It’s a perfectly lazy sort of a Sunday, as their Sundays together so often are. In Aziraphale’s opinion, the sort of Sunday where perhaps they ought not to have bothered with clothes at all, so soon after breakfast do they find themselves on the sofa in a half-dressed state again. Still, he reasons: with these layers between them it’s far easier to draw things out for the morning or more, no need nor desire to hurry matters along.
They’re down to their trousers and socks for the time being, shirts rumpled and half-buttoned. Crowley is a veritable feast laid out beneath him, his legs spread most indecently to accommodate Aziraphale between them.
Murmuring praise in staccato bursts between each languorous slide of their mouths — how splendid Crowley tastes, how perfect he feels against him — Aziraphale works a hand between their bodies and slips it inside Crowley’s jeans. He gives his cock a couple of firm tugs, just enough to remind him how absurdly good the skin-on-skin contact feels, before withdrawing to leave him eager for more. Crowley is already flushed and a bit hazy-looking, which Aziraphale takes as a personal victory; it’s tremendous fun to have him looking half-ruined before they’ve even made it to the bedroom, and Aziraphale does intend to quite thoroughly and meticulously take him apart in all the ways they enjoy best.
“Cocktease,” Crowley mutters under his breath, his lips brushing over the corner of Aziraphale’s well-kissed mouth.
It’s as much a compliment as it is an accusation, and it makes Aziraphale’s prick stir all the more where it strains within the confines of his trousers. It surely mars the sharp-cut line of the pristinely tailored fabric, tenting it lewdly where it should lie neat and proper against his upper thigh, but it’s altogether worth it for the look of thinly-veiled longing on Crowley’s face when Aziraphale sits back on his heels to drink in the sight of him and gets a blatant once-over in return.
“Yes,” Aziraphale says thoughtfully, looking down at him. His hands stroke up over Crowley’s calves and come to rest on his bent knees. “I rather think you are.”
Crowley arches an eyebrow, an amused gleam in his eye. “What did I do?”
“You sat opposite me at breakfast,” Aziraphale reminds him primly, “lounging and looking terribly handsome. Then you lured me to the sofa with your — your wiles.”
That Aziraphale undoubtedly planned to entice Crowley into bed at the earliest possible opportunity and Crowley merely happened to beat him to it remains blessedly unremarked upon.
“Sorry about my wiles,” Crowley drawls, drawing out the ‘s’ in typically serpentine fashion. Sitting up, he slides his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and takes the opportunity to grope at his arse quite obscenely. “Thing is though, angel — not very difficult to lure, are you? Easy, s’probably the word for it. Positively gagging for a good, hard — ”
Aziraphale cuts him off with a scandalised gasp, pressing two fingers to Crowley’s lips. Crowley grins at him, baring his teeth.
“Good heavens,” Aziraphale tuts, dragging those same fingers down the length of Crowley’s throat and continuing onward over the bared vee of his chest. He has them descend further still to trace the swell of Crowley’s cock and keeps them there, running the tips of them idly back and forth with a featherlight touch. “Carnal temptations and a vulgar mouth. Whatever will I do with you, my dear?”
There’s a dark spot on Crowley’s jeans where he’s beginning to leak under Aziraphale’s ministrations, wet seeping right through the denim. Aziraphale draws the pad of his thumb over that slick patch, a slow-pressed rub over the sensitive head, and watches the wet bloom outward as Crowley’s cock throbs under his touch and spills an excited little pulse of precome.
Crowley’s mouth opens, but no words come forth. “Absolutely anything you like,” he rasps at length, blinking up at Aziraphale in a wonderstruck sort of way.
Satisfied, Aziraphale gives him the briefest of kisses; a near-chaste and tender brush of their mouths.
“Ah. I was hoping you might say that,” he says, voice brimming with affection. He squeezes Crowley’s cock through his jeans just to hear his strangled groan, hips jumping. “You see — I have plans.”
Barely having made it through the bedroom door, Crowley promptly crowds Aziraphale up against the wall and drops to his knees, hitting the floorboards with a dull thud that reverberates up through Aziraphale’s socked feet. Exhaling softly, Crowley tips his cheek against Aziraphale’s thigh, deft fingers working their way up the inseam of his trousers.
“On the bed, please,” Aziraphale says, gesturing to it. Crowley turns his gaze upward and gives him an imploring look as if it might be sufficient to tempt him into reconsidering his options. Aziraphale draws his fingertips over Crowley’s cheek, letting them catch at his bottom lip. Pulls them away before Crowley can suck on them the way he’s clearly angling to. “Don't fret, dearest,” Aziraphale assures him warmly. “I intend to make quite thorough use of your mouth later.”
It’s enough to appease Crowley, at least for now. He takes Aziraphale’s proffered hand and gets to his feet without argument; allows Aziraphale to guide him over to the bed and up onto it, his back to the headboard so Aziraphale can climb atop his lap and vanish the remainder of their clothing with a snap of his fingers.
“Fuck,” Crowley groans as they’re abruptly pressed skin-to-skin. He seizes upon the opportunity to finally get his hands on Aziraphale’s body with unabashed enthusiasm, worshipping his bare hips and stomach with wandering hands and an expression somewhat akin to hunger.
“Quite,” Aziraphale agrees, his already-racing pulse kicking up several notches in response to the rush of anticipatory adrenaline.
Evidently impatient, Crowley reaches beneath the pillows with one hand to retrieve the lubricant, locating it with a triumphant smile. Aziraphale takes it from him before he can even uncap it, and Crowley’s face falls quite comically.
“I’ll do that, darling,” Aziraphale says. “I want you to wait patiently for me whilst I get myself ready for you.”
Crowley looks terribly disappointed at being denied, though he makes no attempt at arguing and places his hands on Aziraphale’s waist instead in an obedient sort of way. Aziraphale feels positively giddy at the sight of him, so obliging and eager to please; he gets his fingers quite thoroughly drenched and goes straight in with two, relishing the ache as he works them deeper and crooks them just-so.
His patience apparently all too fleeting, Crowley pulls Aziraphale closer to mouth heatedly at his neck. It feels so good Aziraphale can’t deny him; he encourages it instead, fucking himself down against his own hand with a moan as Crowley sets his teeth against him and sucks. He’ll leave a bruise, Aziraphale thinks faintly, but decides there and then that he’ll wear it all through tomorrow if he does: a saucy little mark peeking out from beneath his shirt collar that strangers might catch a glimpse of when the pair of them pop out for a spot of lunch.
“Let me put my fingers in you, angel?” Crowley says, a breathless plea murmured against Aziraphale’s throat.
“I don’t think so, my dear,” Aziraphale says with fond exasperation. Temptation very much not accomplished, thank you very much, though it’s a close call as his willpower gives a traitorous little wobble and for a moment threatens to have him begging to the contrary. “I asked you to be patient, did I not?”
Crowley reaches down behind Aziraphale to skim his fingers over his knuckles where he’s fingering himself open, fleetingly touching the stretched rim of him without ever going so far as to flagrantly disobey. He fits his mouth to Aziraphale’s ear instead as he takes him by the waist again, his breath a hot tease of sensation.
Aziraphale shivers, taking a third finger inside himself keenly. Greedy for it, putting feeling over finesse. What was it Crowley had said? Gagging for it, indeed.
“But I’m so good at it,” Crowley murmurs, on the edge of whining and altogether too persuasive to be allowed.
Aziraphale groans, shoving his fingers into himself more firmly. He’s not wrong: the very memory of Crowley’s long fingers curling to coax pleasure from this touch-craving, desire-soaked marvel of a human form Aziraphale wears has him feeling quite lightheaded.
Eyes closing, Aziraphale tips forward, lips parting intuitively as their noses brush together. He can feel Crowley’s self-satisfied smile when he lifts Aziraphale’s chin with one finger and kisses him.
“That’s quite enough of that,” Aziraphale chides good-naturedly when they eventually break apart, a somewhat belated telling off for Crowley’s attempts to divert him. He feels distressingly empty as he slides his fingers free of himself and wipes the excess lube off on his thigh. “I rather think I’m ready for you now, actually.”
It never takes long to prepare himself when he’s this pent-up for it; this desperate to have Crowley’s magnificent cock up inside him, blood-hot and throbbing.
“How do you want me?” Crowley asks, easy as you please.
The implications of that particular bit of phrasing — that he’ll happily position himself in accordance with however best Aziraphale can make use of him — leaves Aziraphale quite weak with wanting.
“Right here,” Aziraphale says, taking Crowley’s cock in a loose grip and giving it a few slow strokes from base to tip. “Just as you are.” He places his other hand over Crowley’s chest, fingers splayed outward. Gentle and grounding. Proprietary. Crowley’s heart beats an urgent rhythm against his palm. “Perfect,” Aziraphale tells him, positioning Crowley’s cock with his other hand so it nudges insistently against his hole.
He lets gravity do most of the hard work as he takes it inside himself with a murmur of satisfaction, bit by bit in little up-down motions. Grabbing onto the headboard for balance and for leverage, he takes the final couple of inches all at once with a decisive rocking of his hips that has him sitting flush to Crowley’s lap with a breathy sigh.
His own cock is caught between the flat plane of Crowley’s stomach and the soft-fold flesh of his own, and the smooth thrust between the two as he begins to slowly ride him feels simply divine. Positioned as they are, Crowley can do little to influence the speed or depth of penetration, entirely at Aziraphale’s bidding.
Crowley watches him as if enchanted, and the intensity of his gaze only makes Aziraphale burn hotter. He looks at Aziraphale as if he’s something desirable, worthy of his attention and whole-hearted devotion, and Aziraphale wants to bask in it always.
Smiling, Aziraphale slides a hand around the back of Crowley’s neck, his thumb caressing gently behind his ear. Crowley sways slightly as he leans into his touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment.
“Is it good, my dear?” Aziraphale asks him softly.
“When have you ever,” says Crowley, “been anything less than spectacular?" and he proceeds to kiss Aziraphale quite spectacularly indeed.
Despite his best intentions, the slow pace Aziraphale sets to begin with quickly gives way to something faster and more pressing. He’s so deliciously full, the feeling so exquisite when Crowley bottoms out that he repeats the motion immediately so he might experience it countless more times in quick succession.
“I can’t last like this,” Crowley says, looking and sounding rather panicked about it.
“You can,” Aziraphale assures him as he sinks down onto his cock again and again at a punishing pace. “You will, won’t you?” he says, eyes wide and beseeching, knowing Crowley won’t deny him this. He’ll last however long Aziraphale tells him to. “For me?”
Aziraphale feels so tantalisingly close, pleasure building up on itself. He cups Crowley’s flushed face between his hands and holds his gaze.
“Course,” Crowley says earnestly. “Anything.”
“Good,” Aziraphale croons, rich with praise. “You really are so very good to me, Crowley.”
Crowley leans in for a kiss that Aziraphale gives him gladly, though it’s more a desperate meeting of mouths and gasping the same shared breaths as Aziraphale’s orgasm hits him with blinding impact. Panting, he shudders and tightens around Crowley, still riding him hard. The pleasurable drag of Crowley’s cock is maddeningly good as Aziraphale spills between them, spattering Crowley’s stomach with streaks of come.
“Fuck,” Crowley grits out, closing his eyes and digging his fingernails into his own palm in a desperate attempt not to follow him over the edge, his other hand gripping tightly at Aziraphale’s waist. “Fuck, Aziraphale.”
Aziraphale slows gradually, riding out the last tremors of pleasure with a shivery sigh, then sits down onto him fully as he takes a few moments to catch his breath.
Getting up on his knees, he lets Crowley’s cock slip free with care, kneeling before him to admire his handiwork. How pretty he looks with Aziraphale’s come dripping down his stomach, wetting the hair at the base of his cock. Aziraphale smears his fingers through it, dragging it across Crowley’s sweat-damp skin and sharp-angled hipbones. Crowley twitches and shivers against his hand.
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, looking plainly at Crowley’s cock, stiff as can be. At his balls where they’re drawn up tight and aching to be emptied. “How desperate you are already.”
“A bit, yeah,” Crowley says, sounding as carefully restrained and on-edge as he looks. He curls his fingers into the bedding, clearly fighting the urge to get a hand on himself for some much-needed relief.
“It's such a shame I’m not finished with you just yet,” Aziraphale says with all the gentleness Crowley deserves. “I intend to keep you hard for as long as I want to take my pleasure from you, my darling boy. I think you’d like that too.”
Crowley nods dazedly and makes a soft sound of agreement low in his throat. Aziraphale cups Crowley’s chin and presses their mouths together, dragging his teeth over Crowley’s bottom lip as he withdraws.
Captivated by the sight of him, Aziraphale reaches for Crowley’s cock, teasingly drawing the soft pad of his little finger back and forth over the dripping-wet slit. He stops before he can push him over the edge completely.
There’s a moment’s pause as Crowley sucks air sharply between his teeth, a quiet hiss of desperation before a tremor runs through him and his cock spits a few drops of come onto his lap. It’s not enough stimulation for him to orgasm properly, left shivery and over-sensitised, still frustratingly hard yet the urgency abated for the time being. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and releases it slowly, some of the tight-coiled tension in him easing.
“So cruel, angel,” he murmurs appreciatively, kissing Aziraphale again with vicious, biting pleasure.
“Mm, I suppose I am,” Aziraphale says as they part, more than a bit smug. “My dear, I’ve been thinking. Perhaps you ought to get me hard again — I did promise to make use of your mouth, as I recall?”
“You did,” Crowley agrees readily. “I definitely recall. I’m recalling it right now, even.”
He guides Aziraphale — laughing softly, still pliant and amenable in the afterglow of his orgasm — down onto his back before making his way down the bed to lie between Aziraphale’s thighs. His prick is mostly soft and still rather sensitive when Crowley takes him fully between his lips and keeps him there. He sucks at him gently, handling him with care, his mouth heat-soaked and surrounding him in the most exquisite way.
“Oh, you’re so good at that,” Aziraphale sighs.
Crowley hums in satisfaction or agreement or both, the vibrations playing wonderfully over Aziraphale’s cock. Aziraphale drifts, not thinking of anything in particular beyond the simple joy of sensation. He supposes Crowley does too, both lost in the rhythm of it, quite satisfied with this for now.
Aziraphale had intended only to have Crowley’s mouth for a minute or two, enough to stiffen his prick before they move onto other things, but it’s too decadent a treat to give up so easily. He decides instead to let Crowley take him most of the way like this, and Crowley certainly appears to have no complaints, seeing to him with an eagerness that only makes it all the more arousing.
“Darling,” he coos appreciatively as Crowley takes him deeper still. Aziraphale cants his hips up the tiniest bit to fuck into the back of Crowley’s throat each time his mouth descends to meet him and Crowley groans, delighted. “Oh,” Aziraphale exclaims, pressing his heels into the bed so he might thrust between his lips with just a tad more vigour than before. “You just adore having your mouth fucked, don’t you? You really are a marvel, my dear boy. But I rather think — I want you inside me when I come.”
Crowley has him pressed so deep now that Aziraphale can feel him panting against his stomach in short, sharp gusts through his nose. He pulls off slowly, a string of saliva connecting his mouth to Aziraphale’s cock; licks his lips to break it, his mouth and his chin wet with spit and precome he haphazardly wipes away with the back of his hand.
Aziraphale nearly discorporates at the sight of him.
“Fuck, alright,” Crowley says. He runs a tight-clenched fist up the length of Aziraphale’s wet prick and then does it again. “Tell me when.”
He swallows Aziraphale’s cock down again before Aziraphale can say anything further on the matter, his tongue rubbing maddeningly at the sweet spot just beneath the head. Aziraphale moans, utterly undone by it, and finds he can barely last much longer at all.
“Ah, probably now. I think now, actually,” Aziraphale tells him hurriedly.
He gets a hand on himself as Crowley moves over him swiftly, nudges the head of his cock back inside him and thrusts home in one smooth motion.
“Oh,” says Aziraphale, “yes,” and then he’s coming hard.
The pleasure of each pulse is magnified as Crowley fucks him through it: he’s slow to withdraw, hard and fast on each instroke, each forward-snap motion exquisite in its ability to intensify the electrifying swell of sensation thrumming in Aziraphale’s veins.
After, boneless and satisfied, Aziraphale tugs Crowley down to meet him. He kisses him slowly, encouraging him to open up with a flicker of his tongue against his bottom lip and groaning approvingly when Crowley allows him entry.
“That was wonderful. Thank you,” Aziraphale says, running his hands over all the parts of Crowley’s body he can comfortably reach. Crowley continues fucking him in steady strokes, watching him carefully as if uncertain it’s what he’s supposed to be doing and attentively awaiting his next command. “That’s it, yes,” Aziraphale assures him, wriggling against the bed to get comfortable. “Just like — oh, like that. You see to me so sweetly, dearest. Doesn’t that feel good?”
To Aziraphale, it feels utterly divine, lying here like this as Crowley dotes on him. Deep, luxurious strokes he just can’t get enough of.
“I need to come,” Crowley says, hips working that bit faster. “I’m going to come. Fuck, Aziraphale.”
“Not yet,” Aziraphale says calmly. “You’re doing so well; I’m very impressed with you, Crowley.”
“I can’t — ” Crowley gasps, hips stuttering, and Aziraphale can feel how close he is to coming inside him.
His willpower — and desire to please Aziraphale in whatever way is asked of him — is quite extraordinary. He pulls out just before the point of no return, ceasing all stimulation, chest heaving.
Once again, it’s enough to have him teetering on the edge of orgasm yet not enough to send him fully over the edge. Crowley’s cock jerks, pulsing once and spilling a glut of come between Aziraphale’s thighs and over his well-fucked hole. Whimpering, Crowley bites down on a groan, visibly frustrated for not yet having come properly and still gorgeously, painfully hard for Aziraphale’s use.
Aziraphale loses the ability to speak for a long moment, a wave of pleasure washing over him in response to the filthy, silk-wet slide of it over his overheated skin. That, and the sight of Crowley restraining himself so beautifully.
“Goodness, what a mess you’ve made, darling,” he says at last, tutting softly. “I think you ought to clean that up, don’t you?”
He tangles his fingers in Crowley’s hair and presses gently, only a for a moment. A suggestion as opposed to a demand. It’s hardly necessary; Crowley’s already moving down the length of his body to comply, eyes dark with wanting and a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth as he settles on his stomach between Aziraphale’s thighs. Crowley knows what this does to him. Aziraphale’s knees feel quite weak with anticipation.
Aziraphale loves this, no matter the context or setting. Crowley’s tongue opening him up to prepare him for his cock, a superb starter and a prelude to other pleasures. Or, on other occasions, his tongue and fingers both — the main course, as it were — taking Aziraphale all the way from tightly-wound to breathless and gratified. There’s something altogether special about Crowley eating him out like this, though: already having come twice, his hole fucked open and the rim already pliant. Crowley’s tongue laving over him to soothe before dipping inside with ease, the act a decadent amuse-bouche sandwiched between equally splendid and rather more filling courses.
Crowley is exceptionally good at kissing no matter what part of Aziraphale’s body he applies his talents to, and he’s presently clinging to Aziraphale’s thigh and passionately licking into him like the meeting of mouths between long-lost lovers.
“Oh,” Aziraphale chokes out, feeling as if he might detach from this plane of existence entirely. “Yes, more of that, if you — if you don’t mind.”
Pressing his face even more firmly into Aziraphale, Crowley shifts against the mattress, rutting against the bedding with sinuous rolls of his hips. Aziraphale declines to comment on it, lost as he is in the intoxicating feeling of Crowley’s mouth on him. He’ll allow him this lapse in control; if Crowley wants to work himself up even more than he already has, more fool him.
It’s also tremendously exciting to watch, the red-flash of Crowley’s sex-tousled hair between Aziraphale’s legs and his helpless little thrusts as he tries and fails to keep his desperation in check. It’s difficult not to be embarrassingly loud when Crowley licks into him like this, every tap or stroke or ludicrously arousing sweep of his tongue a focused point of pleasure that feels so good Aziraphale can hardly stand it.
“That’s enough, darling. Thank you,” Aziraphale says, breathless and more than a bit fond. It isn’t without regret, but any more time spent on that particular endeavour and he’s not entirely certain he’d remember what the end goal was supposed to be here. Or where they are. Or his own name. “I want you to fuck me until I come again — you can do that, can’t you?”
Regardless of whether Crowley believes he can or not, he places a lingering kiss to each of Aziraphale’s sensitive inner thighs and gets up onto his knees. Tugging Aziraphale’s legs up around his waist, he slots back inside him easily enough as to be utterly obscene and begins to fuck him in earnest.
“You do look stunning like this, you know,” Aziraphale says softly, gazing up at him and feeling suddenly overcome. “You’re ever so lovely.”
Wanting nothing more than to please him, to see pleasure write itself across his face, Aziraphale takes a handful of Crowley’s hair and tugs just the way Crowley likes it. Crowley gives a pleased-sounding whimper, faltering then driving deep again. Aziraphale does it again. Does it harder.
“Fucking — hellfire — angel,” Crowley swears wildly and with rising insistence, cock flexing and a ripple of pleasure running through him from head to toe. He pulls out urgently, entirely, and moments later his cock dribbles a pulse of come onto Aziraphale’s stomach where he’s lying beneath him. “Sorry, sorry,” Crowley gasps, breathing hard.
He rocks forward, canting his hips to drag his still-hard cock helplessly through the mess he’s made, then pushes himself back again to put space between them. His self-control appears frayed to the point he can barely keep it in check.
“Oh, you poor, darling thing,” Aziraphale says soothingly. How unfathomably gorgeous Crowley looks like this. “Not much longer now, I promise.”
He gives Crowley a moment to let the feeling pass and then encourages him back inside. The slow sink inside him is even easier now Crowley’s cock is thoroughly slicked with his own spending. The very thought of it has Aziraphale instinctively spreading his legs wider for him, hitching his knees up and raking his nails across Crowley’s back where the whipcord muscles ripple and flex with each thrust.
“I should keep you like this for days,” Aziraphale muses as Crowley fucks him, touching his fingers to Crowley’s feverish, pink-flushed cheek. He wouldn’t, of course, but it’s enough to make Crowley start trembling uncontrollably.
“Fuck, Aziraphale, please,” Crowley says, but there's a difference between please and stop, and if Crowley truly wanted Aziraphale to have mercy he’d only have to say so.
Aziraphale pushes his hips up to meet him and Crowley shakily resettles his weight over him on his hands, driving into Aziraphale from a new and quite remarkable angle.
“Oh, right there, that’s the ticket,” Aziraphale says, clutching at Crowley’s arms and feeling as if the breath has been punched out of him. Crowley moves faster and more words follow, tumbling out like spilled coins. “Oh fuck, oh darling, you’re going to make me come like this, aren’t you? It’s perfect, you’re perfect, that’s just the thing, dearest.”
“Can I?” Crowley begs, pounding into him hard enough now that the bed shakes beneath them. “After you?”
Aziraphale touches Crowley’s jaw for a moment and then slides his palm down to rest with utmost tenderness over his neck. He applies minimal pressure; merely a grounding point of contact and a gentle reminder. One that helps keep Crowley’s lust-blown eyes firmly affixed to his.
“No,” Aziraphale says sharply.
Crowley whimpers as though Aziraphale’s tone is doing particularly good things for him. His rhythm wavers, torn between pleasing Aziraphale by getting him off as quickly as possible and sheer self-preservation, on the verge of coming himself. He’s nothing if not determined, though, and after a moment to collect himself redoubles his efforts.
Aziraphale is reduced to moans and nonsense, the two familiar syllables of Crowley’s name as much as he can manage when it comes to forming actual words. It feels as if he’s lit up with pleasure from the inside, iridescent and all-consuming, each and every time Crowley bottoms out.
“Fuck — you look good when you’re getting fucked,” Crowley bites out between thrusts.
It’s a very kind and flattering thing to say indeed, and Aziraphale would thank him for it profusely if he weren’t already coming all over himself with a stunned gasp, able to do little more than clutch fitfully at the duvet and lie there awash with feeling as Crowley rides him through the last of it.
Crowley pulls out quite hurriedly after, clearly having been almost tipped over the edge as he fucked Aziraphale through his third and most assuredly final orgasm of the night, but nevertheless moves down Aziraphale’s body to lick him clean again without even being asked to do so. He really is very good, and Aziraphale tells him so with pride. He feels utterly drained, beyond satisfied; floating on air.
“Up on your knees, if you don’t mind,” Aziraphale sighs contentedly, still lounging back against the pillows as Crowley cleans the last of the come from his hipbone with a slow swipe of his immeasurably talented tongue. “I want to look at you.”
“Angel,” Crowley breathes, voice breaking apart. “Please.”
All too familiar with what Crowley actually wants and irrespective of his begging to the contrary, Aziraphale ignores him.
“Goodness, look at the state of you,” Aziraphale says warmly. He cocks his head to one side, brazenly drinking in the sight of Crowley’s red-flushed, sweat-glossed body. Crowley’s stomach tenses; he’s all the more aroused under Aziraphale’s scrutiny, his breathing ragged and rough-torn. “Absolutely dying for it,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Aren’t you, darling?”
Crowley’s hands clench and unclench where they rest on his thighs. His cock is so hard it stands up against his belly, leaking precome onto his lap and between his legs to the sheets below. He takes one slow, shaking breath after another, ruined-sounding. His eyes are wide, pupils blown dark as he awaits further instruction.
“Give me your hand, please,” Aziraphale prompts gently, pushing himself upright. Crowley offers one hand to him and Aziraphale takes it reverently in his own; laves at the salt-sweat of Crowley’s palm and sucks at his fingers as Crowley whimpers, hips twitching helplessly.
“Will you stroke yourself for me?” Aziraphale asks, reclining back again. How decadent, the bed and the view. “I’d like to watch you, dearest, if you’ll allow it.”
Crowley whines as he wraps his wet fingers around his cock, working himself in slow, tentative movements and shaking now from head to toe. His bottom lip is red-raw where he’s chewed on it.
“Lovely,” Aziraphale breathes, held captivated. He’s the most stunning thing Aziraphale’s ever seen; no painting nor sculpture has ever seized his attention quite like this. Nothing else could inspire such devotion. “I think — I think you should spend inside me. I rather think you’ve earned it, haven’t you?”
Crowley is slower to react than he anticipates. Overwhelmed and struggling to co-ordinate, or perhaps just anxious he’ll come from the small amount of movement involved in insinuating himself back between Aziraphale’s thighs.
“Can I?” Crowley all but whispers, drawing the shiny-wet, reddened head of his cock over Aziraphale’s hole.
“I’d like that very much. You’ve been so good for me,” Aziraphale says, suddenly rather desperate for it himself. The thought of Crowley’s imminent, all-encompassing relief is a tantalising prospect.
He’s almost certain Crowley is coming even before he manages to get inside, clumsily thumbing his cock into him and snapping his hips forward with a groan so deeply and profoundly grateful Aziraphale feels a tug of pleasure low in his belly that leaves him breathless.
Crowley gives a relieved-sounding sob, thrusting into Aziraphale with a frantic kind of need as he pulses inside him, spilling and spilling until he has nothing left to give. He eventually slows to a stop, pulling out shakily.
“Fuck,” Crowley whispers, barely audible, “Aziraphale.”
His voice is hoarse, his eyelashes wet when he curls up alongside Aziraphale and presses his damp face to his neck. Aziraphale wraps his arms around him with a smile.
“You did so well, darling; just perfectly. I’m so proud of you. How lucky I am to have you, Crowley.”
Burying his face more firmly against Aziraphale, Crowley gives a little hum of acknowledgment and tangles their legs together. Sniffs and heaves a shuddering sigh, relaxing in Aziraphale’s arms.
Aziraphale cleans them up with a brush of his hand, tugging a blanket over them both. Humming softly, some nameless old tune from a long-forgotten century, he strokes a calming hand back and forth over Crowley’s freckled shoulder and holds him like that for long minutes in the peace and quiet of the room.
“Let me get you a glass of water, dearest,” he says at last, when he thinks Crowley might tolerate the loss of contact between them. “Or a cup of tea? Whatever you fancy.”
He unravels himself from Crowley’s limbs with care and moves to get out of bed, but Crowley grasps him by the wrist, tugging him gently back down onto the mattress. Brings Aziraphale’s hand to his lips and kisses the tips of his fingers, a satisfied little smile at his mouth and his eyes heavy-lidded.
“Fancy you,” Crowley says with an easy grin, drowsy and orgasm-drunk still. His hair is a deep-red disaster and somehow all the more lovely for it.
“I should hope you do; you are my husband. And would you please stop trying to charm me whilst I’m trying to take care of you?” Aziraphale huffs, trying and failing to level his smile into something more disapproving. “Honestly.”
“Can’t help it,” Crowley says, brushing his mouth across the back of Aziraphale’s hand. “M’always charming. A snake charmer, that’s me.”
“I’m almost certain a snake charmer is somebody who charms snakes,” Aziraphale says dubiously, squinting contemplatively at the ceiling. Thinking is quite difficult in this blissed-out state, but he’s fairly confident he’s right about this. “As opposed to a snake who also happens to be charming. Anyway, if you recall, I said you were trying to charm me, you wily old serpent, you. I made no observation as to whether or not it was working.”
“Oh, I think you’re charmed alright, angel,” Crowley says, sleepy and smitten and slurring his words endearingly. He presses Aziraphale down into the soft bed beneath them with a hand on Aziraphale’s chest, lazily sliding a leg over him to straddle his hips. “If you’re not,” he says, “I reckon m’not trying hard enough.”
He moves to lay a constellation of scattered kisses along Aziraphale’s jawline; presses his mouth lushly to the oft-kissed column of Aziraphale’s neck.
“Oh — oh, my,” Aziraphale chuckles, breath hitching as Crowley bites gently at the tender patch of skin where his neck meets his shoulder. He loops his arms around Crowley’s shoulders, keeping him close. “I rather think I might be, actually. Very charmed indeed. You might want to keep trying though,” he adds encouragingly, the heat of Crowley’s mouth heady and addictive even in the wound-down afterglow. They might spend all day here, wrapped up in one another, simply because they can. “Just to be certain of it, my dear.”