In the aftermath, Aziraphale could barely stand on his own, and Crowley let him lie in his place on the bed, pillows underneath his head, his hips, making sure everything was nice and comfortable for his angel. Crowley was almost worshipful in his dedication as he gently soaked the washcloth in water and then brought it to the angel’s skin, bringing it delicately back and forth over his shoulders, his back, his sides, sponging away the lingering sweat and come that still stuck to him.
Aziraphale let out some vague noise of complaint when Crowley started on his thighs, still sensitive, but Crowley kept to his work, pressing an apologetic kiss to each of Aziraphale’s buttocks, his nose playing over the pale skin there.
“I’m tired, Crowley,” Aziraphale said breathlessly, all the prim prettiness drained from his voice, and Crowley chuckled, taking a better hold of the angel’s thigh and turning him over. Aziraphale let out a punched-out little noise as he landed on his back, looking plaintively up at Crowley, and Crowley began to sponge at his chest, his neck.
“You wanted this, sweetheart,” Crowley reminded him, taking care to bring the cool wet cloth gently against Aziraphale’s nipples, which were swollen and puffy from all the night’s attention, and Aziraphale shivered, squirming in his place. Crowley could see he was still hot, a flush plain on his cheeks, his chest, but more than that he could see Aziraphale’s clit, still stiff to attention and a beautiful, plush red, twitching when Crowley touched him the right way. “You asked me so prettily. Was it all you wanted?”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said plaintively, and Crowley put the cloth aside, sliding his fingers over Aziraphale’s pale, creamy thighs. Every inch of the plush, fat flesh was marked over with little fingerprint bruises or red bites, a few marks from nails here and there, and oh, how Aziraphale shifted when Crowley stroked them, tipping his hips up for more and releasing the most delicious, plaintive noise.
“I think you’ve been touched enough tonight,” Crowley said, faux-pouting down at the angel as he played a featherlight finger over Aziraphale’s clit, watching his back arch, watching his fat tits shift as he moved, the way his thighs fell further open. “You’re dripping, sssweetheart.”
He put two fingers lower, and he dragged them through the thick mess at Aziraphale’s cunt, feeling how soaked through he was with his own wetness and with all their come too, all those useful men that had helped Crowley satisfy his angel for the night. It dripped down his thighs, and he whistled to himself as he pushed them apart, getting a better look.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale complained, but there was an edge of heat beneath the annoyance, and Crowley didn’t tear his gaze away from Aziraphale’s open cunt, red and open and abused, or from his arsehole, smooth and pink around the open rim, so well-fucked as it was.
“My greedy angel,” Crowley purred, breathing hot over Aziraphale’s sex, laughing at the way Aziraphale whimpered and rolled his hips down. “What, you want my mouth?”
“Please,” Aziraphale moaned, his face buried against the crook of his elbow. “Oh, please, Crowley, just one more, just one more—”
“How many have you had?”
“Ah ah,” Crowley said, tapping his finger sternly against Aziraphale’s clit and grinning at the angel’s whine. “Tell me how many times this pretty little clit has come tonight.”
“And you want a sixth?”
“Please, Crowley, you infernal, wretched beast!”
“Oh, that isn’t very nice, is it, darling?” Crowley asked, frowning, and he took a handful of Aziraphale’s outer lips, squeezing his clit between them and watching it jump, listening to Aziraphale’s loud moan. “If you come for me, just like this, just keep clenching until you get there, I might just fuck you. Is that what you want?”
“Oh,” Aziraphale whimpered, and as he clenched, more come dripped down his thighs. Crowley couldn’t help but lick his lips. “Yes, yes, oh, yes—”
“Come for me then, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, squeezing tighter, feeling Aziraphale’s clit jump beneath his thumb and fingers. His own trousers were feeling tight, now, and he stroked over himself with the heel of his hand. “I’ll give you both, shall I? Fill you up from both ends, plug you up nice and tight, make you remember why you have me—”
The noise the angel made was strangled and sharp, and Crowley watched greedily, hungrily, at the way he twitched and jumped, the way his hole clenched so uselessly, so spread wide…
“That’s it, angel,” Crowley murmured, and went for the fastening on his own trousers.