again.”
Crowley blinks once, slowly, then nods his head. “Whatever you want, angel,” he murmurs, sounding tired but no less adoring.
“You do indulge me, darling,” Aziraphale says, pressing another kiss to the demon’s lips, “but I’m afraid it isn’t quite enough for me to want it. Do you want me to?”
“Yes, Aziraphale,” Crowley replies, making his tone as clear and confident as possible. “Fuck, yes, put your tongue in me, make me come again, I want it.”
That’s more than enough to satisfy Aziraphale, so he pushes himself back, hooking one of Crowley’s knees over his shoulder, and dives down. He starts with Crowley’s thigh, to avoid overwhelming him too much, and also because Crowley’s legs are magnificent. He licks a stripe up the crease of the demon’s thigh, relishing the way he shudders at the sensitive touch, and then moves inward, taking his time tasting as much of Crowley as he can before reaching the core of him.
Crowley is trembling, and has been for a while, overcome with emotion and physically a bit drained. He makes the softest little sounds as Aziraphale kisses his skin, sucks and licks at the outer lips of his cunt, and then the angel dips his tongue in between the folds, where his own come is leaking out of Crowley, and the demon chokes on his own breath.
Aziraphale takes it as a positive reaction, which it is, and delves deeper. He drags his tongue from the demon’s perineum all the way up to his clit, then decides to focus his efforts; using his hand to keep Crowley open for him, he pushes his tongue inside the demon’s cunt, as deep as he can go. Crowley cries out, grinding his hips down, begging for more, and the angel obliges with undulating movements of his tongue, licking him clean from the inside out.
It doesn’t take long for Crowley to twine his fingers in the angel’s hair, riding his face with abandon while Aziraphale fucks him with his tongue, and then he’s coming again with a sound that borders on sobbing. When the last of his orgasm has been drawn out, he uses his grip on Aziraphale’s hair to pull him up into a kiss.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Crowley whispers fervently as soon as they pull apart. “I love you more than anyone’s ever loved anything, or ever will.”
“And I you,” Aziraphale replies simply. He waves his hand slightly and summons a glass of water, holds it up to Crowley’s mouth. “Here, drink,” he says, “you need it.”
Crowley sips at the water obediently, and then the angel sets the cup aside for him. “Angel, I’m sorry,” – he pauses for a yawn – “I’m sorry I’m being such a bridezilla.”
“You’re not,” Aziraphale assures him. “You’re neither a bride nor a giant reptile – wait. I suppose you are, in some senses, a giant reptile, and in other senses, a bride. But you’re not a bridezilla.”
Groaning, the demon rolls over and pulls the angel down to lie next to him. “I am, I’m being awful to you.”
Wrapping an arm around Crowley and holding him close to his chest, Aziraphale presses a kiss to the top of his head. “No, my dear, not to me. You’ve been just a tad awful to yourself, causing yourself so much unnecessary stress, and that’s why you needed to take a break.”
“I like this kind of break,” Crowley murmurs, his eyes drifting shut.
“Me too.” Aziraphale squeezes him tight for a moment, breathing in the scent of his hair. “Now go to sleep, yes? We’ll talk wedding plans when you’re rested.”
Crowley is out like a light before Aziraphale has finished his sentence.