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Crowley falls asleep on the bus ride home. Aziraphale stares at his reflection in the window, shadows flickering past outside, and between them their fingers stay laced together on his thigh. Agnes’s prophecy burns a metaphorical hole in Aziraphale’s pocket, and he contemplates its relation to their inevitable death sentences come tomorrow. Head office, they really took firing literally.

The trek up to Crowley’s flat is silent, their pinky fingers linked together between them like a child’s promise. When the door shuts, them on the inside and the world out there, they both sigh with their whole beings. Crowley falls against him, glasses gone, burying his face in Aziraphale’s neck, and Aziraphale wraps his arm around Crowley’s waist to hold him close. He hears a satisfied little hiss, and Crowley’s hands fist in the fabric of his coat.

“Angel,” Crowley says, caught somewhere between a sigh and a sob, and there’s a million things behind it clamouring over each other to escape, but instead he just falls silent again. Moonlight bathes the room in silver, and Crowley is a warm embrace in the dark.

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathes, tilting his head to press a chaste little kiss to Crowley’s temple. Crowley shudders, and when he pulls back there’s a little bit of fear in his eyes, and quite a lot of vulnerability.

“Aziraphale,” he says, stressing each syllable, “you know, don’t you. You have to know. Please, tell me you know.”

Aziraphale stares for a long time, that tangled knot of Crowley Related Emotions sitting heavy and unresolved in his chest. He knows what it is, knows how Crowley feels, knows that he feels the same , but he’s never let himself look right at it. He does, now, picks up the ball and finds that it falls apart in his celestial hands, wrapping his insides with a comfortable warmth that spreads from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. He loves Crowley, he has for a long time, and it’s not that he didn’t know that, he just didn’t want to know that, because that would’ve meant accepting where his loyalty really lie.

“Yes,” he says, one hand cupping Crowley’s cheek, guiding him up to bump their noses together lightly. “Yes, my dear, I know. Me, too.”

“You,” Crowley chokes out, eyes wide and fingers trembling against his chest. “You, too.”

“Me, too,” Aziraphale affirms, then closes the little gap between their lips. 

Aziraphale’s read a lot of books, quite a few of which were romance novels of some sort. He had come to have some kind of expectations for how this first kiss would feel (when he allowed himself to wonder, during dark lonely nights in the bookshop by flickering candle light), electric and fire and explosive comparisons of all kind leaping readily to mind, and realizes that this felt nothing like any of that. There was no spark, no fireworks, no burning fire deep within his soul, just the overwhelming sensation of coming home, of being right and safe, and it’s so much better than anything Aziraphale had expected. Crowley smells like smoke and cinnamon, and Aziraphale finds that he tastes of it, too, when the demon parts his lips to exhale his name like a prayer. Crowley clings to Aziraphale’s coat, love and relief pouring off of him in waves, their auras swirling together as though it were two halves of a whole. A perfect balance, made for one another.

“I love you,” Crowley says suddenly, breaking away, “in case, in case that wasn’t clear.”

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale says fondly, hand oh so tender on Crowley’s cheek. “I love you, too. I’m sorry it took me so long to catch up.”

“I would have waited forever for you,” Crowley states, earnest and matter of fact, and it makes Aziraphale weak in the knees.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” Aziraphale murmurs, thumb sweeping over one high cheekbone, and guides them back together. He can feel Crowley’s hands flitting about restlessly, not sure where he’s allowed to touch, to settle, to grip and pull closer, and catches one bony wrist with the hand not currently tracing the curling tattoo next to the demon’s ear. Crowley inhales a little sharply, as though he’s been caught thinking something he shouldn’t have been, and Aziraphale presses his hand to the swell of his own waist, pressing their foreheads together. Crowley’s eyes are wide, caught somewhere between awed disbelief and crippling anxiety, and his fingers settle against Aziraphale’s hip like a bird on a wire, not still but resting.

“You can touch me, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, soft and warm, before pressing their lips together again. Crowley sways into it, fingers curling in the cream fabric of Aziraphale’s coat, and when they part he lets out a shuddering breath.

“Forgive me for allowing you to believe you couldn’t have this, my dear, it was quite selfish of me.”

“Selfish,” Crowley breathes, like he can’t believe the word had the gall to even exit the angel’s lips. “Angel, there’s a lot of words I would use to describe you, but ssselfish isn’t one of them, believe me.”

“Oh, but I’ve made you feel unwanted,” Aziraphale says, voice shaky and a little bit heartbroken. “I’ve said such awful things to you, Crowley, and you, you only ever tried to protect me— “

“Angel,” Crowley interrupts quietly, pressing close, “Aziraphale, it’s okay, it’s alright.”

He tips his head down, brushes his lips against the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth, and the angel lets out a stuttering exhale. His arms come up around Crowley’s neck, holding tight, and Crowley loops his arms around his waist to keep him there.

“I thought I lost you,” he admits, throat tight and eyes stinging dangerously. “Earlier. In the bookshop. I thought, I thought Hell had come for you, Aziraphale, and burned you up. I thought I’d been too slow, and, shit, when you found me I was so, I was, I blamed myself, because I, I couldn’t protect you then, and the last thing I’d told you was that, that I wouldn’t even think about you and that’s the biggest fucking lie I’ve ever told in— “

Aziraphale lifts his head, pressing their lips together to silence Crowley. It’s firm but slow, and both of them throw everything they have into it like it’ll be their last chance. Aziraphale’s cheeks are wet when Crowley cups them, but so are his own, and when they break the kiss neither pulls away. They breath into each other’s mouths for a long moment, before finally Aziraphale dips his head and takes a step back.

“I’m scared,” he says, quiet, “of tomorrow. Of what they’ll do to us.”

“They’ll kill us,” Crowley replies, no less choked up than he had been before. “Probably even team up to do it, make it a whole thing , the great big dramatic bastards— “

Crowley ,” Aziraphale sobs, and Crowley nearly bites off his own tongue shutting himself up.

“I’d take your place, if I could,” he croaks eventually, reaching out to cup Aziraphale’s jaw, to bring his eyes up to meet his own. “Can’t kill a demon with Hellfire, can you?”

Aziraphale is quiet for a long time, and in the dim light Crowley can see the smallest spark of an idea forming in his misty eyes.

“Angel?” he says eventually, and Aziraphale springs into motion like he’s been awoken, closing the space he put between them and kissing Crowley so suddenly his knees nearly give out. Hands splay across his ribs, press beneath his jacket, and Crowley feels each cell light up like a Christmas tree as he clings to Aziraphale’s lapels and tries to give as good as he’s getting.

“My dear you’re a genius ,” Aziraphale mutters against his lips, and Crowley preens a little.

“Well, I do try. What did I do, exactly?”

Aziraphale’s hands disappear, and Crowley scrabbles at his sleeves in an attempt to pull them back into place. Aziraphale laughs, untangling Crowley’s fingers and bringing his hand up to press his lips to the center of his palm. The lights flick on above them, and he squints in the sudden brightness. Aziraphale’s still looking up at him, palm still pressed to his mouth, and it’s all he can do to not pin the angel against the wall and snog him senseless right there.

“What if we could switch,” he says quietly, but Crowley’s mind is stuck on the feel of his lips against his skin.

“Uh huh.”

Crowley ,” Aziraphale says pointedly, and Crowley straightens up.

“Yeah, I, okay, but how ? Can’t exactly waltz into Heaven looking like this, can I?”


“Unless we, oh, angel , you aren’t suggesting some, some Freaky Friday business are you?”

“Freaky— , what? No, I was suggesting that we switch bodies!"

"Have you ever even seen— , nevermind. How do we know that it’ll  work? What if, what if I’m wrong, and they’ve got something else lined up for us?”

Aziraphale digs his hand in his pocket, coming up with a scrap of paper.

“What’ve you got there?” Crowley asks immediately, moving to circle around the angel and come to a stop directly behind him. Aziraphale leans back against his chest absently, and Crowley finds himself winding his arms around his midsection to hold him closer. It comes with a frightening ease, this touching.

“It’s Agnes Nutter’s last prophecy,” Aziraphale says, turning his head to look back at him and bumping their noses together. Neither pulls back.

“Well, I figured as much,” Crowley breathes, “doesn’t exactly look like it’s come from a fortune cookie, does it?”

Aziraphale hums, unfolding the charred bit of paper and tracing his thumb over the text lightly. Crowley tips his head to press his face into Aziraphale’s collar, inhaling deeply, and Aziraphale pretends not to notice, covering Crowley’s interlaced fingers over his stomach with his free hand.

“I think that’s what she meant,” he murmurs eventually, and Crowley mumbles something unintelligible against his neck. “What was that, my dear?”

“Said I love you,” he says, louder, and Aziraphale can’t help the little smile that forms on his face.

“I love you, too, dear, but really — “

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley grumbles, pulling away and narrowing his eyes at the paper. “So, we switch bodies. Fine, yeah, okay, but how ? Demonic vessel, angelic vessel, won’t we, I dunno, get rejected?”

“They’re just bodies , it doesn’t matter who issued them. Besides, we were both angels, once.”

Crowley’s silent for a long time, and when Aziraphale turns around to face him there’s a shadow over his face that he’s seen a million times before. He’s overthinking. Aziraphale takes a step forward, takes Crowley’s hand in his own.

“Trust me,” he says, soft and airy, and he can see the war in Crowley’s eyes clear like parting storm clouds, the golden rays of his attention breaking through to focus on him .

“I trust you,” Crowley says, wholly confident in a way he so rarely was about much of anything (as much as he tried to act the opposite). He takes his hand, guides him through the sparse apartment, and Aziraphale can’t help but pick up on every little detail of Crowley’s inhabitants scattered around as he follows, including the room full of lush, green plants shivering with anxiety.

The couch is clearly built more for style than comfort, but he finds that when he sits down it’s just as comfortable as the old couch he has in his back room. That he had in his back room. Crowley sits across from him, spilling across the cushions like he’d been poured there, and Aziraphale itches to reach out and touch him. Anywhere, everywhere.

“Angel,” Crowley says, eyes half lidded. “You can’t look at me like that if you want to talk about anything.”

Aziraphale flushes a little bit. “Look at you like what, my dear?”

Crowley grins, all sharp teeth and tempting edges, and leans forward. “Like you’re going to eat me.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, cheeks hot. “Well. You’ll have to, erm, open yourself up for me.”

“At least buy me dinner first,” Crowley says just to watch the way Aziraphale’s face darkens another shade.

“Crowley, please try to be mature about this.”

“Yes, of course,” Crowley laughs, leaning forward until their faces were inches apart. “My apologies, angel. Go on.”

Aziraphale rests his hands on Crowley’s shoulders, thumb stroking the juncture of his neck, and gasps when he feels the walls so firmly built up over the millenia come crashing down (because he had asked him to, because he trusted him with this). Crowley spills into him, hot and chaotic, and Aziraphale is so caught up in it that he nearly forgets to open himself as well. They mix like water and dye, swirling together, becoming homogenous in places neither had known they had. They’re wrapped in the dark of Inbetween, but Crowley’s so full of love, so bright it’s nearly blinding. Aziraphale pulls him close, caresses the jagged edges and presses himself in all the cracks. He can feel Crowley pulsing, curling, grabbing, and tries to soothe his desperation.

We have to switch , he thinks, before we’re stuck here.

Crowley’s writhing slows into a sluggish shifting among the coils of Aziraphale’s warm affection, but when the angel moves to pull away he sticks in the places of himself that had felt cold for so long, places he’d long forgotten about, that had never been filled with something like this. Crowley picks them apart slowly, pulling the angel’s essence from everywhere he’d inserted himself and filling each newly frigid absence he left with as much love as he could pour into it.

When he opens his eyes, he’s staring down into his own bright blue ones, but something in them’s shifted. He can see Crowley living there instead of himself, can feel him still radiating love with a ferocity to rival the Almighty Herself, and smiles.

“It works,” he says, and the voice it comes out in throws him off.

“It does,” Crowley murmurs, looking about as stunned as Aziraphale feels.

Aziraphale dips his head to kiss him, and oh isn’t that interesting. Crowley gasps into his mouth, and Aziraphale feels his own hands curl in a jacket that certainly isn’t his own, pulling him in and pressing close in a lot of very sensitive places .

“Crowley,” he rasps between kisses, and feels Crowley shudder against him. “Perhaps we ought to, to switch back now.”

“Don’t wanna do it just like this, angel?” Crowley purrs, batting his own delicate lashes up at him, and Aziraphale feels a little bit like he might discorporate. 

“Well,” he chokes out eventually, hands settling on the swell of his own waist as Crowley slides himself into his lap. “I would, I would rather, our first time..”

He trails off as Crowley cards a hand through his hair, sending a pleasant tingle across his skin, and Crowley presses a gentle kiss to his chin. There’s a gentle nudge in the core of himself, like someone knocking on the airlock door, and he opens up to spill into darkness. 

They rush over each other in the inbetween, moulding around and together and through, communicating everything words couldn’t quite say, burning within each other like stars moments from being supernovas, and for a second they both forget who they are, if they’ve ever been anything but this . It’s Crowley who pulls back this time, and it’s Aziraphale who has to rein bits of himself back in as they drift away from each other and into themselves. It’s easier coming back into his own vessel than it was fitting into Crowley’s, like putting on sweatpants after wearing skinny jeans (not that Aziraphale had had experience with either of those). Hands grip his waist lightly, fingers pressing into his hips, and his cheeks flush before he’s even opened his eyes.

“You planned this bit,” he murmurs, tipping his head down to press their foreheads together.

“Oh, yeah,” Crowley says with a little grin. “You know me, wily old serpent and all.”

He tips his chin up to kiss him, and Aziraphale can’t help the way he wiggles eagerly in the demon’s lap. Crowley gasps against his lips, legs jumping slightly as he grabs a handful of the angel’s ass through his trousers. Aziraphale lets out his own surprised noise, hand shooting back to grip Crowley’s wrist admonishingly.

“Handsy,” he tuts, amused, and Crowley just shakes his head helplessly.

“Angel, you’re killing me,” he croaks, hips pushing up, and oh .

Aziraphale flushes, pushes down a bit more purposefully this time, and Crowley’s head rolls back against the couch at the friction. He adjusts his hips slightly, rolls them forward, and lets out a low moan against the skin just below Crowley’s ear as they drag together through far too many layers. Crowley spasms below him, choking out something that sounds vaguely like Aziraphale name sans vowels, and the hand on his ass guides him into a slow grinding rhythm.

Handsy ,” he mocks, breathless. “Like I go ‘round groping angels regularly.”

“I would certainly hope not,” Aziraphale says into the heated skin of Crowley’s throat, hands splayed across his chest. “I’m sure Gabriel wouldn’t take too kindly to it.”

Crowley snorts at that, he can’t help it, and the mental image of it only makes him laugh more. Aziraphale chuckles, too, stilling to watch the way Crowley’s face lights up when he laughs, and Crowley looks up at him with eyes so bright he almost can’t believe he’s not Divine. It fades into a giggle, then silence, and for a long moment they both stop and stare. Then, Aziraphale leans forward and kisses him, kisses him the way he's thought about in these moments for centuries, the joy sparking off their lips and making him all the more giddy. Crowley's grinning, and Aziraphale has to pull away as his own grin makes kissing impossible.

"Hell's sake, angel," Crowley murmurs, quiet and tender, "what on earth am I gonna do with you?"

Aziraphale presses their foreheads together, eyes glittering with that subtle mischievousness that thrills Crowley to no end, and his hands slide beneath the demon's coat to splay against his ribs.

"Well," he says, hardly more than a whisper, "you could let me make love to you, my dear."

"Ngk. I, uh, snffuhgk, yeah . That's, um, good. Yes," Crowley splutters, hands trembling where they've come to rest on Aziraphale's hips. Aziraphale huffs a little laugh, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of Crowley’s mouth and smiling as Crowley chases after him greedily.

"You've got a bed, I trust," he says, sliding off of Crowley's lap and taking both of his hands in his own. Crowley's pupils have blown wide, a nearly circular void cut in the serpentine yellow of his iris, and he swallows thickly.

"Yeah, I, down the hall," he gets out eventually, standing and tugging Aziraphale up with him. They stumble down the hall into a dark bedroom, and Crowley works deftly at the buttons of his vest, shoving the fabric off his shoulders and onto the floor. Aziraphale pauses, hand half raised for a miracle, before deciding he'd much rather have more of Crowley's clever fingers all over him at the expense of a little time. Palms slide up his chest, and he rocks back on his heels as Crowley swoops down for a kiss on the edge of frantic. Fingers tug at his bowtie, undoing it with a suspicious amount of ease, and Aziraphale can't help but smile a little at the zing of energy he feels spark off his finger tips. The buttons at his throat pop free, both of Crowley's hands restless where they’ve settled against Aziraphale's shoulders, and he reaches up to cover them with his own.

"Crowley," he murmurs, pulling back just enough to talk. "Slow down a bit, my dear."

Crowley goes entirely still, but his voice still shakes when he says, "too fast," like an admonishment, like the shred of a mantra he's had running rampant in his mind for decades, and Aziraphale wishes he could snatch the words from the air and crush them underfoot.

"Sorry, angel," Crowley murmurs, eyes fixed firmly on his hand over Aziraphale's heart, thrumming away in a body with no need of it.

"Oh, Crowley, that's not what I meant, I just," Aziraphale frets, cupping the demon's cheeks to tilt his face up. Moonlight illuminates his sulphur sick eyes, turning the the yellow a striking gold, and Aziraphale's breathless for a moment.

"I'd like to savour you, my love," he says, airy and earnest, and Crowley's hands grip his shoulders tight as his knees threaten to wobble right out from under him.

" Angel ," he chokes out, leaning into Aziraphale's palm, tipping his head forward to hide his face against his throat. "You can't just say things like that, you're giving me whiplash."

"Forgive me, dear," Aziraphale hums, a little amused, and Crowley nudges him back against the sheets. His shirt is gone before he hits the mattress, and Crowley's jacket lands on the floor with a fwump before the demon presses himself on top of him, shirt already rucked halfway up his stomach.

They both pause, lips inches apart, and breathe. It’s an oddly charged moment, both habitually checking each other’s gaze for any sign of discomfort before they both realize what they’re doing. Crowley huffs a laugh, pulling his shirt off the rest of the way and flinging it into some dark corner. He stops, hands fluttering down to rest on the swell of Aziraphale’s stomach as he admires him with a quiet reverence. The silver light makes him seem almost like he’s glowing, bouncing off pale skin and paler hair, and had he not known he was an angel before he’s sure this is what would’ve given it away. Aziraphale blinks up at him, the blue of his irises a thin ring around his pupil, and his hands wander across the bare skin of his stomach, over his firm chest. Crowley drops to his palms, then his forearms, grins sharp and sure against Aziraphale’s lips before he kisses him despite the way it still makes him feel jittery and uncertain. His breath hitches when a gentle hand cups him through his trousers, and the pressure release as Aziraphale works open the button fly pulls a low groan from somewhere deep in the demon’s throat.

“You sound lovely, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs against his mouth, sugar sweet, and Crowley flushes.

“Just for you,” he says, the words flying right past his brain-to-mouth filter and into the world. Aziraphale gathers him even closer, working Crowley’s jeans down his hips before taking him in hand. Crowley’s hips jump forward, thrusting into the tight ring of Aziraphale’s fingers around him, and he lets out a desperate noise that sounds an awful lot like ‘angel’. Aziraphale miracles his own pants away as he pumps his hand, deciding it wouldn’t be worth the effort to get them off the human way, and Crowley presses trembling finger tips against his wrist.

“Guh, Aziraphale,” he slurs out, dipping his head to press sloppy kisses across the angel’s jaw, down his throat, across his chest. His lips linger over Aziraphale’s heart, a little whimper pressed against the soft skin there as Aziraphale runs the pad of his thumb over the leaking slit of Crowley’s cock. The fingertips on his wrist push, just slightly, and he pulls his hand away immediately to settle it on Crowley’s hip.

“Would you,” Crowley starts, eyes flickering to the side and back, “would you, er, that is, if you don’t mind— “

“Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupts gently, running his hand up the demon’s thigh in an attempt to soothe. “My dear, we’re both unclothed and rather debauched, I can’t imagine your request is unreasonable.”

“Finger me,” Crowley blurts, straightening his arms to prop himself up on his palms. “I-I mean, we could miracle it, f’you wanted, but,” he pauses, taking one of Aziraphale’s wrists and guiding his hand up over his stomach, around his side and down to the curve of his ass. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

Aziraphale’s gone quite red beneath him, but a light goes on in his eyes that Crowley’s only ever seen directed at particularly delicious desserts in low lit restaurants, and it captivates him. What are you going to do to me, angel ? He sucks in a slow breath as Aziraphale sits up slowly, pressing his lips into the dip of Crowley’s collarbones. Devour you. It all shudders out of him in one long stream, his hands coming up to grip Aziraphale’s shoulders, and he feels hot breath fan out against his throat.

“Lay down for me, dearest,” he murmurs, hot against Crowley’s skin, and Crowley scrambles to stretch out on his back, face burning. Aziraphale fits neatly into the space between his thighs, and he hooks one leg over the angel’s waist to coax him into a kiss. He runs his hands through cotton curls, feels Aziraphale’s lust seeping into his skin like water into a sponge, and the swipe of his tongue in Crowley’s mouth is tinged with greed . It makes him shiver, and he wonders is the angel is even aware of it.

Slick, warm fingers press against him, press in , and he has to yank his hands away and grip the sheets to keep himself from digging his nails in anywhere. He tips his head back against the pillows, a thin, airy sound escaping his lips, and Aziraphale pauses with his lips to the pulse hammering in Crowley’s throat. There’s nothing but Crowley’s ragged breathing for a long moment, and his fingers slowly uncurl from the duvet.

“Supposed to move, you know,” he teases breathlessly, eyes glinting in the low light, and rolls his hips down. Aziraphale tuts, presses his fingers deep and curls them just so

"Ahfff, guh, angel," Crowley splutters, one hand shooting down to grip Aziraphale's wrist tight as his hips buck up helplessly. Aziraphale pauses, nudges his fingertips forward again, and Crowley lets out a shuddering moan.

"I do believe you asked me to move along," he says, smug, and Crowley musters up the concentration to roll his eyes (not that Aziraphale can even see it).

"Well," he gasps, writhing restlessly against the sheets, "I didn't expect you to-to, fuck , nevermind, kiss me."

He brings up his other hand to guide Aziraphale up, fingers buried in wispy starstuff hair. Aziraphale wraps around him, one hand skirting shyly up his side while the other presses thick fingers against the place that makes his whole body light up like magnesium set aflame. He slides his fingers away from Aziraphale's wrist, wraps them instead around the thick erection pressing against his thigh, and the moan Aziraphale pours into his mouth tastes better than any wine they’d ever shared. He can feel a sticky puddle forming on his stomach, can feel Aziraphale leaking into the juncture of his forefinger and thumb, and has to send out a little jolt of occult energy to keep from painting his own stomach then and there. The angel huffs amusedly, pulling back just enough to look at him, and Crowley tightens his leg around Aziraphale's waist before he can tease him.

"Fuck me," he growls, low and rasping, and grins when Aziraphale's dick twitches in his hand. The fingers in him disappear, and before he can even mourn the loss, the head of Aziraphale's cock nudges right up against him, not pressing in quite yet, and they both hold their breath. Their eyes meet, sky blue and glimmering gold, and though neither speaks they both declare the same thing, loud and shameless for no one but themselves to see. I love you.

Aziraphale presses in, and Crowley arches up with a jagged edged moan that shakes the walls. Something in him splits open, and he hasn’t the self control to keep everything in him from pouring through the cracks. Aziraphale gasps against his clavicle, bottoming out just as the flood  of Crowley’s love and devotion surfaces on the demon’s skin, seeps into his own, and pushes all of his own right back. He feels it like freshwater pouring into the salt-lick core of him, filling him up until they overflow out of him together as something else; brackish, briny, other . Hands grip his hips, and his eyes slide shut as Aziraphale pulls out nearly all the way before pushing back in, slow and sure. He sets a steady rhythm just like that, and Crowley feels like he’s going to shake apart at the seams as each thrust is punctuated by a little burst of desire . He pulls the angel, his angel, up for a desperate, messy kiss, spouting some approximation of ‘yes, yes, please, angel ’ against his lips. Their teeth clack, and Crowley loses the ability to focus on it as Aziraphale’s hand slides up his thigh, slots behind his knee and bends him in half. Aziraphale moans into his mouth as he presses impossibly deeper, and Crowley would devote his whole life to pulling sounds like that from the angel if he could. He can. He will .

He pushes back into every thrust, and when Aziraphale pushes up against his prostate he lets the electric sensation radiate out of him. He’s rewarded with a surprised little gasp against his chin and the stutter of Aziraphale’s hips before he redoubles his efforts. Crowley can do little more but cling and accept what he’s given, a lopsided grin on his face as Aziraphale breathes out broken cries of his name.

“You, ah, fuck, you like that, angel?” he gasps, tangling his fingers in feathery curls as lips press against his jaw, his throat. “Feel so good, can you feel it? Can you feel how good you make me feel?”

Crowley ,” Aziraphale croons a bit helplessly, hands shifting to lace their fingers together, and Crowley holds tight. Heat coils threateningly in his stomach, and his body starts to tense up under Aziraphale’s mouth. He guides their interlaced hands between them, lurching upward with a strangled cry as Aziraphale takes him in hand. It only takes one, two strokes before he spills hot and sticky in the angel’s fist with a noise that one could argue sounded quite like ‘guh, Aziraphale ’. Aziraphale slows down a bit, unsure, and Crowley scoops together just enough energy to nudge him forward with the leg looped around his waist.

“C’mon, angel,” he pants, tipping his chin down, “don’t stop, I know what you want. Take it.”

Aziraphale flushes, shifts his angle, and picks his rhythm back up swiftly. Crowley, sluggish and foggy, can do little but groan encouragement as Aziraphale pins his hands against the mattress. Aziraphale’s pleasure mingles with his own, pouring off of him like heat from a star, and Crowley bites into his bottom lip hard as he feels himself twitch again against his stomach. The angel’s thrusts get erratic, breath hot where he murmurs strings of endearments into Crowley’s skin, and Crowley writhes beneath him. He goes still all at once, entirely silent, and then Crowley is hit with a wave of Divine ecstasy so strong that for a moment he forgets where he is. He groans out Crowley’s name into his skin, shuddering and overwhelmed, and Crowley matches it with a groan of his own as Aziraphale pulses hot inside of him.

They bask in each other for a long moment, chests heaving as they shake off the daze of orgasm. Crowley stares up at the dark ceiling, curling the hair at the nape of his angel’s neck around his index finger lazily, enjoying the feeling of being savoured .  Aziraphale lifts his head to press their lips together sloppily, and when he pulls out Crowley lets out a whimper that he’ll never admit to. Gentle hands caress his sides, dragging over every dip and curve like a cartographer determined to memorize the map of his skin, and he nudges them a little lower with persuasive fingertips.

“Oh, Crowley, really,” Aziraphale huffs amusedly as his fingers wrap around his cock, already leaking again, and Crowley just grins against his sugar sweet mouth.

“You, ah , can you blame me, angel?” Crowley pants, hips pushing up a bit desperately into Aziraphale’s hand. “Feeling the way you do, ahh, yess , bloody sinful, s’what it, fuck , s’what it is.”

Aziraphale presses his lips to the jut of Crowley’s collarbone to hide the smile on his face, scraping his teeth over the skin there experimentally and raising his eyebrows when it wrenches an animalistic sound from the demon beneath him. He turns his face away in an attempt to hide it, lip caught firmly between his teeth to muffle the half formed whimpers eager to trip off his tongue, and oh that just won’t do .

“Darling boy,” Aziraphale purrs, “you sound so lovely for me, my dear. Absolutely breathtaking, won’t you let me hear you?.”

Crowley grips his bicep firmly, arching up into Aziraphale as a second orgasm washes over him all at once and taking with it any energy he’d had left. He’s dimly aware that he says something, though what it is, if it’s even intelligible , has hasn’t a clue, but Aziraphale kisses him, featherlight and reverent, and he can’t be bothered to care. He slings an arm around Aziraphale’s neck to coax him into a second kiss, longer, and a third, until they’re just grinning against each others’ mouths in the quiet dark. He could live in this feeling, he thinks, could wrap himself in it, drown in it, and it would be a blessing. The mess on his stomach disappears, Aziraphale shifting to lie on his side to tug him close, breath his name like a prayer and murmur words Crowley had thought he’d only hear him say in his dreams. He kisses him again, breathless, slow, like the tide rolling up the sand, and when he pulls away it feels like there’s something new settled in his chest, filling an absence he had long ago accepted as an unavoidable constant, something warm and sunny, and it takes him a long moment to realize that it’s just Aziraphale radiating a quiet, contented kind of love. He smiles, tucks his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck.

“I love you,” he whispers long moments later, lips brushing the angel’s Adam’s apple. The arm around him tightens, pulls him close until he’s nearly on top of Aziraphale.

“I love you, too, darling,” Aziraphale replies quietly, fingertips ghosting across Crowley’s ribs and making him shudder. His breathing evens out against his throat, and Aziraphale closes his eyes to wait out the rest of the night with his love held close, safe, protected in his arms.