“Angel. You look like a painting.”
The awe catches in Crowley’s throat. The words come unbidden, as when one finds oneself suddenly in the presence of great beauty or fortune. Discovering a bloom in the ashes of a city; waking to the sight of a dove carrying an olive leaf; discovering a bottle of Strasbourg 1472 when you’d thought it gone; Adam after the apple, truly seeing Eve for the first time. Worshipful and wonderstruck.
There had been nothing that evening to indicate Aziraphale was in a mood, but here he was: his back to Crowley, plentiful span of him laid out in bed like some 18th century libertine, lounging about on his stomach. Not a stitch on him. Naught but the hills and valleys of flesh spread bare to greet Crowley as he entered their bedroom.
He is utterly resplendent in the hazy light of the single lamp, glowing in a wholly natural, human way. The very picture of pleasure, to Crowley’s eyes. Their sheets, a rich forest green, bunch under him, pool at his edges. His head rests on a pillow, arms loosely draped around it. So artfully bon vivant. All of him curving and lazy, lax in repose. He looks an Ideal; a being of leisure. The image found now in museums, halls and galleries of a time period when such wealth of form was to be envied, celebrated. The landscape of Aziraphale’s back paint a striking study of strength and softness. Like a Titian or a Rubens.
Crowley tells him so.
Aziraphale gives a little moan, an idle oh, really question mark that tugs at Crowley like a physical hook. “Flatterer.”
So he’s not sleeping, just lounging. Ever the hedonist, bare skin on soft sheets is yet another pleasure of the waking world. An awake and particularly-sybaritic Aziraphale suits Crowley fine indeed. (He himself is dressed in silk, neck to ankle. But that can be rectified quick enough.) He moves towards the bed as Aziraphale stretches, back rippling, toes curling.
Unnhg, even his blessed toes set Crowley alight. It’s only that he’s usually so buttoned up, Crowley thinks. Like Victorians and their ankles. His attention is drawn to the exposed curve of a heel and another wave of heat cascades through him. Ridiculous. He’s ridiculous.
“The question—er—” He stumbles when Aziraphale moans again. Trips over the sharp spike it sends through him. Catching himself on a bedpost, his knees meet the mattress and he crawls gracelessly over to Aziraphale.
Something primal, something at the core of his make, sparks in Crowley when Aziraphale so openly displays submission to indulgence. And there’s the manner of the display: seeing Aziraphale’s body so open, so unburdened. He knows what that body feels like, the plush, warm weight. He knows his arms, what they feel like holding him, strong and heavy, safe; the press of opulent thighs against his own, sheltering him in love and light; the bulk of his arse in his palms. He knows what it is to cling to his waist, knead into flesh and take his comfort, let himself be taken in turn.
“My dear, are you alright?” There is a hint of a laugh in Aziraphale’s voice. Well aware of exactly what he’s about. The rascal.
Crowley clears his throat. “Question is… Tasteful nude as you are, luxuriating about…” He smooths his voice best he can; why is it that he can tempt hundreds, thousands, all the while remaining chaste, in action and in thought (er, mostly), but one tiny noise from the angel and he’s falling over himself like some novitiate? Clawing back to composure, he leans over Aziraphale, hands bracketing his shoulders. Keeping him flat on the bed. He bends and asks, low: “Sacred, or profane?”
“I wonder,” Aziraphale murmurs. Sighing, he twists a bit to face Crowley. His pale eyes are playful and soft, crinkling at the corners as he gives him a tender smile. “As if I don’t hear the wickedness in your voice, you scoundrel.”
“No wickedness inherent in the appreciation of the human form, angel.”
“Is that what you intend to do with me? Offer your appreciation?”
“It holds appeal.”
“Oh, I agree.”
“You know,” Crowley says, with a tilt of his head, as if considering, “it's not quite sporting, is it?”
Crowley combs Aziraphale’s curls back, fingers deep. Aziraphale’s eyes drift closed. “Rather feel like I’m being tempted. Finding you like this.”
“I assure you I’ve no idea whatsoever it is that you could be implying,” Aziraphale replies, like he didn’t at all intend to be propositioned, and he’s shocked at it, so shocked, really! That lying here bare as he is, such a thing would be thought of him! Of course, there is implicit in his innocent protest the suggestion that he could be persuaded… He leans, catches Crowley’s lips in a kiss. “Mmm, though I do warn you, I’m feeling disinclined to much exertion just now.” When he pulls away his eyes are sparkling.
Humming, Crowley bends his head to Aziraphale’s, just to rest, to feel the heat of his skin. Crowley is a demon; he senses interest. And it’s not as if Aziraphale is hiding it. He’s practically shouting, radiating desire, purposeful and blue, lustful, letting his need saturate his entire being. Bolder than a Soho boutique’s red light.
Oh, bless everything above and below and in between, Crowley adores him. It’s a game they play, dating back, way, way back, from before paint stains, from before Shakespeare: Aziraphale is well practiced, over many hundreds of years, at getting what he wants without having to ask.
Crowley places an open-mouthed kiss between his shoulder blades. He complies with the ruse eagerly, as always. “Am I to do all the work, then?”
“Mm, if you’re so bound to such a course of action, such a drive to show your… appreciation, oh, you’ll just have to…” Aziraphale ducks into the pillow of his arms. Wanton; trying for bashful. He sighs. “Oh, well, you’ll have to have your way with me, I suppose.”
A vague hand wave over himself, and Crowley’s naked. Just like that, pressed up and down Aziraphale, skin to skin, his chest curved to Aziraphale’s back, his thighs to Aziraphale’s glorious, plush backside. As an afterthought he snaps his fingers and his hair, formerly down to his shoulders, is tied back. A shiver goes through Aziraphale when Crowley twists, grinding half-hard against him. There’s no finer place to be, as far as Crowley is concerned, than settled right at Aziraphale’s thighs; no sweeter warmth, no better refuge.
He moves in closer, speaking right at Aziraphale’s ear: “Do you remember the Olympics? The early ones.”
“Wh… oh. I, I do, yes. Such scrummy barbeque.”
“Bar—” With a short, cut-off laugh, Crowley gets hands under him; one to grip a thick thigh and hitch him up, bringing him just to his knees, one wrapped across his belly, keeping him suspended, pressed tight. “I was thinking, ssspecifically, about another… aspect.”
Aziraphale shudders as Crowley rocks against him, cock lain just in the split of him, smearing wet at the small of his back.
From his feet to his breath against Aziraphale’s neck, they’re touching. Crowley leans closer still, fitting himself sinuous against him, spine tensile as he melds himself to softness, basks in heat. He kisses at Aziraphale’s skin, lingering, sucks at him as he squirms.
And with barely contained mischief, he goes right to Aziraphale’s ear. Affects a crude American accent: “Wanna wrastle?”
Shocked, manic giggles spring from Aziraphale, muffed into his arms. “That’s horrible! You—you picaroon, you—oh, are you or are you not trying to bed me, you…”
Crowley keeps the hand held at his belly and twists a shade unnaturally over Aziraphale, hooking an arm around his neck to cradle his jaw, and turns him to face him with a kiss. Open and wet, diving into the warmth of him, taking him slow, deep. Aziraphale moans, loud and wanton, licking into him in turn. He’s pinned, locked in Crowley’s embrace. His hands clench in the pillow under him.
A rock heated in the sun to perfection. Crowley moves against him, places his hand into the pyre of him to gently palm at his cock. Finds him hard to scalding.
“Oh, angel,” Crowley says. Aziraphale gives a hiccup of a chuckle and hums into Crowley’s mouth, catches his tongue and sucks as Crowley massages light over the fat head of him, smooths the foreskin with a thumb, dragging slick down from the weeping slit.
They thrust together for a moment, soft moans into mouths and the wet slide of Crowley’s hand on his cock, before Crowley pulls away with a lingering, sloppy kiss. He sits back on his heels, hands on his hips. Surveying his charge. His own cock stands hard, curved and eager.
Aziraphale makes a soft, wounded sound at the loss, and Crowley shushes him, tender. He’s the one tasked with taking care of him, right now, and that thrills him, lights him up to bursting. Aziraphale trusts him—trusts him! Aziraphale is a being awash in earthly delights, a true sensualist; he knows what he likes and he knows how he likes it and he trusts Crowley with making sure he gets it. Crowley watched Aziraphale for millennia see to his own gratification, take pleasure wherever he found it.
And now Crowley is allowed that honor. He can bestow pleasure. It still seems a dream, at times. All that is set before him. With both hands he palms at Aziraphale, kneading from arse to thighs, watching transfixed as the ample flesh bends and smooths in his grip.
“Cro… ooohh.” Aziraphale’s hips twitch in enchanting, faint little trembles. “Anything,” he grants, all but babbling. “Anything.”
There’s only one thing Crowley wants, currently.
He squeezes his hands in between Aziraphale’s thighs. With spindly fingers he strokes just above the bend of his knees and his eyes flutter shut briefly at the strength, the heat. Fingers wide, he parts them. He licks his lips at the prize of him just visible at the center, the tight bollocks drawn, pressed against the mattress below, and watches rapt as he releases his grip and the thighs come back together, bouncing.
With a keen, Aziraphale—there’s no other word for it—fucks into the bed. “Oh, sh—sugar, Crowley, stop playing and see to me, for—”
Crowley conjures a small glass of oil. Old fashioned. Quaint.
“Can’t go wrong with the classics,” he murmurs, and pops the cork with a flick of his thumb.
Aziraphale groans low as the fragrant, fruity scent of olives fills the room.
As interested as he himself is, Crowley cannot resist letting the moment hang for the sheer salacious, anticipatory, effect; the impatient, petulant huff that escapes Aziraphale at his pause.
After stalling as much as he can stand, Crowley runs a hand down Aziraphale’s back, curving over the dips of him. He grips a palmful of flesh, spreading him—before he shrugs and pours the entire bottle just there, making an instant mess of them both. The oil is viscous. It’d be a chore to try and salvage the sheets from stain if either of them had to worry about such a thing.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale pants, scandalized. Voice dancing with delight. He gives a happy little wiggle.
The flesh is malleable, yielding to his hands. Slippery, overly so, liquid and luxurious. His fingers slide deliciously at Aziraphale’s thigh as he rubs at the oil, spreading it from knee to taint. He loses his grip briefly when he grabs to move his leg up, bend his knee, and digs his nails in to hold—holds tighter still at the low noise that shreds out of Aziraphale.
“I am going to… to, hnk, b-bury mysself between you, I’ll, all I need is your thighs… Only place I wanna be…”
“Yes, my darling, mine, oh, yes, do.” With little effort, Aziraphale tips to his side slightly, for better access, and Crowley’s mouth falls open at the vision of him: his face is wrecked, eyes shining, flushed, lip bitten pink to match. And so, so much Love outflowing, it aches.
Crowley holds tight to Aziraphale, keeping him open, and takes himself in hand with a hiss. He goes slow, relishing the slick, smooth drag, and nestles right in between the generous girth of Aziraphale’s thighs. The tip of him bumps up against Aziraphale, just skimming at his bollocks. His hips stutter unbidden, helpless with it.
“Cr—crosssss-crosss your ankles ffor me, love, would you?”
When he removes the hand holding him parted, Aziraphale’s bulk envelops him and Crowley’s world narrows to plush, clenching heat. All he knows is warmth and wet against the sensitive length of his cock. A few quivering false starts and he gathers himself, gives a slow thrust, and returns his hand to Aziraphale.
For long minutes there is naught but the soft sounds of them as they move against one another.
“Golden Ratio, what, Greeks w’re mad. ‘Man is the measure of all things,’ sssure, right, ssure, if you’re nothing but—but muscles and nothing else, nothing to hold, nothing, gnn, idiot sods; you’re perfection, angel, pure of form as that the finest silk envies the luxury of your being,” Crowley says, and draws back from him so that just the head of his cock sits cocooned.
Aziraphale whines at him, presses his thighs tighter.
“Perfect,” Crowley repeats, in a daze. Still, he pants against his back, clenching, petting at Aziraphale. He draws a deep breath, thrusts smooth and deep against him on the exhale. He runs a hand to the base of him, cups his balls, rolling them in his palm as Aziraphale hitches, seeking out more, more—the room swirls with heady, smothering need and Crowley curls up and around and squeezes just below the head of his cock, fingers dancing at the nerves held there, gathering moisture and moving up, down. Sweat glows over them, sticks them together and slides them against each other. The oil is thick, almost greasy, oozing between Crowley’s fingers and onto his thighs. He feels so wet, filthy—
“You are a—a, a rather a, lovely creature yourself, my dear.”
“Nhk n-neither of us are the ideal in that sense. Haa,” he snickers. Story of their long, long lives. “That’s… that’s my point, I th, I think. I like it. We fit.”
Was it his point? Did he have one? The swell of Aziraphale, the cushion of his backside, sits as if destined in the indent of Crowley’s abdomen. As if Aziraphale was built to smooth out his sharp angles, fill all the empty places in him: clean out the cobwebs, open the windows. Suffuse his rooms with light. Tears prick at his eyes and Crowley shuts them, presses his forehead to Aziraphale’s back, breathing in, flicking a tongue to scent the air. The calming, grounding perfume of their sex fills him. He focuses on the physical slide, the sensation of his cock warmed by the furnace of Aziraphale’s thighs, the tip of him brushing Aziraphale’s heavy balls with every thrust; the weighted heat of Aziraphale in his hand, leaking, straining.
The ghosts of their wings quiver in the aether.
Aziraphale grabs at his arse. A solid, lean half of him nearly fits in the cradle of his hand entire, and Crowley’s hips stutter as Aziraphale takes a shaky breath and answers: “We do, my dear boy, oh. We fit well indeed. Do talk to me, your voice, Crowley, I—I’ve not got long. Tell me. Share yourself with me, my darling, oh, please.”
“Ann—” A distinctly inhuman noise breaks from Crowley, a hoarse tangle of drawn sibilants and high, rough scrambles, smashing together. The words force themselves out. “Angel, some dayssss—I’d worsship you if you’d have me.”
The length of Aziraphale’s cock jerks sudden in his hand as he gasps. He drips over Crowley’s fingers, oil and the wet of him creating a soaked, slippery stroke. It’s become hard to keep a grip. Crowley curls his fingers tighter, twists at the ridge on the underside of the head. The whole of Aziraphale trembles. He’s barely holding himself aloft.
Crowley wasn’t built for this—the joy, the sheer blinding ecstasy of knowing someone in this way. It catches at him, lodges in his chest, his throat. Boils over in one way or another.
“As a great hero of old. I-I would. Bit of blasphemy: build you a statue. Li-ike that, do you? Me talking about how much I love you; y-you can feel it, can’t you? I’m burning, alwayss burning for you—” Aziraphale gives a long, slow roll, clenching his thighs, kneading his fingers deep where they rest on his backside, and Crowley chokes, free hand roaming over him, grasping and pulling wherever he can get a grip on him, in him, himself made of nothing but abject want. “Ennnhk, you, gn, l-listen, I came to our bed tonight with no ex-expectation…” He gives himself over to the worship of the thing, to bringing about Aziraphale’s release, stroking in earnest, kissing over his bared skin at every pause. “I look forward to sleeping with you, did you know? Just sleeping in your blessed arms iss like some kind of-of—miracle, like I melt into you and I forget we’re two people, G-gnyou’re so soft, is the thing! So soft, I love you, I love it, and I can’t…” He takes a long, wet breath.
Aziraphale goes to lift his head, but Crowley squeezes his cock, fiercely, and he falls back down with a broken, high noise, eyes shut.
“No, le’me talk. You wanted me to talk and m’talking. You’re indulgence—your indulgence, this prick of yours, that the Greeks had the right of it, a little, Grecian ideal, the width is the thing, Azsssira, hnn, ‘phale, splits me open, sets me right.” He flits his hand over the slick head, palming, firm, fingers splayed, squeezing at the underside. His thrusts fall in rhythm with the pulls on Aziraphale’s cock, hard and slow. Sopping and obscene.
There exists nothing but the sounds of their skin slapping, the squelch of the oil, Aziraphale whimpering his name. “Crowley, I’m—”
“Sssuch a messs you are, angel, lasssciviouss to your core. Just lissten to the sounds of us, so wet you can hear it.” Crowley gets close, twisting his hand, his voice a low rumble. “Our—our love making. Be-because thhat’sss what it is, ah, always, angel, anngel: I never knew love like this until yours; I never knew I could love like this until I knew you.”
Aziraphale peaks, a low, scattered cry falling from his lips, awe-struck, rapturous. The tension in his thighs eases as he quakes, jerks, as Crowley milks him through it, pumping out every last spill of him, murmuring soft as Aziraphale sighs, goes pliant in his arms.
“Point: me,” Crowley says quietly. Giddiness creeping in.
And Aziraphale laughs. A loud, hitching melody.
Grin sharp against skin, Crowley laps at the salt at his back. Spend sticks at his fingers. Coated where he strokes along his softening cock, feather-light, easing tiny drops out of him still, and where he holds a palm flat to his belly. Marvelously glazed with heat. With the evidence of Aziraphale’s fervor. He flicks his tongue in the air, tasting the sweet familiar flavor pulse of Aziraphale. He rocks smoothly against him, easing him down, petting against the shivering flutter of his abdomen, rubbing the mess into his skin.
Laughter trails off as Aziraphale hmms lightly. He brings his hand from where it had fallen in crisis back to Crowley’s arse. He tugs, encouraging him to move with further zeal. So gently demanding: “Won’t you join me, now, mm, come on.”
Crowley is still blisteringly hard, and it takes two, three thrusts into the cush swell of him for him to find his own end. He paints the insides of Aziraphale’s thighs with a reedy, shaking keen, a wail he stifles against the warm, soft skin of his shoulder. His toes curl and his legs twist. Hips pumping, shuddering, voice shredded.
“There you are, oh. Oh, just beautiful,” Aziraphale murmurs, thighs tight around him, single-handedly keeping him rocking against him when Crowley’s bones go soft, loose in his skin as he comes down. His cock sputters, leaks, continues to spill as Aziraphale holds him.
After a moment, sated and wrung out, limbs heavy and clumsy and a little snake-like, Crowley shifts, and moves Aziraphale to rest on his back.
Aziraphale is, as ever, inordinately charming in the wake of climax: Sweat-slack hair misshapen, eyes wide and joyous, lines of the sheets crease his face and his mouth parts soft, lips swollen and red. All of him is flushed pink, generous chest heaving with breaths he doesn’t need. His soft cock rests in the wet mess at the center of his thighs, tucked in damp blond curls. He lies triumphant, entire body beaming, legs sprawled open with no attempt to hide the treat that shines on his thighs.
“Shameless,” Crowley tsks, fond beyond measure.
Crowley lays himself in the spread of Aziraphale’s legs, and flexes his fingers in the spend with both hands pressed flat. Reverent, purposeful. Drags it up to his stomach, mixes the two of them together. He sees and feels the swell of Aziraphale’s chest as he bends his head, licks at one fat nipple, then the other, before he descends, mouthing his way down, tongue at the warm pool in his bellybutton, catching the spill caught over the generous curve of his middle.
He makes his way over him, laving between his thighs and laying worship to his stomach.
The oil itself is mostly flavorless, a touch spicy and bitter; it pairs well with their mingled seed, really. Adds pleasing complexity to the dish, he thinks, channeling Aziraphale and smiling against salt-sweet skin. He licks his lips, making a show of it, closing his eyes and moaning before going back for more.
“Best banquet in all of Creation, thisss,” Crowley hisses, and Aziraphale shudders, draws in a breath. A hand falls to tangle in his hair, card through where it’s come free of it’s tie, messy as the rest of him. Crowley groans. Soft little sounds flow from him, mms and low hisses, as he laps and sucks with single-minded, sharp-set devotion, playing the glutton. His prick twitches with renewed interest as the praise tumbles from him, unbidden: “You taste like light, angel, like—like, unnh, like oystersss made of all the fruits of Eden, like r-rain like rainfall and the ocean and sshelter and home.”
“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale breathes, and his belly flutters against Crowley’s mouth. From above Crowley hears a needy, distinctly hungry noise.
Always one to readily indulge Aziraphale the pleasure of a meal, Crowley with a tongue stretched serpentine scoops up a generous portion and slithers the length of Aziraphale’s front, heavy and ponderous in his hazy state. He rests on the lavish cushion of his chest, chin perched on crossed arms, and quirks an eyebrow at him. Gives a close-mouthed smile.
Aziraphale is biting at his lip, open anticipation writ on his flushed face. His eyes shine. It’s a look Crowley has been savoring for thousands of years.
Sure enough, in the next instant Aziraphale is ducking his head, licking at Crowley’s slick chin with a low, punched-out sound, sucking at the corner of his lips. His hand takes the tie from Crowley’s hair, flings it away, and Crowley gasps, mouth falling open as fingers move through the tangles. Tiny little pricks of pain on his scalp spark and he squirms, slips against Aziraphale in the oil-sweat-come mess of them, surging forward. Aziraphale cups his jaw with his free hand and takes his mouth, licking in tandem with the motion of his fingers, tongue curling, open and wet, sloppy.
Spit and spend drips down their chins, which Aziraphale chases, and that’s it, Crowley’s died and gone to H—to Hea—well. He’s on Earth, and his husband is giving him a very thorough seeing to, utterly lost to pleasure in an obscene sort of cleaning/feasting combination he can feel all the way down his spine. He’s not anywhere but where he needs to be. And thank the stars for that.
Aziraphale sucks at his neck, laps up the long trail of their clumsy spill before resuming the kiss, moaning at their joining, at their taste, sucking at Crowley’s tongue to capture it all and swallowing, petting at his hair, laughing in little joyful huffs against his lips.
“Ypérochos, nóstimo, mm, more, the treat of you. Eísai téleios, agápi mou. Páli.”
“Sas parakaloúme, please, please,” Crowley says, breathless. Not for the first time he’s glad he long got over his resistance to a little begging, because the heat coursing through him is searing, exquisite, the responding swell of Aziraphale’s cock against his stomach the most glorious reward.
“Traditionally there were multiple points to be gained in a match, as I recall.”
“Firsssst one to three?” He gives a slow roll of his hips, not entirely human in his undulation.
Aziraphale’s breath hitches, his hands grip Crowley’s trim waist—the span of his fingers, oh, sweet buggering heaven—and quick as a blink, Crowley finds himself on his back. He groans, melts into the pillow behind him, tilts his head back wantonly. Exposes the column of his throat. Blatant submission. He, too, can ask without words.
“Oh, look at you,” Aziraphale murmurs against his forehead. He kisses him there, moving to his temple, cheek, jaw, before nosing at the base of his neck. He breathes him in. When he speaks, Crowley feels teeth. “My erómenos. My sýzygos.”
A growl, a low whine, catches in Crowley’s chest. He clings, fingers winding, burying himself in the comfort of Aziraphale, the voluminous, tender weight of him. The wet of his fingers drips down Aziraphale’s shoulders, neck, back, arms, waist—he miracles more oil straight to his palms and Aziraphale trills, delighted, as Crowley anoints him.
Sanctifies, in a secular sense: Marks. Claims.
Aziraphale grips the underside of Crowley’s knees, moving him easily, sliding himself perfectly in the junction of his thighs. Crowley feels oil spread from Aziraphale’s fingers, bloom and trail down in a tease, warm and singing of promise. He whispers the signal word to start the game against Crowley’s lips and Crowley is filled with the memory of lyres, trumpets; drums beating to the twin pounding of their hearts. Ready, set, go.