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It happens a lot these days. A chance meeting (a ‘chance’ they both actively increase), some tempting and thwarting for good measure, some sneaking around each other and the grand finale in a cheap anonymous inn room.
Aziraphale does not complain. They can do that. Sometimes, he thinks they have to do that. Because it gets lonely, being the only constant thing in world full of fleeting existences. So they seek each other out, like shining beacons on a sea made of loss. And for a short while, they aren’t alone.
At least, while the nightingale sings, Aziraphale thinks wistfully.
Sometimes, there is blood on Crowley’s hands or on his cheeks. Sometimes, he reeks of sex. But he’s always clean and smells nice when he kisses Aziraphale and steers him to the bed. They make their own scent then.
Now, Crowley holds Aziraphale down by the wrists. The thin but strong body keeps him pinned to the mattress. Sinful hips roll against his arse and a voice like silk and melting chocolate calls him an angel and a whore.
Crowley is beautiful like this. His head is thrown back, his eyes scrunched shut, his raven hair clinging to his sweaty forehead. Dark wings spread wide behind him, their powerful beats lending more force to each of his thrusts into Aziraphale‘s body.
It‘s easy to forget, now and again, the creature inside Crowley. Crowley. Tall, thin, a boy‘s smile and a gentleman‘s charm. But he is mighty and while he likes hiding it from people, he loves reminding Aziraphale. Aziraphale loves being reminded and to remind back.
So they‘re both covered in bites and scratches. Both their hair is a mess, both their clothes are torn. And while Aziraphale is the one pinned, it is a sweet defeat. He will be sore in the morning. But now, he wins for there is a large cock that slides along his inner walls, hitting that spot just right.
“Angel,” Crowley says, a curse and an endearment.
His motions lose their even rhythm, but their force remains. Never a selfish lover, Crowley bends down to kiss Aziraphale’s neck the way he knows Aziraphale likes it while taking Aziraphale’s cock in hand.
All too soon, they both cry out, shudder in each other’s embrace and spill their essence - Crowley into Aziraphale, Aziraphale between their bodies. Aziraphale fights the urge to close his eyes. He likes seeing Crowley’s face when he loses control, knowing that he does so because of Aziraphale.
Silence follows. Only their ragged breaths fill the room. The sweat and semen dry on their skin and the unpleasant feeling seeps into the afterglow.
Groaning, Crowley pushes himself up and pulls his softening cock out of the angel. A whine escapes Aziraphale and Crowley kisses his nose, chuckling.
The next moment, they both jump when they hear several people laughing and walking in the corridor.
“I better go,” Crowley says. “Some of our lots might be around for the festival.”
“Not before sunrise,” Aziraphale says. “Come back to bed. It’s just midnight.”
Crowley tilts his head. “You think?”
“I’m sure,” Aziraphale answers and smiles as he recites, “It was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear.”
“I’m pretty sure it was a bunch of drunks,” Crowley answers on a laugh, “but I see your point.”
“Therefore, stay yet. Thou need’st not to be gone.”
Grinning, Crowley tackles Aziraphale back down. “Quoting Shakespeare at me to get me to fuck you again, angel?”
“What works, works.” Aziraphale shrugs.
He returns Crowley’s smile before he meets him halfway in a kiss. He’ll makes the most of this. Because in a few hours, it will be the lark.
And not the nightingale.
