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It doesn’t quite feel real yet, not all the time. What does it mean to have a home? Crowley has never known, never belonged anywhere, not the impassive Heaven or the clutter of Hell, not in the makeshift houses he’s made through the centuries, the cabins and lean tos, caverns and castles, apartments and mansions, all just vessel, facade, a place for a bed and marrowdeep longing he spent millennia pretending he couldn’t name.

So now, here, Crowley doesn’t exactly pinch himself, but he does have to stop sometimes. Pause, shiver, check in. Aziraphale can tell. This is happening, my love, he’ll say, bundled under blankets in the greysoft morning, reaching over to the next pillow where Crowley stares at him in awe. I’m here, we’re here. I’m here with you. There’s a small smile there, but no teasing, only reassurance, the deep understanding of one who feels it too, this dissonance between the long stretch of want that was and the miracle of the cottage. It’s been a nearly a month, a month of planting herbs in ready soil, tidying an expanse of new bookshelves, wandering the village hand in hand, returning to craft candlelight dinners together, and kissing right there out in the garden. A threshold made of strong wood, that they cross each day together. A month of tangling in each other however they please, the millennia-deep ache in Crowley’s bones of goddamn not good enough slowly (but steadily) slipping into something smaller. 

Crowley is trying to let himself get used to it, trying to focus on letting it become his new reality. This morning, though, he wakes fully intending to simply spend the day in the garden, tending to the blossoms coming in. It takes only a moment after he wakes, though, to taste the incoming storm in the air.

He groans, morning-grumpy and sleep-mussed, pulling the red tartan blanket over his head.

“Good morning, Crowley,” comes Aziraphale’s voice from behind him, warmer and more comforting than the blanket could ever be. Crowley softens slightly, relaxes into the bed. He feels Aziraphale shift closer and then there’s a gentle hand on his shoulder, an angel’s mouth brushed against the plane of his cheek. He turns to catch it in his own, and Aziraphale smiles into it.

“Good morning, angel,” Crowley mumbles, prying an eye open. And oh, Heaven. He nearly has to shut it again, it’s almost too much, his entire self going star-bright and warm at the sight of that lovely face smiling softly at him. 

“What is it, dear?” 

Oh, that bastard knows exactly what it is. 

But Crowley’s going to tell him anyway. 

“S’a lot, is all,” he says, running his fingers through that cloudsoft hair. 

“What is?”

“How much I love you, angel, and you know it!” He props himself up on his elbows, lets his head tilt to his shoulder so he can take in every angle of Aziraphale. “I get to wake up to you. I get to love these little crinkles here,” he says, tracing his fingertip along the crows feet, the smile lines, “and this strong, delicate nose of yours, and this mouth—” He breaks off. Perhaps the words he’d use to describe Aziraphale’s mouth are not appropriate morning conversation, though he can’t help but let his index finger brush across that bottom lip. “And, er. Everything. Not just that, of course, but all of you. Your heart, your wit, your humor. C’mon, you know it.” His heart is a thrall in his chest. This happens sometimes too, he struggles with words and then they come in a rush, far too demonstrative.

“I do,” Aziraphale reassures him, immediately, “Darling, I do, it’s alright, I do.” His smile deepens, a steady hand brushing Crowley’s hair out of his eyes, and Crowley relaxes again. “You know I feel the same.”

“I do,” Crowley admits, because he does, he does, Aziraphale hasn’t hidden it a fig since he first said it, but—“just takes some getting used to.”

“I know, love. I’m here.” Aziraphale glances out the window, and Crowley knows that though the day’s still dry, Aziraphale can sense the impending storm too. “Mm, it hasn’t stormed properly since we got here.” He looks back down at Crowley. “Is that why you woke so grumpy? You intended to garden today, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Crowley acknowledges, “but it’s fine, no worries.” Not trying to bring the mood down. “I’ll do it another time, s’long as the storm doesn’t drown everything out.”

“It won’t,” Aziraphale promises, and Crowley feels suddenly, embarrassingly sure that it won’t. “But you don’t have to dismiss your feelings, Crowley.” He peers at him. “You know that, right? You can be disappointed! You can be grumpy. You can get annoyed with me, dear, I just want you to tell me why. All right?” 

“I—”

“I love all of you, darling,” Aziraphale says earnestly. “All the dark moods, the messy edges, please, give them to me.” He smiles again, a deep, tender shift that fills his whole expression. “I’ve been waiting.” 

Oh.

“Aziraphale—” he starts, then gulps. There’s so much to say. He doesn’t need to do it all at once. There’s time, oh, someone. There’s time. “Thank you,” he says. That’s as good a start as any. “Thank you.” For seeing me, for knowing me, for wanting me, for listening. For crafting this space with me, this cottage here. For loving me, as I am. For letting me love you in this thunderous, cataclysmic way I do.

“May I kiss you?” Aziraphale asks.

“Yes, please,” and he barely gets the words out before Aziraphale is leaning him back against the pillow, kissing him breathless, deep and sweet. Crowley makes a small wanting sound, flinging his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, bringing him close. 

“Now,” Aziraphale says, pulling back far too soon, “it is going to be a bit of a terrible storm. I am sorry it’s rained out your plans. Let’s see, how can we still make use of the day? We could try that new recipe, the butternut squash soup? Or you could help me with my translations, I’ve got those lost Sapphos I’ve wanted to get your eyes on.” 

“Whichever you like, angel, I’m game,” Crowley says, stretching. He makes to get out of bed, but Aziraphale places a light palm on his bare chest.

“Or,” Aziraphale says, arching a brow. It’s his turn to tilt his head, to let his gaze traverse Crowley’s chest, his throat. “We could stay in bed, if you like.” Fuck, angel. I can’t believe you want me like I want you. 

“Oh, I like that one.” Crowley says.

“Do you?”

“I do.”

“Good,” Aziraphale says. His tone is mild, but he bites his lip, quirking his mouth up in a decidedly mischievous smile. “I rather feel like spoiling you today.”

Crowley’s cock, which was already slowly stiffening at the angel’s gaze, his hand on his chest, grows decidedly hard beneath the blankets. Aziraphale doesn’t glance down, but judging by the deepening of his smile, he seems to know anyway, the bastard.  

“Spoiling me?” Crowley manages, raising an eyebrow. “What might that entail?”

“Mm, I admit,” Aziraphale sighs, “not much more than what I’d like to do with you most days, I’m afraid. I’ve loved you for so long, you know, it’s really only because I love everything we do together now that I ever manage to keep my hands off you.” 

“Aziraphale...”

“Well, for today,” Aziraphale says, “perhaps I could begin here.” He leans forward. Crowley moves to kiss him, but Aziraphale cradles Crowley’s head in his hand instead, leans Crowley back against the pillow, wrenches the blankets off him, and licks a slow line up his throat. 

“Oh,” Crowley breathes. He digs his fingers in the sheets to stop from reaching for his cock, now fully erect and terribly obvious in his briefs. Aziraphale straddles him, sitting himself on Crowley’s lap. “Oh, fuck, angel.” Crowley seizes Aziraphale’s thighs, bare below the line of his own briefs, feels the muscle there. Aziraphale ruts against Crowley as he tangles one hand in Crowley’s sleep-mess hair, tugs on it to expose more of Crowley’s throat. He digs his teeth in, slow and careful, sucking one bruise there and then another below it, moaning into Crowley’s ear as he does, pulling his hair at the root. 

“Mine,” he murmurs, soft lips brushing over the fresh bruise. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, angel, yours,” Crowley says weakly, his eyes fluttering shut. 

“That’s it, love, relax. Let me.” Aziraphale mouths over his throat, licks his way up the center, biting and sucking and running his fingers through Crowley’s hair until Crowley’s rocking up against him, pulling him close.

“How —ngh— ‘m I supposed to relax when you’ve got me so hard I can barely stand it?”

Aziraphale pulls back far enough to look him in the eye, and fuck. His pupils are wide, his mouth hungry. Crowley gulps, finding himself actually trembling with anticipation.

“Color?”

“Green, Satan, you know it’s damned green,” Crowley chokes out, feeling his cheeks redden. I trust you, I trust you, I just can’t believe I get to have this.

“Then you can stand it,” Aziraphale says, as soft as a prayer, and brings his mouth back to Crowley’s throat.

“Fuck,” Crowley groans, as a reckless smile spreads across his face. It’s awfully demonstrative, embarrassingly obvious—downright vulnerable, to want this badly, but Aziraphale’s here, he’s here, he wants this (here he is, undeniably stone-hard himself here in Crowley’s lap), he wants to give this, and he wants it just as obviously, and that helps make it alright. 

“That’s the idea,” Aziraphale murmurs. His teeth have found their way to Crowley’s ear now, worrying the shell, the soft lobe, as he buries his face in Crowley’s hair. “Presently, at least.” 

“Nn. Can I take this off?” he asks, pulling at Aziraphale’s nightshirt. 

“We can do that,” Aziraphale says quietly, and then they’re both in their briefs alone, Aziraphale’s bare chest and stomach soft and warm pressed to Crowley’s body. 

Crowley lets his hands travel the length of Aziraphale’s back as Aziraphale covers his throat in deep kisses, gripping at the curves and curls of him, the flexing muscles, the truth of his wanting body. Aziraphale makes his way to Crowley’s chest, taking a hardening nipple gently between his teeth, rolling the tip of his tongue over it as his fingers run over Crowley’s tender throat. The cage of his Crowley’s ribs heaves with heavy, wanting breath as Aziraphale moves to his other nipple, his fingers replacing his mouth on the first.

“You’re so handsome,” Aziraphale murmurs. He gives the erect nipple one last bite as he moves to sit back on Crowley’s lap, rocking his ass knowingly, wantonly against Crowley’s throbbing cock, which is making a wet mess of his briefs. He traces an approving finger down Crowley’s chest. “You know that, right? You’re so desperately, terribly, maddeningly handsome. Everywhere, all of you.” He splays his hands across Crowley’s chest, his waist, his throat, shaking his head, smiling like he can’t help it. “I can’t get enough of you, I’m afraid.”

“Good,” Crowley says, hoarse. He slides his palms up Aziraphale’s thighs. The bright hair there along the curve of strong muscle, the rolls of flesh at the base of his stomach, all striped gold-pink and tender, his divinity shining out through his stretchmarks, where he’s holy and human at once, and so something else entirely. “Don’t want you to get enough. I certainly won’t.” 

“I’m counting on it, darling,” Aziraphale reaches to trace Crowley’s bottom lip with his index finger and Crowley takes it into his mouth instinctively, pressing the tip of his tongue to it, grasping Aziraphale’s hips and grinding up into them. “ Hmm. Oh, my. I’d like you to turn over for me now, please.”

Aziraphale climbs off him and Crowley swears at the loss of friction, but rolls clumsy onto his stomach. Aziraphale straddles him again, this time perched on Crowley’s ass, his cock fever-hard with just two thin layers of cloth between them. He leans forward and bites the curve of Crowley’s shoulder and Crowley gasps, rutting his own erection against the bed. Aziraphale moves lower, and then his mouth is where Crowley’s demon wings sit, folded inside him on another plane, and Aziraphale doesn’t hesitate. He kisses and sucks there too, and his lips on the most intimate, hated parts of Crowley feels like a hearthfire love, fierce and strong and cleansing. Nothing of hell, or heaven either, but a choice, brought here to heal, and Crowley nearly sobs into the pillow, breathlessly aroused and helplessly in love. 

“All of you,” Aziraphale murmurs in his ear. He covers Crowley’s body with his own, presses a kiss to Crowley’s cheek, chaste even as he rolls his erection against Crowley’s ass, “all of you, all of you,” and Crowley knows, even as Aziraphale shifts lower again, he doesn’t just mean in body. 

Aziraphale mouths over the base of Crowley’s spine, digs his fingers into the cheeks of Crowley’s ass, takes the waistband of Crowley’s briefs in his mouth and tugs, before he lets it snap back against Crowley’s skin. 

“Aziraphale.”  Crowley’s losing his mind. He must be, he can’t stay this aroused and keep his senses, and yet he’s never felt so present in his long, long life. He writhes, rubbing frantic against the red tartan sheets, toes curling, fingers clawing at the bed. He’s here, here in this cottage, in this home they’re making, and he is so wanted, and he belongs, he belongs. Aziraphale doesn’t only want to make him come, he wants to revel in this, to worship, in a way that’s theirs alone.

“I could do this for centuries,” Aziraphale says softly, and Crowley whines. He hooks his fingers around the waistband and tugs Crowley’s briefs off, his hot, bare cock leaking against the bed. “There are quite a few adventures I’d like to have with you, but when I have you like this, it’s quite hard to prioritize them.” He kneads the cheeks of Crowley’s ass, pressing them apart, pulling Crowley to his knees to leave him open to the cool air and Aziraphale’s steady gaze. “Color?”

Crowley growls, burying his burning face in the pillow, but when he speaks his voice is small and sure.

“Green.”

He hears a breathy moan, feels Aziraphale squeeze at him in anticipation. He’s never felt so connected to his physical form, to this earth, as he does when he’s beneath Aziraphale’s hands. He still, still doesn’t always feel worthy, but it’s hard to keep that up when Aziraphale touches him so lovingly.

“May I, darling?”

“Mm,” he says, but he knows Aziraphale won’t do anything unless he gets a clear answer, neither of them would. “Yes,” he hisses, “yes, please—”

Aziraphale has been waiting for this just as much as Crowley has. He gives a little gasp and buries his face in Crowley’s ass, licking sloppy and eager at his hole. Crowley cries out, a high and ragged sound, transparent and fragile, as vulnerable as windowglass. Aziraphale seems to make himself pull back, running his index finger around the rim and then chasing its path gently with his tongue. He moves to press the broad flat of his tongue slow against Crowley’s perineum, the tip grazing his balls, over and over, until Crowley’s trembling beneath him. He wonders, vaguely, how can such a specific sensation, brought about by such a small muscle, make his entire body pulse with arousal? And then Aziraphale works his tongue into Crowley’s hole, and Crowley’s knees give. 

He would collapse onto the bed but Aziraphale holds his hips, keeps him up, pulls himself deeper into Crowley’s ass, moaning approvingly into him as he fucks Crowley open with his tongue. Aziraphale moves deep and slow, tasting, breathing deep, pressing his tongue up into Crowley, opening him.

“Please.” Crowley’s voice is a quiet whisper, but Aziraphale hears him anyway, recognizes the tone, and pulls out of him immediately. “Please, please...” 

“You’ve been so good, love,” Aziraphale murmurs, rubbing his thumb over Crowley’s wet entrance, and Crowley shivers at the praise as much as the sensation. “Do you want to come?”

Fuck, yes, desperately, but—

“You first.” 

Aziraphale makes a quiet sound, he hasn’t been touched at all.

“Oh, Crowley. Are you sure? I want this to be about you.” 

“Yeah, fuck, yeah.” Crowley turns over carefully, so hard he feels like he could come from Aziraphale breathing too closely on him. “Yeah, I know, angel. This is.”

It always is. It’s about us both, that’s the point. Let me make you feel good. Please.

He looks up at Aziraphale, the angel’s face pink, spit-shiny around his perfect, clever mouth, and Aziraphale understands. And he wants it too, there’s no denying that, the way he strains against his own damp briefs.

“How do you want me?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley’s cock twitches. Fuck. Crowley wants to be used, taken, wants to make him feel good so badly. I want you all over. Take it all, all of me.

“C’mere.” He licks his lips, swallows, gets his throat wet. “Fuck my mouth. Please?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s eyes go wide, Crowley watches a shiver run though him and his own wet cock throbs again in response. “Are you sure, darling?”

“God, yeah, I’m sure,” Crowley nods, “wanna taste you, angel. ‘Sides, I’m not gonna last if you fuck my ass right now, so we’d better save that one.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, biting his lip, “oh, dear. Yes, alright.” He traces his knuckle along the length of Crowley’s cock, one last, torturously gentle touch that makes Crowley’s back arch off the bed, before pulling off his pants. He strokes himself, rubbing precome along the length of his fully hard shaft, and Crowley squirms.

“Come on, c’mere, please,” he begs. “Gotta get you inside me.”

“Love,” Aziraphale breathes, and straddles his chest. He plants his knee right on Crowley’s shoulder-length hair at first and Crowley flinches, reaching for it.

“Ouch.”

“Ahh! Sorry, sorry,” Aziraphale exclaims, shifting to sweep Crowley’s hair safely out from beneath him. His cock bobs, bumping Crowley’s chin, and they look at each other and chuckle, Aziraphale snorting as he does. They calm down, recenter a moment later, both as hard as ever. “Good now, darling?” Aziraphale brushes the hair back from Crowley’s face, gentlefingered but pressing with want.

“Yes,” Crowley hisses, nuzzling himself into the bed. The angel’s body makes a makeshift barrier, he can’t see his own aching cock, couldn’t reach it if he wanted to, he can just focus on Aziraphale, exactly as he needs. He presses kisses into Aziraphale’s thighs, running the tip of his tongue over the pinkgold stripes of stretchmarks there, and Aziraphale makes a soft, tender sound. He reaches to dig his fingers into Aziraphale’s ass, pulling him close, but Aziraphale stops him before he can open his mouth. 

“You remember the signals, Crowley, when you can’t speak the colors?”

Crowley looks up at him, this ridiculous angle from which he can see all the rolls of Aziraphale’s chin and stomach, can see right up his nose, scalp still stinging slightly from the inadvertent pull, and Aziraphale’s cock is so wet he’s dripping right there onto Crowley’s neck and he’s refusing to make another move until he’s heard Crowley speak the words, and Crowley didn’t know it was possible to be this much in love. He feels like he could glow from it, like it’s too good for him but he gets to have it anyway, and Aziraphale wants him to, and oh.

“Tap your thigh twice to slow down, three times to stop,” he recites. He had resisted any sort of safe word at first, you can do whatever you like with me, but Aziraphale had insisted, had made sure Crowley knows that he’s not spoiling anything by using the colors, reassured him that Aziraphale would use them too, if and when he needs. I want this to be good for both of us, always. In every way. And that, Crowley could understand. And he likes how that means Aziraphale can push him a bit, take him, use him, experiment, and that he always has an out, that Aziraphale won’t resent him in the slightest for stopping or needing to adjust. 

“Good,” Aziraphale says quietly. “And you can knock me with your knee, too, do the signal that way, if you can’t move your hands.” 

“Yes,” Crowley croaks, rubbing his thighs together, furiously hard just at the thought, “yes, yes,” and this time when he pulls Aziraphale’s cock into his mouth, Aziraphale lets him. They both moan, Crowley’s eyes fluttering shut at the sheer joy of it, Aziraphale’s hard cock pushing past his lips, sliding across his tongue, down his throat.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, and it sounds like a revelation, a rising thing, and Crowley tightens his lips in response, taking what’s given to him like communion, for when he gets to make Aziraphale’s voice sound like that, how can this be anything but the purest fucking miracle. “Oh, you feel so good,” he moans, his voice trembling. Crowley feels him braces his hands on the headboard, angling himself to fuck into Crowley’s mouth again and again. “So good for me, darling. That’s it, press your tongue up against—yes, Crowley. Yes, yes, you’re wonderful, taking my cock like this, you’re brilliant, marvelous.” He picks up his pace, fucking faster, filling Crowley’s throat with his hard, relentless cock, and Crowley takes it, lost in it, breathless and frantically hard himself, letting Aziraphale use him and use him. Precome spills salty and perfect down his throat and Crowley swallows it, aching for more, more. He flings his wrists up above his head and it only takes Aziraphale a moment to understand.

Ohh... scoot down for me, darling,” he says, pulling out. Crowley complies, shifting lower on the bed. He leaves his wet, swollen mouth open, panting, as he does, and Aziraphale looks down at him and moans, reaches for his cock and runs the tip of it around Crowley’s lips. 

“Ready?” he asks. Crowley doesn’t respond, only tilts his head up to take Aziraphale’s cock again. When Aziraphale sinks into his mouth this time, he leans forward and pins Crowley’s waiting wrists to the mattress.

Crowley moans around his cock, pressed into the bed with Aziraphale’s weight on his wrists, Aziraphale fucking into his mouth harder at this new angle, filling his throat and grinding into it so Crowley’s hot breath gets caught against the swell of Aziraphale’s stomach. Crowley’s nearly delirious with pleasure, thrusting his own hips up at nothing, held down and used, and through it all, Aziraphale’s losing his own composure just as badly.

“Just like that, Crowley, fuck, fuck, your mouth feels so good. I love it when you suck me, you know that, right? I love that clever tongue of yours, those tight lips. You take me so—so good, and—oh, oh, Crowley, but—I need—w-would you?” He releases Crowley’s right wrist, his pace quickening still, and if Crowley could smirk around his cock, he would. He gives a hum of assent instead, letting Aziraphale press harder on his left wrist, fuck frantic into his mouth, and he reaches around to press his right index finger against Aziraphale’s entrance.

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispers, thrusting harder, “yes, please—”

Crowley gets two fingers slick and slips them inside, moaning at the tight press of him as Aziraphale cries out, bucking into his mouth and against his fingers at once.

“Oh, oh, fuck, you’re too good, too fucking good.” He lets go of Crowley’s other wrist to hold onto the headboard and thrust even harder. Crowley seizes his waist with his free hand, angles Aziraphale so that he can work his fingers in even deeper, press just where the angel likes it, and then Aziraphale’s messy ramble of praise shifts into a wordless, incredibly raw sound and he’s coming hard down Crowley’s throat. 

Crowley nearly whites out from the pleasure of it, Aziraphale filling him, that specific, familiar taste, Aziraphale clenching tight around his fingers, Aziraphale burying himself in Crowley’s mouth as deep as he can. I’m doing that, I’m bringing this to you, and you love it.

When he pulls back at last, Aziraphale immediately drops into Crowley’s arms, kissing him hungrily, licking his own come from Crowley’s cheeks and chin where it’s spilled over. 

“How are you, darling?” Aziraphale asks, shivering slightly. Crowley holds him tight, rubs his palms over the curves of his arms. “That was magnificent for me.” 

“Same, angel, fuck.” Crowley’s voice is understandably hoarse, his throat still thick with Aziraphale’s taste. “I love—I love getting fucked like that.”

“You do?” Aziraphale’s fingers trace his lips, traverse his throat, play across his chest and stomach.

“Yeah, yeah— love making you feel good, love when you get to control the pace, love—” here he starts to stutter, as Aziraphale’s touch makes his aching erection throb again, “love when you’re in me, when you fill me up, I just want you everywhere, fuck—”

“I love it too,” Aziraphale murmurs, running his fingers torturously over Crowley’s thighs, where they’re soaked and sticky from his leaking cock, “oh, Crowley. In fact, I want you in me right now.”

“Fffuck,” Crowley breathes. “You sure, angel?” He’s hardly gotten the words out before Aziraphale’s guiding his fingers back towards his entrance, where Crowley had been pressing a moment ago. 

“Yes. Yes. Get me ready, please.” 

Crowley growls, Aziraphale crushing their mouths together in a kiss as he pulls Crowley onto his side, drapes one leg over him. Crowley gets two fingers slick and presses them into Aziraphale’s hole, watching with parted lips as Aziraphale’s wet cock hardens again in response.

“That’s it, nice and slow, please, I’m still quite sensitive.” Aziraphale’s breath is hot against his mouth, but his eyes are open, lidded with arousal, blazing into Crowley. Crowley flexes his fingers gently inside him. He watches Aziraphale’s face and cock in turn as he moves, pressing at the best places for the angle they’re lying in, the right pressure Aziraphale needs right now, and Aziraphale nods as he gets the rhythm right, pushes slow and deep.

“Now,” he whispers, and Crowley bites his lip, his sopping cock giving a twitch of anticipation. “Can I ride you now?”

“You bloody better,” Crowley hisses, his voice breaking, and Aziraphale kisses him, smirking into his mouth. He pushes Crowley back against the bed and rises to straddle his thighs. The sheets are cold where they’re spit- and salt-damp, but Crowley’s stalwartly sure it’s the most comfortable place in the universe. 

Aziraphale gives a quick snap to get his hand slick, and gives Crowley’s erection a few loose strokes. Crowley squirms, breathless and desperately, obviously needy.

“I want you,” Aziraphale says. Quiet and simple, but it sets Crowley’s body alight in the best way, grounding him, a mirror to his own heart. 

“I’m yours,” he manages, and then Aziraphale sinks down on his cock at last. Words leave him, his eyes shut tight, there is only this. Those rosegold thighs hot against his hips, those nimble hands steady on his chest, and Aziraphale terribly tight and glorious around him.

“So good,” he hears Aziraphale moan as he rocks himself on Crowley’s cock, “you feel so —ah!— so fucking good.” And then Crowley’s coming with a wail, releasing at last, the world gone white and sharpsweet. Aziraphale rides him hard though it, taking him deep, until he’s full and Crowley feels himself spilling onto his own thighs.

“Oh.” The edge is finally off, the fierce and encompassing need sated at last, but even as he comes down from his orgasm, Aziraphale’s pace gentling, Crowley already knows he isn’t done. 

“Do you want to stop?” Aziraphale rises to lean over him, pulling out slightly so only the head of Crowley’s cock is still inside him. He’s fully hard again himself, his chest heaving. 

“No,” Crowley shakes his head. Even blissed-out and spent, it only takes the merest bit of concentration to keep himself hard, he wants to keep fucking Aziraphale so badly.

“Color?”

“So fucking green, angel.” 

“Good,” Aziraphale says, and sinks back into Crowley’s lap, taking him to the hilt. They cry out together, and this time Crowley seizes his hips, rising to meet him. “Oh,” Aziraphale moans. His face is a wreck of arousal, kissed lips parted, messy mane of curls bouncing, eyes glazed in sensation and love. Crowley watches Aziraphale fucking delight in taking his cock, pushing down on him hard, grinding against him in his lap, and a swell of love washes over him. 

“Can I?”

“Yes, yes—” Aziraphale lets Crowley switch them, rolls to lie flat on his back on the messed sheets and pulls his knees up. Crowley gives a whimper at the sight of him, his thick cock damp against his plush stomach, the soft matted hair of his chest, his stretchmarks bright against his skin, Crowley’s come leaking from him, trickling onto the bed. 

“I love you,” he says, and sinks into him. “I love you more than I know how to, I love you more than I thought I could.” Aziraphale moans as Crowley fucks him, the bed shaking beneath them, headboard crashing into the wall. Aziraphale’s soaked and slippery now, open and needing and Crowley fucks him hard. “This love—it—it makes sense,” Crowley gasps, the words coming from somewhere at his core, spilling helpless from his mouth. “I don’t know how or why but it does, and it feels better than anything, anything, and I just want to do it right.”

“You do,” Aziraphale says immediately, his words catching on every thrust, “you do, you’re perfect, just like this, just as you are, I love you just as you are.”

Crowley’s a mess of it, thrusting deep and rough, watching Aziraphale take his cock and love it, his brows furrowed and his mouth open, hands flung above him to push back against the headboard, to bear down and take Crowley as deep as he can. 

“Loved you for so long,” Crowley murmurs, snapping his hips, hands as gentle as he can keep them around Aziraphale’s thighs, “didn’t think I could love you any more than I did. But I do, I do, every single blessed day.”

“Same, same, same,” Aziraphale chants, pushing back against him. Crowley lets his gaze drop lower, to where his slick cock pulls out nearly all the way of Aziraphale’s wet hole and buries deep again and again, watching Aziraphale’s body take him, make room for him, draw him in. “Oh, this feels right, Crowley! Everything, everything you do with me does, it feels right like nothing else ever has, and this, this, oh, it’s too good, we belong like this, please, always, please—”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, his voice breaking. “Yeah, absolutely, angel—” but even though he means it so entirely, in this very moment, with Aziraphale’s praise and his body so tight around him, Crowley’s pace stutters. He grits his teeth, trying to keep himself even, careful.

“Oh, oh, darling.” Through his sweaty, want-wrecked expression, Aziraphale is grinning. “You can come again.” 

“I—”

“Do it, love. I want it, give it to me.” Aziraphale spreads his legs wider, reaches to pull Crowley close. Their breath smells of each other. He threads his hands in Crowley’s stormcurl hair and tugs, and Crowley gasps and lets himself thrust harder. “Fill me up, it feels so good when you do. You fuck me so good, baby,” the endearment slipping out as it does only when Aziraphale’s entirely lost in it (Crowley loves it, kisses it from his mouth), “I love your cock, I love how you stretch me open, I love how you fill me up, I want to make you come again, please, please, please.”

And Crowley does, with a choked cry, Aziraphale flinging his arms around him, holding him close and canting his hips up to take as much of it as he can.

“Fuck.” Crowley collapses boneless onto Aziraphale’s chest.

“Oh love, you did so good,” Aziraphale murmurs, “you’re perfect, exquisite, my darling.” 

Crowley pushes himself up on shaky arms. 

“Gonna get you off now.”

“Oh—you don’t have to, we can take a minute—” Aziraphale insists, though his erection hasn’t flagged a bit, shiny against his stomach.

“Won’t if you don’t want me to,” Crowley says. He slinks between Aziraphale’s thighs, and they part for him. “But if you want me to, I want to.” He looks down at Aziraphale’s cock, his dripping hole. God, I want to.” He glances up. “Color?”

“Green,” Aziraphale whispers. Crowley grins at him, and sinks to the mattress. 

He spreads Aziraphale’s cheeks open and presses the flat of his tongue from the base of his crease up to his loose hole, and Aziraphale cries out, the muscles in his thighs twitching. Crowley licks his own come from Aziraphale, swallowing it down, tracing the rim with the tip of his tongue. He licks the inside of Aziraphale’s thighs, he circles his hole, sucks at it as Aziraphale writhes beneath his mouth. He lets his tongue press inside, where it’s slick and open, fucks Aziraphale with it until the angel’s hand comes to yank on his hair. 

“Get your mouth on my cock, please.”

  “Yes, angel.” 

Crowley swallows him to the base and Aziraphale keens, his fingers tangled in Crowley’s curls. Crowley sucks him sloppy, his muscles aching, frantic to make him feel good. He runs his tongue over the wet slit, presses his lips against the head, and takes him deep into his throat again and again and again until Aziraphale’s thrusting up into him.

“Fuck, come here.” 

“Wha?” Crowley raises his mouth up just enough to ask. 

“I would very much like to eat you out while you do that.”

“A-Aziraphale—” 

“If it’s too much, I won’t, of course, but—”

Crowley doesn’t wait to be asked, he shifts clumsily on the bed, snagging at the sheets, and gets his knees on either side of Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale reaches for his hips and pulls him down, and just as Crowley gets his mouth on Aziraphale’s cock again, he feels the angel’s tongue caress his hole. He moans around the shaft in his mouth, bobs his head quicker, and Aziraphale licks him harder in response. He reaches for Aziraphale’s balls, rolls them in his palm as he takes Aziraphale deep into his throat, and then he’s lost in it, rocking back and forth, this breathless pleasure. Aziraphale’s hands on his waist, his tongue pressed deep inside, and his cock hot and full between Crowley’s lips. This, this cycle of pleasure, the pressing pleasure of giving, of wanting and being wanted, of making ceaseless love, it’s too good to be true but it is, it is, it’s happening and Crowley gives in to it as best as he can, rocking back against Aziraphale and taking him deep, touching him everywhere, losing himself in the sensation of Aziraphale all over him. 

“Let me fuck you,” Aziraphale says, voice hoarse. “Can I? Would you like that, or is it too much? I want to come inside you, I want to spoil you, Crowley, I want—”

“Please.” Earlier, another time, perhaps, Crowley would have pushed back, would have insisted on getting Aziraphale off first, but he can’t any longer. Their bodies make a rhythm together, a pattern, their physical forms taking on an urgency, now that they’re together like he never thought they could be when they were apart, a flow, a call and response and call and response, a dance of it, chaos and harmony somehow all at once. “Please.”

Aziraphale shifts out from under him and Crowley settles on the bed on his hands and knees, his slick hole waiting. 

“Do you want—”

“I’m ready.”

Aziraphale presses a sweaty kiss to his shoulderblade, and enters. 

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good , Aziraphale.” Crowley lets himself give in, arching his back, clawing the sheets, as Aziraphale fucks him soundly, pounding into him, burying himself to the hilt. “Give it to me.” He feels his cheeks burning, but he’s a sweaty mess of orgasm and arousal anyway, and he wants it, fuck, he wants it. “Give it to me, give me your cock, I want it, I love it, fuck, yes.”

“No altar,” Aziraphale pants, running his hands all over Crowley’s back, the ridges of his ribs, the hidden dark wings. He pushes down at the base of his spine and sharp, spiraling pleasure courses through Crowley as Aziraphale fucks into him right goddamn there, exactly where he knows to. “No incense, nothing but you and I, you and I, Crowley. Let me worship you, my love, as best as I can. Every day, every day, every day, all of you. I am yours, yours alone, I pledge myself, you are good in every way that matters, the very best, and I am devoted—”

“Ahh!”  It’s nearly too much, everything’s gone bright and sensitive and breathless. His cheek hits the mattress as his arms give way, Aziraphale holding his hips up as fucks hard against Crowley’s prostate from behind.

“Come for me again, Crowley.”

“I c-ca—” Surely, surely he can’t, not again, not like this, his spent and tender cock untouched, but that steady heat is filling him, the world blank before his eyes. There is just this, Aziraphale and his love, Aziraphale and his body, and the encompassing, ferocious pleasure that they share. 

“You can. You can, and I think you want to.”

Crowley can hardly speak any longer, his eyes clenched shut and his mouth hanging open as Aziraphale fucks him open, fucks him deep and hard and right fucking there, again and again and again.

“Oh,” he hears Aziraphale say, “fuck. You feel so good, you know, I intended—I intended to just finish you off again, but—”

“Gonna come in me?” Crowley manages. He glances over his shoulder and draws a ragged breath at Aziraphale’s fucked-out, desperate expression. “Do it. C’mon, angel, give it to me.”

“Crowley—”

“I will if you will.”

“Fuck.”  

Crowley comes hard, Aziraphale’s name catching on his lips as the pleasure crashes like a current, like a wave, like the release of a stormcloud, rippling through his spent body. Aziraphale’s hands grip his waist as he clenches around him, and then Aziraphale’s coming inside him, hot and deep and he’s gloriously full, their pleasure colliding, mingling, inextricably shared.

Aziraphale withdraws at last, and even though Crowley’s overstimulated body trembles as he does, he gives a petulant whine anyway at being empty again.

“Come here,” Aziraphale says, collapsing onto the pillows, and Crowley’s already climbing up to take him in his arms. They fit their sticky, heaving bodies together. Crowley wraps his arms around him, then his legs, then he presses a kiss into Aziraphale’s hair and doesn’t move away.

Neither of them remember falling asleep, but when they wake, the storm has passed, the late afternoon sun heavy and gold through the bedroom window.

“You’re too good to me, you know that?” Crowley says softly, stroking the angel’s hair.

“My darling,” says Aziraphale, nuzzling into his chest. “Do shut up.”

“Hey!” but Crowley’s laughing. There’s a warmth in his chest that has nothing to do with the aftermath, or perhaps it has quite a lot to do with it, but it’s more than that, too. 

“I think we’re fairly perfect together,” Aziraphale mumbles, dusting a kiss to his collarbone. “And I know it will take some getting accustomed to, my love, and that’s fine as long as you know that’s how I feel.”

“I do,” Crowley says, and he means it. “Thank you, though. For...reassuring. Might take a bit longer, y’know?”

“It will, I have no doubt. And I’m here for all of it, every step of the way. Anything I can do.” Aziraphale looks up at him and flashes that sunbeam smile. “And, well. If this helps at all—”

“You’re damn right it does, angel.”

“—then I’m quite sure I can get used to this.”  

The sun warms the messy bed, and the two beings utterly in love within it. The plants in the garden outside stretch toward the sky, their soil nourished from the storm. There’s a picket fence, and a thatched roof, and plenty of freshly picked herbs in the kitchen, plenty of red wine too. There are bookshelves and tartan blankets, and a rather motley collection of art. There’s Aziraphale’s hand, warm on his back, his plush thigh tucked there between Crowley’s own. 

“Think I could get used to this, too.”