“I've found it!” Aziraphale shouts, making Crowley jump.
Before this sudden announcement, the demon was peacefully reading the newspaper in a corner of the bookshop, while the angel supposedly worked at his desk. It has never been particularly clear to Crowley what this work entails – inventory or something?
It's an early morning, and the bookshop is still closed. Going through his correspondence, Aziraphale has just got confirmation that a particularly old volume, one he has been after for ages, is available for him to buy.
“I'm going, I'm—” He grabs an umbrella on his way out, almost stumbling on his own feet in excitement. “Be a dear and open around ten, will you? Pip pip!”
“I don't want to open your goddamn—” but it's useless. The door has already been slammed shut behind the angel.
With a heavy sigh (what a dork, he loves him so much) Crowley folds the newspaper and stands up. Maybe it'll be fine. Maybe he'll scare away all the customers and won't have to deal with anyone. After all, he doesn't exactly emanate friendly bookshop owner vibes. He likes to think he looks slick, cool and dangerous.
He sits at Aziraphale's desk, trying to figure out if there's anything he absolutely can't avoid doing. That's when he spots it – a drawer slightly ajar, and a book inside whose cover is quite explicit.
“Angel, angel, angel…” He smirks as he pulls the drawer open. Inside, there's a small treasure of erotica books of all kinds. There's novels, manuals, photography books even. Crowley's eyebrows are already up as far as they will go, but then he also finds out his angel has been studying. Some passages are underlined with a thin pencil line, some books have several bookmarks between the pages, and he even finds some handwritten notes – what language is that? Not one Crowley knows.
The mere thought of his sneaky little angel doing this for him – because it has to be for him, right? – makes him flush.
Briefly, he considers rubbing one out right there and then – his physical form would surely cooperate after what he's just seen – but decides against it. No, he wants to stall until his angel is back, he can't wait to see what he has to show him. So he closes the drawer, and starts to wait.
When he gets back, Aziraphale has his shoulders slumped and his lips turned into a pout.
“Didn't get it?” The demon asks him, trying very hard not to let it show that his mind right now is focused on anything but books.
“Sadly, no. It turned out to be a forgery. It would have been, after all, a volume of inestimable value.”
“Uh-huh, I see.” As Aziraphale puts down the umbrella and takes off his jacket, Crowley sits on the couch, legs spread open as per usual, a hand on his thigh, vaguely drawing attention to his groin. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Thank you, dearest, but no. I think I'm just going to focus on work right now.” As Aziraphale gets back to his usual routine, Crowley tries to hide his disappointment. It's fine, he tells himself, surely sooner rather than later the angel will seek him out.
Except he doesn’t.
That night, the demon is frustrated because Aziraphale turns down his invitation for dinner, saying he's too sad. Again, Crowley offers to help, not just because he wants to bang but also because he genuinely cares about his angel. But again, Aziraphale rebuffs his offer.
In the days that follow, Crowley feels like he's back in Hell. Aziraphale doesn't even touch him, except for chaste kisses on the lips that just make matters worse for the demon. He tries to approach his angel several times, and he's rejected every time. Nothing to do with him – Aziraphale assures him – he's just very busy.
Even though he is a literal creature of Hell, Crowley refuses to insist in any shape or form. He wants to tempt him, not to convince him, goddamnit. Also, he will not voice his concerns out loud, because that’s just not something Crowley does. He will suffer in silence instead. He begins to wonder: was it something he did? Must be.
And yet, Aziraphale is his usual affectionate self. So nothing seems to be wrong… except for the fact that Crowley feels he might as well burst into flames at any given moment. In the morning, Aziraphale looks so soft next to him, his blond curls in disarray, a light blush on his cheeks. When they go out for lunch or dinner, and he gets so excited about something he likes, his smile could light up a city. If he nods off on Crowley's shoulder while reading a book, snoring lightly, the scent of his cologne feels overpowering.
God, he wants to kiss him so badly, get his hands under his clothes, do something, do anything.
Ten days go by since the demon found Aziraphale's raunchy drawer and Crowley catches himself barely nodding while the angel talks at him. Eleven days, and he can hardly stand sleeping in the same bed. Twelve days, and he could swear Aziraphale's lips send electric shocks down his spine. Thirteen days, and, when the angel puts a hand on his cheek to thank him for picking up a book that had fallen on the floor, his fingers burn like consecrated ground.
On the fourteenth day, Crowley decides he can't lose his fucking mind; he has to get out of there. On the way to his apartment, he wonders what the Heaven happened to him. It used to be that he could be just fine without seeing Aziraphale for years and years. But now that he's had him – for a few months now – he can't give him up again. He's a ruined demon, that’s what he is.
When he gets home, finally he finds some solace in being alone. He drops into bed face first, and falls asleep before giving himself the chance to feel lonely rather than relieved.
Usually, his is a dreamless sleep. Not this time, though. This time he dreams of the angel's hot mouth all over his body, of fingers desperately clutching at him. He wakes up with the sound of the Aziraphale’s moans ringing in his ears, cock achingly hard against the harsh material of his pants. In a blink he's miracled away his clothes.
Crowley bolts up at the sound of Aziraphale's voice. Shoulders to the headboard, he looks up at his angel, who's standing in the doorway. Is he still dreaming? No, he's really there with him.
“Jesus Christ, Aziraphale. This is not what they mean when they talk about guardian angels.”
Aziraphale chuckles, and sits on the edge of the bed. Crowley remembers he's naked and hard, and blushes red in the semi-darkness of the room.
“My poor demon. I've been awful to you, haven't I?”
Crowley gathers his knees to his chest, trying very hard to appear relaxed and cool, even as his mouth dries up because Aziraphale is sitting on his bed. Now if he would just reach out to his naked body…
“Wouldn't say awful.” Keep it cool, keep it cool. “A bit distant, that's all.”
He can't decipher the expression on the angel's face, and it's driving him insane.
“So,” Don't sound desperate, stay focused. “What are you doing here?” His voice cracks ever so slightly on the last word and Crowley mentally kicks himself for it.
In place of a reply, Aziraphale snaps his fingers and suddenly Crowley feels his wrists being firmly tugged away from his knees until his arms are spread open. Delicate ribbons of yellow silk are tying him to the headboard – and he could easily rip them apart, but what matters is the intention behind them. He swallows hard.
“I am so sorry these last few weeks have been hard on you, Crowley. You see, I have been studying.”
The demon smiles wide at him. “I know.”
“I know that you know.” What is this, Crowley thinks, a James Bond movie? His angel goes on, “Anticipation is the key to satisfaction.”
“So, wait, you— you left the porn drawer open for me to find?”
Aziraphale nods. “There was never any book I needed to get that morning. I went for a walk in the park. I had a Belgian waffle.”
Is there a feeling that is somewhere in between wanting to fuck someone stupid and wanting to murder them? If there is, that's what Crowley is feeling right now.
“So you— you tortured me for days because of something you've read in a— a—” Breathe, center yourself, be calm. “In a fucking book?!”
“That I did.” Aziraphale smiles angelically at him, and Crowley wants to wrap his hands around that holy neck of his. “I'm hoping it'll be worth it.”
Every thought of murder is swept away from the demon's mind as soon as Aziraphale moves closer, sitting next to him. He inspects the silk fabric keeping the demon's arms open.
For a moment, he's completely serious as he looks into Crowley's eyes. “Is this alright?”
The demon looks up at him with a smirk. Those are not fuck me eyes; those are fuck me through the bed and then some more into the floor eyes.
Aziraphale takes that to mean tying him up was okay.
“So,” Crowley licks his lips, without as much as a hint of shame. He's too excited to even care. “I saw what you were reading. What did you want to try?”
“Well,” Aziraphale thinks about it for a moment. “All of it?”
“All of it?” Crowley almost chokes on air, barely holding in a laughter. “How much time do you have?”
Aziraphale leans in closer, making the demon's skin shiver with anticipation. “All the time in the world, dearest. Quite literally.”
He runs the back of his finger along the demon's cheek, pulling it back when Crowley tries to catch it between his lips.
“Just a little patience, now.” He smiles at him, his smile full of promise. “This was hard on me too. Now tell me, how do you want this?”
A million thoughts cross Crowley's mind in that moment, and he can't catch a single one of them. “Any way you want.”
The angel studies his face carefully, then must have decided what to do, because it's with a resolute motion that he reaches behind the demon's back, pulling a shiny black feather out of thin air.
“Hey!” Protests Crowley – he barely felt that, but still. “Why didn't you use one of yours?”
“I didn't want to ruin my wings.” Aziraphale replies, still smiling at him.
“You prissy bastard,” The demon tries to sound angry, but there's too much fondness slipping into his voice. “You're deliberately trying to piss me off, aren't you?”
Aziraphale puts on his best sweet, innocent angel face. “Possibly.”
Crowley pictures his angel reading somewhere about make-up sex and deciding on the spot he was going to torment him for weeks. He can't help the laughter bubbling up from his chest. “I can't believe you right now.”
“I love you too.”
If there's one thing you have to give to Aziraphale, is that he knows exactly how to knock the air out of Crowley’s lungs without even touching him. Now – Crowley did know Aziraphale loved him. But the angel had never said it out loud (unlike himself, who let it slip a few weeks ago).
Before he has time to process this, though, Aziraphale is running the black feather along the demon's face, along his neck. The touch of it is, well, light as a feather, but it leaves a blazing trail on the demon's body. He can't tear his gaze away from the angel's blue eyes and how they're staring at his body.
The feather scratches a nipple, not nearly enough, but at this point anything could make him moan. Crowley bites down on his lower lip. This is it, this is how he's going to die. Delirious with want, at the hands of his angel. Well… there are worse ways to die, all in all.
Then the feather brushes over the soft spot right above his armpit, and the demon giggles.
“Ooh, Crowley,” The angel's voice is giddy with wonder. “You're ticklish.”
“Am n—” He's interrupted by another stroke of the feather over sensitive skin. He makes a choked sound, somewhere between a moan and a laugh.
“My my, how absolutely remarkable.” He drags the feather over and under the demon's arm and side, making him squirm uncontrollably. “How positively lovely.”
“You're aware I'm— I'm going to make you—” he tries to close his arm, but his wrist is still tied to the headboard. “Fuck— I'm going to make you pay for this, angel.”
Aziraphale's sweet smile does not falter. “Why, I certainly hope so.”
He wasn't joking when he said this experiment was hard on him too. He too has missed him so much. Granted, he had some degree of control over the situation, but several nights he had to slip out of bed – thankful that Crowley slept like the dead – lock the bathroom door behind him, and stroke himself in the shower, one hand clutched tightly over his own mouth.
It is and it isn't similar to craving his favourite food. This has much higher stakes, not to mention the desire for Crowley has the ability to occupy the totality of his wishes and thoughts.
That's how he came up with this plan. He couldn't stop thinking about him, and decided to do what he does best – study the subject. There’s so much he wants to try. But, first thing first, he had to make his demon long for him. Aziraphale knows, after all, that he is just enough of a bastard to pull it off.
While laughter is a welcome break from all the tension, the expression on Crowley's face (when he's not giggling) demonstrates he's nothing short of affronted. Good Lord, he shouldn't, but Aziraphale finds that scowl adorable. Maybe it's because he knows that there's no bite behind it. He might talk big but, in practice, Crowley has done nothing but indulge him and spoil him ever since they've known one another. Doesn't he deserve to be pushed to the brink of incoherence and then thoroughly satisfied? Why, of course he does.
Taking mercy on him, the angel trails the dark feather down along his body, getting to his hips. He leans over him just a bit, just enough to let him feel his hot breath on his stomach.
“Aziraphale…” Crowley is now holding to his restraints for dear life. The feather brushes along his inner thigh, up and down, down and up again, then along the length of his cock. The demon takes a sharp breath, struggling to keep still like his angel wants him.
“Aziraphale, please…” Crowley tries again, to no avail. The angel has a plan, and he'll be damned if he doesn't stick to it. The teasing with the feather goes on, back and forth, for a time that is immeasurable. The demon feels himself throbbing under the evanescent touch of his own feather, painfully hard as Aziraphale's gaze bears down on him.
When the angel drops the feather to the bed, Crowley expects to be touched. Instead, Aziraphale begins taking off his waistcoat, unbuttoning it ever so calmly. Or is it Crowley's sense of time that has slowed down? Either way, he enjoys watching his lover undress, especially because he can tell Aziraphale is trying to keep a straight face, but there's still some embarrassment to it. Generally, it's Crowley taking the angel's clothes off, or they just miracle them away. This is deliberate, a conscious choice Aziraphale has made – to let his demon watch him slowly baring his body. It's more than just hot, it's intimate. A blush flourishes on the angel's cheeks, particularly when he remains bare–chested. As the archangel Gabriel helpfully pointed out, he's soft.
The look on Crowley's face, though, tells a different story. It's a good thing his eyes aren't human, because he might have forgotten to blink. Aziraphale is not sure whether the demon looks at him like he's a delicious cake or a stunning painting – maybe both. Crowley wouldn't be able to explain it out loud, but he would be attracted to Aziraphale in any body. This one in particular, he loves very much – the soft, smooth skin he can sink his fingers into; the welcoming curves of his body that speak about how much he's a creature of passion, who enjoys everything this earth has to offer; the muscles underneath, for he was a soldier once. He's perfect, and he's his. His perfect angel.
Crowley is not one for words, so he won't say any of that, but Aziraphale can tell anyway. He's become quite well versed in his lover's own particular body language – had to. When he notices Crowley biting into his lower lip, the pace of his breathing faster than it should be, his knuckles wrapped tightly around his restraints, the angel knows what he's telling him – kiss me, please, and let me kiss you all over, touch me before I lose my mind.
But he won't do that. Not yet. Crowley is not desperate enough. With another snap of his fingers, he frees one of the demon's wrists but captures his ankles, dragging him down until he's completely flat against the mattress, and spreads his legs slightly.
Crowley extends his free arm towards him, chest rising and falling quickly, but Aziraphale shakes his head. The demon lets out an exasperated sound. “Please?” He asks again, but the angel takes his hand, curls its long fingers, and places it down on the bed.
On his knees, straddling one of Crowley's legs without touching him, Aziraphale props himself up on one hand, hovering over the demon's body with no point of contact. Crowley can already feel the heat coming off of him, head spinning because of the smell of his skin. He can squirm and writhe, but the silk holding him down is tight enough now that he won't be able to reach his angel. So close, but not close enough.
This has been planned carefully, Crowley realizes. He imagines his angel sitting alone, considering different kinds of restraints and positions, getting excited at the thought of having him beg to be touched. Without realizing it, Crowley has been gripping his own hip, not quite daring to touch himself without permission.
Just as he's about to whine that this is starting to be too painful, Aziraphale finally speaks. “Show me,” he removes Crowley's hand from his hip, pressing it against his chest. “How you do it.”
Well, Crowley does not need to be told twice. He would rather his angel touches him, but as long as he has Aziraphale's undivided attention, as long as he feels his body heat so close to him, as long as he has his voice to guide him – he will do anything, anything at all.
So he does. Staring into the angel's eyes, he drags his nails on his own chest, leaving four red lines across of it, from his collarbone over his nipple and to his side. It stings just enough to ground him. He goes lower, teasing the base of his cock, eyelids fluttering half-shut as he does.
“Angel…” he pulls his head up as far as it will go, but receives no kiss for his effort. He drops back down with a moan, fingers wrapping around his length, stroking slowly up and down.
Aziraphale is extremely careful not to touch him with any part of his body, while keeping as close as he possibly can. It's torture for them both – a torture he's read will make the end result more gratifying, so here's to hoping his books don't fail him now – as he's achingly hard too. So, he mirrors the demon's actions, grabbing his own cock.
This is complete madness, thinks Crowley, as coherently as he can manage to. Both of them are burning up, a mere few inches from one another, and yet they can't reach out. What manual recommended this torment? He's going to toss it from the highest bridge he can find. And step on it, and set it on fire before tossing it.
And yet, he has to admit, it's working. If the goal was to make them desperate and helpless, well, that it did.
Aziraphale is breathing hard above him, and when they lock eyes, they both know – it can't go on like this, one or both of them is going to come right there and then, and there's still so much to do. Crowley doesn't see it coming, but the angel moves down suddenly, pressing their bodies together, and the sound that escapes the demon's mouth is one he doesn't even recognize. He's quick to wrap his free arm around Aziraphale's body, holding on to him like a drowning man.
He grinds against the angel's body, eyes pressed closed, pushing himself closer to the edge, thinking over and over fuck, fuck, fuck— but then Aziraphale pulls away and Crowley feels like he'll die right there and then.
Aziraphale is in no better state, dazed and desperate, and yet still determined to go through with the plan he's set his mind to.
“Angel, for the love of all things holy, you're going to kill us both.”
“That's… impossible.” Aziraphale replies, not without some trouble forming an intelligible sentence. “If that were a possible outcome, I would know.”
Crowley slumps back down, resigned, body still burning with pent-up tension. As soon as the angel pulls himself together, he's back, scattering small kisses all over the demon's sharp hip. Crowley flexes his free hand open and closed, it takes everything he has left not to sink his fingers into Aziraphale's white-blond hair and give it a tug.
The kisses turn into small bites, because a certain somebody has done his homework, and knows exactly all of his demon's buttons and turn-ons. He leaves a constellation of small bruises along his lover's body, traveling up to his chest, to his neck.
Crowley's yellow eyes are half-closed, small moans escaping his parted lips with every new touch of the angel's teeth. He's quite convinced he's died already and he's about to die again, there is no other possible explanation for this pleasure-pain cursing through his body.
And yet, it's not quite enough to make him finally come, and Aziraphale knows. If Crowley were clear-headed enough, he would feel a strong admiration for what his angel is accomplishing. It takes some serious cold blood to pull this off. Right now, though, he just wants him to fucking touch him already, set him on fire with a stroke of his hands, put him out of his misery.
It's not without a certain amount of desperation that he yields to the angel's tongue when it presses between his lips. His hand clings to the back of Aziraphale's neck now, unwilling to let him go.
“Okay, alright… angel, you've made your point,” He whispers hoarsely against his mouth, “I am not going to die but I guarantee you— I am one hundred percent going to lose my mind if you don't let me do something.” What that something is he makes it very clear, gathering Aziraphale's bottom lip between his teeth, sucking on it, then running his tongue from side to side as convincingly as he can manage.
“Fine,” Aziraphale is not sure whether he agrees because it doesn't clash with his plans or because he too is in desperate need to be touched. “I am not going to untie you, though.”
Crowley smirks wide in the crook of his neck. “I can work with that.” His tongue leaves a wet trail along Aziraphale’s pulse, all the way up to his jawline.
The angel lets go only one of his ankles, the one on the same side of the hand that's already free, so the demon can move and lay on his side.
“Turn around for me, angel.” And so Aziraphale does, even though his cheeks burn all the way to his ears, he sits up and moves his knees towards the headboard, close to the demon's head. He hasn't had time to lay back down before Crowley has buried his face in his lap, taking his cock into his mouth in one smooth motion, his hand reaching to grab its base.
Aziraphale should be used to this by now, he really should. Crowley does the most amazing things with his tongue. Something to do with having been a snake and all— whatever, it doesn't really matter right now. “You're so—” He puts a hand on the demon's head, because he knows that Crowley is extremely receptive to praise. He can't think of any words right now, though. “Good.” Well, he wished he could be more eloquent, but at least he didn't resort to one of his own old-fashioned expressions. Crowley would have never let him live it down.
He has to do something with himself; otherwise, Crowley will absolutely finish him off. As he's planned, he also lays down on his side, head towards the demon's knees, and starts sucking him off. He knows he can never be as good as his lover, and yet— Crowley trembles under his touch, moans loudly around his cock.
This is, as he's learned, what humans call a 'sixty-nine', for obvious reasons. He must admit he sees the merit in it. More importantly, they had never tried this yet, and he notes with pride that his demon is thoroughly enjoying himself. Which is great, because this, all of this – it was all for him.
When it comes to the human art of amorous exchanges, Aziraphale is more knowledgeable than he'd want his lover to know. Treatises on the subject have existed from ancient ages, pretty much all over the world. He's been curious, of course, so much so, especially because humans seem to enjoy it very much. Aziraphale's problem – not just in regards to sex, but also in regards to his whole existence – is his almost pathological need to be the good guy in his own story. And good guys, they don't sleep around, they don't risk breaking someone's heart. They have to appear friendly and innocuous.
It's with Crowley that he can drop all pretenses. His demon knows him inside and out, and despite this (or because of this?) he might have a higher opinion of Aziraphale than he has of himself.
He deserves all of this and more.
As he finds out, it's really quite easy to get carried away in these circumstances. At some point, the demon takes him into his mouth all the way, lips sealed around his cock, and begins to suck, making him see stars, and the most beautiful in the universe at that. He gasps for air, and manages to stop himself only a few seconds away from coming right there and then.
“You're too good, Crowley.” He corrects himself with a breathy laugh, pulling himself away. The demon still manages to tongue his tip before he's held back by his bounded wrist and ankle.
“What now, angel?” Crowley asks, his voice hoarse and his tone urgent. His cock is soaking wet and he feels too close to losing his mind once again.
Aziraphale too feels demolished. But he has to keep going, he got this far already.
“Now you turn around.” He says, gesturing with one hand. The demon doesn't need to be told twice. He flips over to his stomach, his restraints magically loose enough to let him move. For good measure, he arches his back, chest against the mattress, face pressed into the bed, rear sticking in the air without a hint of shame.
If Aziraphale thinks ‘jolly good’, thankfully he doesn't say it out loud. He places a hand firmly on Crowley's butt cheek and, just as the demon is wondering what exactly is going to happen next, the angel's free hand smacks him square on the back of the thigh, on the soft spot just below the butt. The demon hasn't finished registering what is happening before he gets slapped again, a sharp, sure snap, this time on the other side.
If his jaw could drop to the floor, it would. “Are you actually spanking me right now?” He's completely bewildered, and not at all in a bad way. If there's someone who can appreciate a bit of roughhousing, that's Crowley – besides, it doesn't even actually hurt, it just stings exactly the right amount. He just— he had never thought Aziraphale had it in him. Dirty little angel, what has he been reading?
Since he can feel Aziraphale hesitating, waiting for a signal one way or the other, he makes the very easy choice to lean into it. Heavily. “Have I been very bad, angel? Do I need to be punished?” He smacks his lips obscenely at him, and is rewarded with another sharp slap. He lets out a moan that shakes Aziraphale to his very core.
The angel, for his part, feels like his brain is split in two. One side is elaborating on just how bad the demon has been – with his reckless driving, his screaming at the plants, his horrible attitude towards the bookshop's customers (just the other day, he scared away a young man who was most definitely not hitting on Aziraphale, he was just being very friendly and a tad too affectionate!).
The other side is not doing anything coherent. It's merely trying to help Aziraphale brace himself, because the sight of Crowley naked, on his knees, exposed, still rock-hard, thoroughly undone is making his head spin.
With every lewd sound the demon makes, Aziraphale edges closer and closer to losing it, and knows he has to move to the next step.
Now, there are a number of ways he could go about this. But the course is set, because he had this planned beforehand, and has two other surprises in store for his demon. For, this time, he wants to be the one penetrating him— just for a little while. He'll take him, bring him very close to coming, then leave him. He'll wait until Crowley has forgotten himself quite enough, then he'll stop completely. After that… well, that's where his plan ends. He can make an educated guess, though, at how his demon will react.
And he can't wait.
So he places himself behind Crowley, whose eyes go wide when he realizes what his angel is up to. He would voice his surprise again, but, at this point, it feels superfluous. Besides, he's busy; he has to use the time Aziraphale is giving him to prepare his body for him. When the angel pushes in, their bodies fit perfectly together.
He knows how blasphemous this is, but— Aziraphale can't help but think that he's known Heaven, and this is better. So he moves. He pulls out and pushes in, once, twice, more times than he knows how to count. He reaches around and grabs Crowley's cock tight, stroking him in time with each thrust of his hips.
The demon has completely melted under his body. His skin is burning and slick with sweat, hair sticking to his face and cheek, his mouth is given over to making the most scandalous sounds – let the whole city of London hear him, he doesn't give a shit. Let them hear him all the way to Heaven and to Hell, those sorry suckers will never know something like this in their whole poor excuse of an existence.
“Aah, angel, I'm—” Just as he says so, Aziraphale pulls back, out and away, vanishing the silk that was holding Crowley back at the same time.
The demon finds himself on his knees, disoriented. Aziraphale can see on his face confusion, disappointment, frustration and anger following one another in rapid succession. Then the demon notices his wrists and ankles are free, and the angel swallows down hard.
Crowley lunges, toppling them over and off the bed. Aziraphale thinks he's going to hit the back of his head against the hard floor, but long fingers have sunk into his soft curls, cushioning the fall.
“Thank—” his mouth is covered and conquered by hungry lips, interrupting him once and for all. Crowley is looking at him with unfocused eyes, hands spasmodically moving to reach, touch, squeeze, hold. He seems to have lost the ability to speak. Perfect, thinks Aziraphale.
It takes the demon no time at all to hoist him up, pulling the angel's ankles over his shoulders, chest pressing into the back of Aziraphale's thighs as he pushes his way in. Crowley seems to be swearing under his breath in a language the angel doesn't speak as he thrusts in and out, at first shallow, then deeper and deeper, all the way in.
Aziraphale is left with nothing to grasp at except his lover, so he does, and finally— finally he doesn't have to hold back anymore. Here they are, at the finish line, where he wanted to take them, both of them now unashamed of the sounds their bodies are making.
Crowley pulls himself up to sit on the balls of his feet, dragging Aziraphale along in the process. The angel arches his back, arms abandoned over his head. The demon is staring at him with the intensity of a thousand suns as he keeps pushing in, a hand on Aziraphale's hips to keep him in place and the other pumping around his cock.
When they come – Aziraphale first, Crowley immediately after – the raw energy of it is enough to cause a very small, very localized, actual earthquake that only shakes up Mayfair and part of Hyde Park, all the way to the Serpentine. When they'll find out, Crowley will think it’s absolutely hilarious and lose his shit, while Aziraphale will briefly wonder out loud whether they should apologize to the people involved, before forgetting all about it and going on with his day.
Right now, though, all they can do is hold on to one another, still panting, utterly spent. Crowley moves them back to the bed and disentangles them, both of them completely exhausted. They lay there, eyes closed, foreheads touching, for a time that feels infinite. The sun has risen long ago and sets again over the lovers.
Crowley rests his chin on top of Aziraphale's head as he holds him, then clears his throat to talk.
“Hey,” He tries very hard to sound casual. “Did you... did you mean what you said, earlier?”
Aziraphale smiles in the crook of his demon's neck. “You want to hear again that I love you, don't you?”
“Naaah. I mean.” He mumbles now. “Just making sure I heard it right the first time.”
The angel squirms out of his arms to be able to look at him in the eyes. “Anthony ‘just a J’ Crowley, demon and former servant of Hell; I, Aziraphale, former guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden and Principality of Heaven, do love you. Very much so.”
“S’fine.” Crowley croaks out, and is quick to wrap his arms around Aziraphale again, to escape those penetrating blue eyes of his. “That's what I thought.”