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Talking is Cheap and Your Eyes Were Expensive

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Angel, please. I’m dying here.

You’re tearing me up. Take my heart, while you’re at it. It couldn’t hurt any less. Could it? Rake your fingers over it, feel the blood drip down your fingers. I just want you to feel it. The stain. You never did want to know, though. That’s on me. I like to know things.

I’d like to know you better, actually. I’d like to know your hair and your eyes, your lips, your nose, your ears, your back, thighs, chest, legs… All of you. I want you in entirety. But I’ll take anything you give to me.

When you say those things, I don’t wish you hadn’t. Because anything you give me, well, it’s still a gift. And I know you like me. I do. You light up sometimes when I walk in the door. Sometimes.

Do you ever think about me like this? I’ve spent years trying to drown it all out. Sleep works a lot of the time. Alcohol, too. But eventually I just gave in. There’s no point, is there? It’s all going to end. Well. It was. I’m not sure what happens now.

Now, when you look at me with something other than the wall in your eyes. I’ve got your full attention, don’t I? Only took the end of the world. You look at me, and hold, and you look - well. Terrified, actually. That’s new.

Is it me? It’s not. It can’t be. You’ve never been scared of me like that, like the horrible fucked-up thing I am, even if you should have been.

Oh. Oh shit. It’s not me. It’s my hand. You’re terrified of my hand and so you’ve taken it in yours and now you’re looking away and I’ll just - yeah, let’s do that. Shall we? Look away while our knees knock. Fuck.

Hand holding? Is this how it starts?

The lights are so bright in here. I’ll just close my eyes. Close my eyes, and lean my head against the glass. It’s cold. Your hand is very warm.

If I pretend to fall asleep - and I will - will you wake me up when we get there? Will you take my shoulder and shake me, gently? Or will you pull at my hand? Will you - oh. 

As it turns out, sleep is deceivingly easy to slip into after a traumatic event. I’ll just - you - oh good, I am a bit woozy, yes thank you, hand around my waist, lovely. Fuck.

You’re too busy to be scared now. You’ve always been good at caring. Caring for me. You’ll do it now, won’t you? Pat me down - I’m still very sleepy, actually - for my keys, take them, flash me a knowing look before you turn it in the lock. I know you know. You know I know you know. I know you know - and then we’re inside, and you’re still supporting me.

Lifts are funny, aren’t they? I sometimes imagine, when I’m in this one, that I’m going back to Heaven. Ascending. Who could have thought, all those years ago, that humans ever could have been so clever?

You’re very quiet. I wonder if you’ve realised that you’re still holding my hand. 

Oh. You have, apparently. Your fingers feel awfully nice, doing that calming stroking thing. I could get used to that. If only there were more floors in this building.

I know you don’t like my flat. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m trying to have a life like yours, I really am, but we’re not all bloody cosy book maniacs. I have my plants, and I have my big chair - oh, don’t look at it like that, angel - and I have my, er, walls. Gotta love walls.

How - how - I do not understand you. How have you made tea, angel? I don’t own a kettle, or teabags, or milk, or mugs, actually. I own none of those. And you have made tea. The human way. Well. Do humans miracle up kettles?

You haven’t talked much. Or at all. Usually you’re so keen to fill in these little silences, to push little bits of sealing wax into the wall you’re maintaining, to clog it up and stopper it so neither of us can burst through. Talk. Talk is cheap.

Talk is cheap, but your eyes are expensive.

They’re very close. You’re very close. You’re - oh God. They say to love another person is to see the face of God. I haven’t seen the face of God, but you have. Right now, though, your eyes are closed. You’re leaning in. I’m leaning in.

Smash.

I’ve dropped my tea. And the moment is gone. I want to cry, to rage, to storm, because if six thousand years have gone by and I’ve missed my chance - but you smile. You smile, and miracle it away, and you take me by the arms.

You kiss me. Deeply. Softly. Gently. 

It’s like nothing and everything and something in between all at once. It reminds me of bringing stars into the world, those huge energies colliding and bursting and sustaining and living. I am still living, aren’t I? You had better pinch me. Just to check.

Your lips are soft, and you smell so intensely of - well, you. Sweet grass, and old books, and just a hint of that angelic flame. If you set fire to me right now, I wouldn’t even notice. Not until the flames licked right up my leg. You could lick up my leg. If you wanted. I’d definitely notice.

You would never smite me though, would you, angel? You’re being so careful with me now. Your hands cradle my face like it’s something breakable. Something precious. I don’t know how to feel about that. I’m broken already, and here you are, still taking this care over me. As if we can both just ignore the mess that I am.

You sit me down. Well. Sit me down isn’t quite the right term, but this is all new. I’m not used to you taking my hips, walking me to the couch, your lips still on mine, endlessly needing, wanting, taking, giving. You can tell I’m not used to it because I’ve forgotten where my own couch is, and I bang my head on the arm as I go down.

You apologise.

You apologise. To me. For - for kissing me too hard? For pushing me down, like I’ve been asking you, begging you, for centuries? You apologise. What the fuck.

I’m just going to ignore it, because you’re kissing me again, except this time you’re closer on account of gravity. I wasn’t sold on gravity when it first came about, actually. The way they briefed us on it, I thought everything in the universe would just get stuck together, bound infinitely. 

Just now, though, I have never been gladder of staying quiet during a presentation. Gravity pulls you down against me, and gravity urges your skin against mine, and gravity drives my breath from me - oh no, that’s you, isn’t it? You’re pushing yourself further into me, and we still haven’t talked but I can’t, I can’t, I can’t manage any of it.

It’s not giving up, is it, to fall into you? To seize at the back of your coat, fist it so desperately I’m worried you’ll snark at me afterwards for the thready bits I’ve left hanging. It doesn’t feel like giving up. It feels like my neck is on fire, because you’re kissing it, and I can’t help it, angel, I’m sorry, my hands need to be in your hair and yes they need to be that tight, I have to hold you, very very close. If we can’t talk, you need to be close.

You don’t seem to mind that, actually. The noises you make. They’re not so much beautiful as filthy and debased and entirely too much for me to process. I can make noises back, can’t I? A sort of conversation. Oh, fuck. I don’t think I have much control over the noises, now they’ve started, and - that’s embarrassing, that moan was loud - but you don’t seem to mind. 

Is there anything you would mind? If I took my chances with this, what would your chances be? You’re fumbling with my shirt buttons now, and that is - well - an indicator. Maybe you’d say no, though. Maybe you’d say another time. Maybe you’d say yes. Or maybe, just maybe, you’d forget to give me time to ask the question and kiss me just like that and slide your hand down, down, fuck, angel.

Is there anything you can’t do?

Don’t answer that. I want to find out.

It seems alright, doesn’t it, considering I’m half naked, to take your coat off. You’re straddling me, now, and you look like you’re waiting for it. I can’t do it the same way you did, you seem to want this fast, but I can’t, I need to be slow and sure and just give me some time to cope with this, please. I smooth down your lapels. Will your skin be this soft? I slide your coat off your shoulders. Slowly. Surely. It falls to the ground, slithers, hisses down your back. I’ve seen you like this before, of course. In summer. When you’ve been reshelving. But this is different. It’s my design. My design on you, and you let me have it.

There isn’t any sexy way to take off a bowtie, angel. I’m sorry. I can’t figure it out. Do you miracle this thing knotted, I ask, and it’s the first thing I’ve said, we’ve said, and you laugh, and snap your fingers. I don’t, you say. You’ve just never worn one of these. Not cool enough for you.

I shake my head to cover my shaking fingers. I press down your collar with thumb and forefinger. You have to be pristine before I take it off. I want you to feel like yourself, clean and neat and tidy. I don’t want to ruin you. I pause at the top button. This. This is a new level. It’s been centuries since I’ve seen this. You nod, and whisper to go ahead. I want this, you say. Don’t be afraid. I want you.

Angel, you can’t just say things like that. I have to be so careful. This moment is - it’s like the fuel we used, for the star forges. There was a terribly limited supply. God wouldn’t give us any more, if we had screwed it up, screwed it would have stayed. It feels explosive. Could we go off any moment? Would you? Go off? I don’t want to lose your warmth here. Your needing. And so I have to take it all in. This is it. Precious. Everything.

Eventually, though, you raise your eyebrows at me, and I have to start unbuttoning. I give myself ten seconds per button. Here is how it goes. Unbutton, with a pop. Slip fingers in, beneath the shirt. Feel frustration at your requirement to have a Victorian-age undershirt. It’s not even cold, angel. Then I slide down, down, and I repeat. There are ten buttons. One hundred seconds. It’s not enough. I slide your shirt off, and I look up at you.

You are radiant.

No, you’re actually glowing.

I am? you ask. Oh. Er. I don’t know how to -

Don’t stop, I say. I like it. I like you. And that’s where I have to shut up, shut up, Crowley, you’re going to overshare if you start saying things like that, I like you, I love you, fuck, fuck. Stop it.

I like you too, you say, and you smile as if you’re just a tiny bit shy. It breaks my heart. I have to bite my lip, sink teeth in, to stop myself from blurting it out. Don’t ruin this. I can’t ruin you. I can’t.

Your skin is so pretty. Pale and pink. I run my hands over it, I can’t help myself, I need to feel you, angel. I’ll try not to ruin you, these hands, they only want to know. I only ever wanted to know. But you know that, and you know me, so that’s alright, isn’t it?

You wrestle off your undershirt as if you’re frustrated. As if you want it faster. That’s my job, angel. But I’m not going to argue. Not when you blush like that, when you move your hips as you sit on top of me. I’ve only ever seen the tops of your blushes, I realize now. Your face becomes rosy. I know it so well. But it’s the tip of the iceberg. A very hot iceberg. The flush spreads down your neck, your chest. You’re so pink. 

I need to kiss you again.

My hands are useless, flappy, hesitant things, but you seem to understand, and you let yourself be drawn back down. Your lips touch mine and I start to see things that I can’t explain. Most of those things are in front of me. Your eyes. They’re closed now, as you kiss me. I wonder why. I suppose it is the done thing, in sappy romance films, and you do so love those.

I close my eyes too. Kiss deeper. Softer. Gentler. It becomes unspeakably tender, until I feel as if you’re wringing confessions from me. Your tongue, it gentles and steadies and somehow inflames, it sets me alight with the fuel of my own heart. You’ve always been able to do that, for some reason. Fill my heart, then burn it alive.

It doesn’t hurt so much this time.

I notice vaguely that your chest is against mine, and so your skin is against mine, and that feels tender too. Intimate. It feels like you trust me. It feels like you want me. It feels like I’m becoming yours.

I’ve always been yours, but this is a new way of expressing it. I am very aware that you want me, now, in this moment. But trust. You didn’t trust me enough to tell me, before. Do you trust me now? If I kiss this line up your cheek, would you trust me not to bite? If I nibbled gently on your jaw, down your neck, would you crane your neck around, beg for more?

You would, it turns out. You ask me to bite. I oblige.

You start to make those noises again. I can feel them now, as you make them, rumbling up your throat, vibrating against me. Your whole body is vibrating now. Actually, it could just be me. That’s embarrassing. I can’t tell.

Whoever it is, they’re vibrating, and I need to get to you, angel, my hips, they can’t help it, they have a bit of a mind of their own, you know, that’s why they’re rolling like that, and God, God, God, Satan, fuck. If you move like that - just like that, yes, angel, that’s it - the stars. They’re back. Behind my eyes this time. I’m making noises too.

Wait, I hear myself say. Wait. I have to figure out what to say now. I’ve made you wait. You don’t look unhappy, just desperate. You’ve got a little bit of sweat beading on your forehead, did you know that? You’re not concentrating enough to get rid of it like you usually would. I want to lick it. Instead, I ask - can I - can we - ?

Your eyes crinkle at the sides, and you breathe your answer like it’s a prayer. Yes. Yes, yes, yes.

I have to slither out from under you, and there’s a lot of awkward trousers stuff, because neither of us are in any state to make miracles work properly, but then, but then, you’re sitting on the couch, completely naked. My couch. My flat. My Aziraphale.

I kneel before you. I’m not stupid. I know what this looks like for you. For me. It’s a mockery, plain and simple. A sin. Debasement. You’re an angel, Aziraphale. You shouldn’t be doing this.

Your mouth hangs open as I get near, though, and I figure that’s about as much permission as you’re capable of giving. I take you in my mouth. I have no clue what I’m doing. You let out a sound, though, and it sounds good. I let my tongue flick around you, let myself explore, I keep my eyes open, remember this, you have to remember this. I move up and down and up again and all the while you clutch the couch. Why the couch? It’s my couch. I am my own demon. Clutch me, please.

You seem to get the memo, and your hands fist in my hair. Oh. I can see why you were keen on that before. It’s rather nice, isn’t it? Rather more than nice. I let you pull my head forwards, let you control me, let you use me, and it’s everything. I never dreamed of you doing this. I never let myself. If I could be nothing more than this, this use for you, blessed release, I’d be it in a heartbeat. Let me take you, let me suck you, a million times. I’d take it.

You cry out one last time, louder than the others, and then there’s a lot of human stuff and I sputter and cough and remember something about how you’re supposed to swallow. I don’t. I make a complete mess of it, and you have to whack me on the back as soon as you’re done recovering. I’m all croaky now. I love it. You’ve used me. I want to be used, please. Put me in a shelf. Take me out when you need me. Use me, angel.

I look up at you from where I kneel. Is this it? Are you done? Are we done? I won’t push if we are, but I could do with more pushing, Aziraphale. Push me. Push me down.

I say it out loud, and your eyes flash, ice on ice, and then you have me pinned against the carpet and I’m flat on my back and you’re back on my neck, oh fuck, down to my chest, your tongue on me, oh fuck. It’s so much, and it’s so fast, and I can’t find it in myself to slow down anymore, even if years from now, decades, I curse myself for it. I don’t mind. Just fuck me, angel. Now.

Of course, the time when I want to speed up, you slow down. You lower a finger to me, and your hand - is it shaking? Don’t be afraid, angel, it’s only me - your hand slides against me. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The world shifts, and changes, and I’ve narrowed down to just you, and your hand, and your finger, and the tiny motions it makes, and the slickness and the heat and just you. You. Angel. 

I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to be stuck in your shelf. I want to be beside your bed, so you have to see me every day, you have to be reminded, you have to think about me, so that you’ll use me, and you’ll touch me, and you’ll do this exact same fucking thing to me every day. Please, angel. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.

You stop for just a little while, and I whine, and it would be embarrassing if the world wasn’t just us two and your hand on me, but that’s the world, angel, what are you doing? 

Oh. 

What you are doing is finding a way inside me. Pushing your finger in. Oh God. I’ve never had anything - anyone - there before. It’s slick, and if it doesn’t feel quite so immediately good as what you were doing before, it feels like claiming. Like you’re taking me. I’m yours. Fuck.

You push in, and you do something, your finger curls, or something, I can’t tell, but it does something to me. I have to focus to keep my eyes open, to keep them on you. I need to. I have to remember. This is all I have. Will have. Forever. Presumably. So I keep my eyes on you. You’re sighing as you push into me, and that can’t be right, how can you be - does this feel good, for you? Your finger? What?

Does it feel good, you ask, looking at me frowning. I can’t bring myself to answer, can’t shape my mouth properly, so I groan, and clutch you tighter against me. That proves to block you from using your hand. Oops. I un-clutch you, and raise my hips. I’m desperate. Needy. It is actually a little embarrassing, but you don’t seem to care. You push in harder. Is that - oh. Another finger. I don’t know how noises can travel from down there to out of my mouth, but they do. It sounds exactly like how I feel, strangled, wrung out, desperate, I need you. 

I need you, I say. I’m ready. Angel. Now.

Your eyes are wide. Your hair is a mess. Your face is now in a permanent state of flushed. You are completely and utterly debauched, angel, and I can’t stand it, I love it, I love you. You move down a little. Into position. Position. Fuck.

I don’t know how to do this, Aziraphale. Do I - do I help? Can you manage? You’d think it’d be a bit more obvious, where everything fits. And then - oh God - then it fits. You’re pushing at me, pushing into me, and my hands are gripping marks into your shoulders, scratching at your back, and you make this ridiculous little noise. You sigh. It sounds so sweet, so cute, and I can’t believe you just took this whole mortal sin and made it entirely yours. 

I will remember the sigh, I will, but right now, I am being forced to think about more immediate things. You are inside me. Aziraphale. You push all the way in, and I feel stretched, I feel like an endless expanse, I feel grounded for the first time in my godforsaken life. I have never been whole this way before. It changes me. Changes you. Changes everything.

I can’t help myself. I feel it on its way up. I try to stop it. I bite my lip, I screw up my face, I roll my hips to try to distract myself, but that only helps it and then - 

I love you. 

There. I’ve said it now. Ruined everything, right at the pinnacle of this glorious moment. Go on then. Pull out. I’ll just lie here and cry. I can feel the tears starting already. I’m pathetic, I’m a mess, and the only thing I’ve ever done right was to love you, Aziraphale.

Your eyes widen, and you smile so wide I’m honestly worried about your face, and your eyes aren’t dry either, in fact, they spill over, and you thrust up into me, and you say it.

I love you.

There have been enough changes entirely tonight. The earth has moved, my frame of reference shattered and reformed at least twice already. I can’t - Aziraphale. Aziraphale, do you mean it?

Really? I ask. You laugh, and it is a watery, broken sound. 

Yes, really, you say. I love you, Crowley.

I love you too, I say, and I’m crying too. You move in me again, and I suddenly remember all about the effort that we’re making, and I let out another noise. It’s not a sob. It’s not. It is, at worst, a piteous wail, brought on by you, angel, and your wretched, blessed cock.

You kiss my tears away. I don’t know whether to laugh or keep crying. My mortal form decides on a strange mixture of both, before it gives way entirely to the heat building up in me. I don’t have to remember everything now, but I find that I still want to. I would still like to see you, Aziraphale, when you come. I still want to have every little piece of this, saved into my memory, and I focus on the sensation, the love that you are building within me. Assembling, I should say. This love has already been building for six thousand years.

Your hips start to stutter, and you lean forwards, your eyes unfocussed. You shake your head a little, look directly at me, into my soul, and there’s a moment, a pause, a breath so sacred it ought to burn me. Then you thrust forwards, once more, twice more, and I am undone, my back arching, and you dig your fingers into my back, it feels so good, I am yours and you are mine, angel.

You say it back to me. I breathe, tight and loose all at once, through my release. I am satisfied, if only for a moment. The longing will be back. The aching. But for now, angel, relax against me. I will miracle us to the bed that you’ve never seen. You look so good against the black sheets. You are all floppy and clingy, hands reaching for me, and there is no point in resisting. I go to you, I curl myself around you, I relax, boneless, into your embrace, until there seems to be nothing but the two of us become one.

Angel, please. Let’s do this every night.

You look over at me blearily, with those expensive eyes, and you nod. Smile. Kiss my forehead.

Every night, you agree. Yes. Let’s.

I love you. Just because I can.

I love you too, you say, and nuzzle into me.

Love bleeds from you, as I can feel it pouring in floods from my veins. We have been stained, now. Dyed red with our sin. 

Angel, please. Never stop.