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Every Sense of the Word

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“To the world!” - “To the world.

It occurs to Crowley, as the very first dinner of the rest of their lives unfolds in front of him (he’s always been more of an observer than a participant when it comes to these things), that the world doesn’t care what well-wishes a pair of supernatural rebels have for it. In the past 24 hours, they have stopped time, stared Death and Satan in the face and rearranged every atom in their bodies to deceive the forces of Heaven and Hell. It seems like all of this should make more of an impression on the world.

But it just keeps spinning, entirely happy to ignore the end of times that never were.

While Aziraphale hmmms and tastes and delights his way through a multiple-course dinner, Crowley leans back and sips the wines that arrive with each course, tastes the bites Aziraphale holds out for him to try. Mostly, however, he gorges himself on looks that no longer have to be stolen, on smiles that can be held as long as he wants, and on not averting his eyes whenever Aziraphale happens to glance his way.

By the time Aziraphale has finished the last of his salted peanut parfait, he feels quite light-headed with it.

“So. What are you in the mood for now?”

Showing you what it's like not to be afraid anymore.
Showing you how much I love you.
Snogging. Quite extraordinary amounts of snogging.

The answers are crowding on his tongue, coating it with the thick and heavy taste of promise.

Making you come, angel. Making you shout my name.

Too fast, a panicking part of his brain shouts at him, but then again, what exactly is speed, when you’ve made it past the end of time?

"You," he finally manages, and suddenly, it does require effort not to let his gaze slide away again. Perhaps there is one last thing, then, that he is afraid of.

Crowley has done just about everything, over the course of their long, shared history, to say in all but words Anything you want, just take it, I’m yours. He has never, to this day, done so without the plausible deniability of a playful smirk, the play of temptation that used to be so integral to their dance. He’s never been anything but sure of Aziraphale’s definitive No, or had to consider whether it still stands without the threat of Heaven and Hell hanging over them. What he would do if it does, and what if it doesn’t.

"My dear, I rather thought that was a given."

“Wh--” Crowley manages, as something breaks in his brain.

Aziraphale puts his hand on top of Crowley’s and he can feel the blood drain from his head. His face feels hot and his eyeballs hurt and the room starts to close in. The last thing Crowley knows is the sensation of his knees hitting the floor as he slithers out of his chair.

Pink. Everything is very… pink. When did everything get so pink?

Crowley’s surroundings swim into focus. Hotel room. A ridiculously over-designed, extraordinarily pink hotel room, with -- he squints -- a floral motif on the wallpaper and on the small and uncomfortably bumpy sofa, upon which he is sprawled. A worried-looking angel is kneeling on the floor next to him, holding his hand, and it’s all Crowley can do to remain conscious. Aziraphale’s fingers are warm and soft and, as always on the few occasions when they have touched (Crowley can name them all, the precise date and time), there’s an electric buzz under his skin. The hum of the divine -- or maybe it’s just Aziraphale.

“What the actual fuck?” Crowley has liked this phrase since picking it up from Americans on Twitter a few years ago. It seems apt at the moment.

"Not yet,” Aziraphale smiles, “but we'll get there, I’m sure.” Crowley, who had been raising his head from the sofa, drops it back down in a shocked thump. “How are you feeling?"

“Ngk,” Crowley explains.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says tenderly, climbing onto the sofa with him. “I’m so sorry to have given you a fright like that. We’ve been through so much today. It really was quite inexcusable of me.” There's barely room for both of them on this thing, more of a loveseat than a sofa (loveseat! save me! Crowley thinks). “It’s just -- you’ve waited so terribly long for me already.” Aziraphale wraps himself around Crowley, pillowing Crowley’s head on his arm, his other hand on Crowley's chest. Crowley is surrounded by Aziraphale, held, bloody embraced, and all he can think is: it was worth it. Every second of it. Just to get to this.

Crowley can feel the heat of the angel all down his side, smell that fresh rain smell that makes Crowley’s chest expand. His heart is going like anything. Aziraphale must feel it under his hand.

"Are you all right, darling?"

"I'm..." Crowley swallows. Darling, he thinks. He’s never been darling before. "Yeah." He covers Aziraphale's hand with his own. "Yeah. I'm good."

It’s a poor excuse of a word for what he’s feeling, but really, Crowley thinks as his brain circles through all the languages at his disposal, how the fuck is he supposed to find a better one? This is something that hasn’t happened before, not just to him, but to the world. An angel holding a demon like that, looking at him like he’s something precious and cherished - it’s not something that has been part of the script book of creation before. “Think I’m gonna need a moment.”

And Aziraphale is glowing, Crowley can feel it coming off of him in waves, warm and intense and definitely overpowering if everything else wasn’t already… so much. He wonders vaguely how much of the mood lighting came with the room and how much is of angelic origin. Wonders, for a thrilling second, how long Aziraphale has held this back.

“Oh, my dear, take as long as you need. I’ll be right here.”

As if there is any way Crowley could miss that. He tries to take in the sight of him, shining curls and beaming smile and the whole rest of it, but finds he can’t stand to look directly at him. It’s like trying to fix your eyes on the sun, hurts as soon as you make a conscious effort at it. It’s a sight not meant to be taken in by human eyes, and Crowley feels his heart stutter at the realisation that it is meant for him.

Great, I’m a fucking cliché. A blushing, fainting demon in distress.

But every time he looks up, Aziraphale is still there, completely unshaken by Crowley’s inability to deal with this new development, and apparently more than happy to just keep watching him, holding him. He’s studying Crowley like Crowley has seen him study a myriad of pudding trolleys, with enraptured interest, but no urgency. As though he’s had his fill of the necessary, and is quite sure whatever is next will be a perfect addition. Like someone very aware of the variety of options open to him, and quite certain he’ll sample more than one of them.

Crowley can feel his ears heat up at the idea of what, exactly, those options entail, and buries his face against Aziraphale’s chest, groaning. Fantastic, he thinks, just what this room needs. More pink.

He can feel the chuckle spreading from Aziraphale’s body to his own, as though the angel has picked up on his thoughts. Still, he doesn’t say anything. Crowley is about to pull back and piece together the words, because really, if Aziraphale isn’t going to, somebody has to. Before he can make up his mind, though, there is a hand on the back of his head, holding him close and gently rubbing at his scalp and oh, this is nice. This is very, very nice. Crowley leans into Aziraphale’s touch. Aziraphale sighs.

“It is…” Crowley feels him swallow. “It is so wonderful to be able to touch you.” His voice is thick with emotion. “To be -- to be free to.”

Crowley can feel the weight of Aziraphale’s longing, thousands of years of it. Or maybe it’s just his own. “Yeah, I’m with you there.” He wants to say more than this. He wants Aziraphale to know… but that’s silly. Of course Aziraphale knows. And he’s rubbish with words anyhow.

He thinks about the first time he saw the angel, and how he wanted him even then, when Aziraphale was new and confused. He wonders if Aziraphale wanted him as far back as Eden. Aziraphale’s fingertips scritch the nape of his neck and, with a thought, Crowley lets his hair grow out into the long curls he had then. Just to see.

Aziraphale glows even brighter for a second, raking his fingers through the new wealth of Crowley’s hair, and then he tsks. "My dear, you don't need to change for me, you know."

"Give a demon a chance, I’m trying to sweep you off your feet here."

Aziraphale chuckles and nudges Crowley’s neck with his nose. "I hesitate to bring this up, but you're the one who fainted."

"'m not. You clearly thwarted me."

"Regardless of semantics, dear, I think the sweeping has been done."

Crowley relaxes into the familiar cadence of their banter. On the matter of sweeping: Crowley has been thoroughly swept, and yet he thinks he could do a little sweeping himself. His hands have ached for the angel for so long. He lifts one of them and brushes at the shining curls at Aziraphale’s temple. A shimmer flows into his fingers and runs down his arm. He turns to look intently at Aziraphale, study the way his pretty lips curve into a smile as Crowley runs his fingertips along the side of his face. Aziraphale is right. This is wonderful.

Crowley gets lost in Aziraphale’s face, the way he has at meals, on drinking binges, feeding the ducks, his whole damned life, in fact. Only now he can touch, can trace the soft arc of his eyebrow, the upward tilt of his nose, the faint impression of a smile line, the inexpressible softness of his lower lip. Crowley’s tingling fingers learn for the first time this face he knows so well. Aziraphale’s clear eyes are fused to his, regarding him with such tenderness, such openness. His mouth is open too, lips slightly parted to reveal his upper teeth. Aziraphale’s breathing, Crowley notices, seems to be speeding up.

Aziraphale breaks the silence. "I don't wish to alarm you again,” he says softly, “but I do believe in the heat of the moment, I may have miracled us a reservation for myself… and my husband."

And what is there to be alarmed about, Crowley thinks, before the rest of his brain catches up with him and he nearly blacks out again. Husband. The word sounds almost trivial, considering all they’ve been to each other, but the implications are undeniable. Aziraphale is watching him still, looking both pleased with himself and a little worried, and Crowley’s heart feels ready to burst.

Other half, his mind suggests, and he almost groans again at the cheesy term. Mine.

He scrambles for a way to express how he feels about the word, about the fact that it was the first thing Aziraphale’s mind seems to have jumped to as an explanation, to say ‘kind of an understatement, wouldn’t you say’ and ‘what, Angel, no longer going too fast?’ and… oh, fuck it.

Words have been rudely abandoning Crowley for as long as humans have used spoken language, but this time, he’s one step ahead of them. Instead of attempting to put his mess of emotions into words, and before he can try to talk himself out of it, he grabs hold of Aziraphale’s hair, pulls him towards himself, and presses their lips together.

At least, that’s what he is going for, but apparently, he’s finally broken through some of that angelic composure, because Aziraphale falls forward with quite a bit more force than Crowley has been prepared for, and instead of their lips, it’s their teeth that end up knocking together.

The impact isn’t painful, exactly, but it is unexpected, and catches them both off-guard. And so the first time Crowley tastes Aziraphale, he tastes of laughter, a sound that sparks between them like a living thing. And though it’s not one of the many, many things he’s imagined about this moment, it’s perfect, and he will never have enough of it. It’s addictive, the rich, decadent vibrato of him, the soft tremor of Aziraphale’s body moving against Crowley’s, arms wrapping around the him and pulling him even closer. Crowley is pretty sure he could spend days like this, just memorising every twitch of the angel’s muscles as he presses into him, the soft gasp as his nose nudges the angel’s cheek, trying to drink him up.

Crowley’s heart does a little backflip at the sound of that gasp, and now he wants to hear more of them, wants to know what other sounds Aziraphale can make. He tightens his fist in Aziraphale’s hair and presses the softest kiss he can to the angel’s bottom lip. A spark crackles between them.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, and with a flood of tingling heat Crowley realises that his prick has been hard for the past half-hour, at least. He kisses Aziraphale again, so gently. Aziraphale’s tongue darts out to meet his, and he is fucking ruined, that moan is coming from his throat. But Aziraphale is right behind him with a high whine that makes every hair on Crowley’s neck stand up. He tosses subtlety out the elaborately draperied window and licks into Aziraphale’s mouth, tasting salted peanut and champagne and hungry angel. Aziraphale, it seems, knows a little about kissing, stroking Crowley’s tongue with his own and then pulling back to nibble his lip. But Crowley can’t take much of this, he wants to get as much of his face into Aziraphale’s face as possible, it’s ridiculous. It’s gorgeous. Aethereal current flows into him as he sucks Aziraphale’s tongue and Aziraphale -- he can’t believe it -- grinds against his thigh. With the one remaining brain cell still available to him, Crowley is gratified to confirm after hundreds of years of speculation and keen observation that Aziraphale does indeed dress to the left.

The sofa is beginning to prove wholly inadequate to their needs. Crowley slides on top of Aziraphale, and the feel of his whole cushy angel spread out beneath him just about breaks his heart. He moans and plants kisses along Aziraphale’s jaw, his throat, while Aziraphale’s hands roam down his back, then land on his arse and squeeze. Aziraphale is making little rocking movements -- okay, Aziraphale is dry-humping him -- and Crowley is spouting pre-come into his pants like an adolescent and trying to hold on. He returns to those rosy lips and takes another taste of Aziraphale’s tongue, and as distracted as he is with lust, he almost wants to cry. This is everything.

Aziraphale breaks the kiss to draw his teeth down Crowley’s neck, then land a bite -- a hard one -- that makes him hiss and shove his prick mindlessly into Aziraphale’s hips.

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale whispers, “I want you so much, I am beside myself. Did I hurt you?”

“In the best way,” Crowley grits out, nibbling at Aziraphale himself. “Kit off. Now. All right?”

“Yes, yes, please,” Aziraphale says, tilting his chin up as he reaches to pull his tie loose, and that is without question the sexiest thing Crowley has ever seen in his entire demonic existence. He growls and yanks the tie from Aziraphale’s collar --”Gently, dear! I like that tie!” -- and begins working the buttons of his waistcoat. He gets that open as efficiently as possible and he’s halfway down Aziraphale’s shirt buttons when he realises he’s naked. He looks up into Aziraphale’s smug smile.

“Bastard,” he mumbles, but his heart isn’t in it, especially when he sees that flattered, slightly mushy look from earlier reappear on Aziraphale’s face. And this time, he can lean in and nip at Aziraphale’s earlobe, feel the gratified heat rising there as he realises: “You like it when I call you that.”

It’s intoxicating, this effect he can have on Aziraphale. Crowley dives in enthusiastically, eager to uncover more, reveal this body he knows so well (inside-out, in fact), and that is still so new to him.

It’s frustrating work, undoing the remaining row of fiddly little buttons trailing down to Aziraphale’s trousers, all the while trying not to put too much distance between their bodies (not again, hasn’t there been enough of that?) But he might have to, if he ever wants to see what is underneath these layers, unless…

“Don’t even think about it. Some of us actually like our clothes, and I’m not trusting you to deposit them somewhere safe, at the moment.”

Crowley gives an offended growl, but allows Aziraphale to push him back upright, until all he can do is sit and marvel at the sight before him as the angel continues to unbutton his shirt. It’s been a long time - such a fucking long time - since Crowley has seen a glimpse of this creamy-soft skin, that mouth-watering swell of muscle. His fingers itch, his whole body twitches with the need to reach out, to re-learn that well-memorised body like a long-lost, rediscovered language. Another impatient sound escapes him.

“Oh, my sweet.” There seems to be a veritable fountain of endearments inside Aziraphale, and now that he’s tapped into it, it won’t stop flowing. Crowley knows the feeling. “I’m not questioning your dedication. I can just see that you’re a bit -- ah. Preoccupied?” His lips twist into a smirk, and his gaze travels downward to where Crowley’s erection is pressing into him, leaking precome against the angel’s crotch.

Before Crowley can find a way to defend himself, though (‘Ever heard of glass houses, angel? Don’t pretend like you’re not hard as a rock right now.’), a hand closes around him. It sends a bolt of energy straight through his hips, which promptly develop a mind of their own. Well, they’ve always had one. They just use it, on this particular occasion, to fuck forward into the touch. The motion draws an entirely undignified moan from Crowley, and Aziraphale’s reaction is instantaneous. An absolutely wicked spark ignites in his eyes, and, Satan, is he actually licking his lips?

“Besides.” Who knew Aziraphale could look so delightfully shameless and radiantly angelic at the same time, all with his hand wrapped around Crowley’s throbbing cock, for crying out loud? (Crowley. Crowley has always known.) “I think we’ll both enjoy remembering this next time I’m wearing this particular ensemble.” He gives what can only be described as a contented wiggle with his hips, and sighs at the wet patch Crowley has already left on his previously immaculate trousers.

“Fuck.” Aziraphale is running his thumb over the head of Crowley’s prick now, and a shudder goes through him -- hard to tell what caused it, the touch or those words. “Angel, you can’t… hah! You can’t just say these things and expect me to. Ngh. To last.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are still fixed on him, wide and open and entirely innocent looking if not for the way his pupils are blown, for the way they keep darting back to Crowley’s cock. “Oh, but I don’t. Darling. ” He pauses for a moment, as though savouring the way Crowley’s insides turn into a squirming mess of pleasure at the term. And why not? He probably can sense it, this heat he’s feeling has to be a kind of love. “Don’t force yourself to hold back… I’m sure we won’t run into any problems where your -- hm -- stamina is concerned. Come on, dear. Let me see.”

Denying Aziraphale anything he asks for is the one thing Crowley has never managed to succeed in. So when Aziaphale is beginning to move his hand again, Crowley barely even registers the high, keening sound that escapes him. All he can focus on is the way the heat in his abdomen contracts into a bright sphere of overwhelming pleasure, the way it pulses as Aziraphale puts one hand on his thigh to steady them both, and erupts into being as a new star in the constellation of their relationship.

If an unforgettable mess is what Aziraphale was going for, this certainly did the job.

“So beautiful,” Aziraphale whispers, eyes wide. He releases Crowley’s prick and, keeping his gaze on Crowley’s face, lifts his hand to his lips and licks his fingers. Crowley shudders with a huge aftershock, watching Aziraphale taste what he has wrung out of him, and then he miracles away the mess and falls upon Aziraphale, pushing his open shirt and waistcoat aside, feverishly kissing his neck and chest, sucking a rosy nipple into his mouth, feeling the pulse of angelic power everywhere his lips touch. He needs to taste, too; needs to savour every bit of his angel, needs to make up for every instant when Aziraphale’s skin wasn’t under his tongue.

Aziraphale’s fingers twine and twist in his hair as Crowley registers the heat of him rising, his heart racing. Aziraphale’s nipple is firm and succulent, and Aziraphale is moaning as he nibbles it with his lips, grazes it with his teeth. Crowley can do some fairly interesting things with his tongue. He grins a bit into Aziraphale’s chest and thinks it might be time for a little showing off.

He lets a little of the snake into his tongue, letting it fork, and begins to flicker, very gently and very fast, faster than a human tongue ever could. Aziraphale gasps and arches into it. Crowley moves to the other nipple and Aziraphale actually whines. Oh, this is very good. But he can feel Aziraphale’s cock pressing into his belly, and by Satan, he wants some of that. Wants to taste Aziraphale there, wants to make Aziraphale feel -- well, everything, really. Wants to overwhelm him. Wonder if I can make him faint, Crowley thinks.

He moves down, kissing Aziraphale’s soft belly, hands following his lips with reverence, palming this sweet curve that he’s longed to touch for so long. It feels like comfort. Rising along it, straining against the trousers Crowley is working to open, is a cock so hard Crowley can feel the heat radiating from it on his face. At last, he frees the angel from his restraints and withdraws his thick, wet cock, rosy in its nest of white-blond curls. They both moan at the same time, and Crowley remembers what it is to worship.

The smell of him is delectable as Crowley flicks out his tongue, savouring the hot aethereal tingle as he licks away the essence gathered at the head. “Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale breathes, and then “Crowley!” as Crowley begins in earnest, swirling his tongue, getting him wet all over, flicking under the foreskin and then drawing back to tease the head. He feels Aziraphale’s fingers tighten in his hair, feels the quivering tension in Aziraphale’s thighs.

He takes just the crown of the angel’s cock in his mouth and sucks, rubbing his tongue underneath, and Aziraphale’s feet thrash underneath him. He’ll have mercy, he decides, and sucks Aziraphale down to the root. “Oh, oh, fuck, ” Aziraphale groans, as Crowley’s throat opens while his tongue continues to twine and press. He moves back and forth, lavishing love and attention upon his angel, upon this solid evidence of Aziraphale’s desire for him, and the joy of it is almost more than he can bear. He’s getting hard again already as Aziraphale serenades him with moans, tugging his hair and trembling all over. He wraps his tongue all the way around him, furling and unfurling it, ruffling angelic foreskin, tasting angelic salinity, feeling angelic electricity. Aziraphale is breathing heavily and taut as a drum. Crowley pulls back, pulls off him and takes him in hand. Aziraphale’s eyes, which have been shut against his pleasure, open in surprise.

“Can I,” Crowley says, roughly. Clears his throat. “Angel. I want to fuck you. Can I?”

Aziraphale gives him a melting look, but there’s steel behind it. “Sometimes I think,” his voice is almost casual. Only Crowley would be able to detect the depth of feeling in it, the tremor of desire breaking free after millennia of restraint. “that’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted, my entire life.”

And now Crowley doesn’t know if he’s surging forward or if Aziraphale is pulling him by the hair, but their mouths are crashing together and Aziraphale’s tongue is stroking his, urgently, demandingly. Crowley’s heart, getting quite the workout today, breaks open a little more. Aziraphale wants him, and it’s a glorious thing, still a new thing, an unbelievable thing. Aziraphale has wanted him the whole time, and Crowley gives back that want into the kiss, into the fingertips he slides down to stroke behind Aziraphale’s balls, teasing the tender skin where his body breaches. Aziraphale shivers all over and Crowley can’t help it, he has to get more of that.

Crowley slides back down his beautiful soft chest and belly, pushes his legs up, and draws his tongue lightly over Aziraphale’s entrance.

Aziraphale keens.

Devoted, Crowley works him over, flickering and lapping, taking his time. Aziraphale writhes, and the high, begging noises that escape him are unlike anything Crowley has ever heard -- from him or from any poor soul he’s ever tempted. His own prick is stiff and leaking against the upholstery, can’t wait to get inside his angel at last -- but he is unimaginably happy, just doing this, and making Aziraphale feel everything he’s feeling right now.

Finally he begins probing with the tip of his tongue and Aziraphale opens for him as though he were made for it. The heat of him is intoxicating. Crowley slips a finger in, two fingers -- Aziraphale must have done this before (has Aziraphale done this before???), he’s a natural -- and moves them inside the tight wet suck of him, feeling the pull of his earthly body and of his aethereal power.

“My darling, please, I can’t wait anymore. I must have you now.”

As much experience as Crowley has in falling (upper case, lower case, he’s done them all), he still finds himself surprised by it. The tug of Aziraphale’s voice, pulling at something inside him that he’s always known is there, and has spent so many years trying to ignore. The slow-but-sudden crumble of a wall between them, and he’s lost in it, lost in Aziraphale, as he finally, finally slides inside.

Crowley could happily spend the rest of eternity falling for his angel. He thrusts in slowly, shaking with the power that surges through them. Aziraphale shudders against him, opens up new depths, and Crowley just keeps falling. Doesn’t attempt to stop it, eager to see just how far it can go -- and to his surprise, there is no end. No more protective pretenses, only a wide open field of possibilities. After a universe’s lifetime of waiting, Aziraphale has finally stopped putting a limit on how much Crowley is allowed to love him.

In fact, he looks just about ready to ask for more.

“Oh…” Aziraphale’s mouth is half-open in expectant enjoyment, and he keeps watching Crowley as he tightens around him, gives an experimental little nudge. “Oh, my dearest. You feel just as good inside me as I’ve always imagined. Let me feel you, all of you.”

The request is enough to cut Crowley loose. He falls into a rhythm, giving in to the need inside himself, ready to give Aziraphale anything he will take from him. He isn’t just falling now, he’s throwing himself into this, all of him, every thrust another repetition of I want you, I chose you, I’ll do anything, keep doing it as long as you let me.

And Aziraphale takes, asks, demands, every stroke just seems to spur him on further. His brow is glistening now, he’s wearing a bloody halo of sweat, soaking up every bit of pleasure Crowley can provide. It’s beautiful, it’s wonderful, it’s things a demon shouldn’t even be able to name. Crowley wants it to last, but he can tell that at this rate, he won’t be able to hold on.

One hand still on Aziraphale’s hip, he reaches between them and takes him in hand once again. It’s already familiar, this feeling of the angel’s hot, straining prick in his hand, and it makes Crowley’s head spin. He feels drunk with it, manages to keep up his thrusts while he begins stroking Aziraphale, running his thumb along the pulsing length of him.

Aziraphale is beyond words now, gasping and babbling and chasing his pleasure against the twin rhythms of Crowley’s hand and cock. Crowley feels himself speed up, searching for that perfect angle to push him over the edge. Aziraphale is starting to pulse around him now, and Crowley barely manages to hold back a shout as his hips stutter, and he slips out.

The angel whines, actually whines at the sensation, and Crowley immediately feels bad, but he can’t, he can’t… He slides three fingers inside his mouth, instead, getting them wet before thrusting into Aziraphale, driving him over the edge.

Crowley watches him, watches him squirm and sigh and shudder and strokes him through it, and for a moment, he’s certain he will come, just from this. But then Aziraphale slowly comes down from his climax, and pulls Crowley down on top of him, both of their chests still rising and falling in unison. And Crowley is still hard, his erection caught between them in the wet, messy heat of their bodies, and trying not to move too much. He wants to enjoy this, just bask in the moment and be there in his angel’s arms.

While Aziraphale is lost in his afterglow, Crowley returns to his earlier pastime, and studies his face. This time, he traces it with his lips instead of his hands, pressing slow, worshipping kisses along his temples, across the salt-soaked expanse of his brow.

“Why did you stop?” Aziraphale finally asks. “You’re still… oh.”

And Crowley can feel how the realisation hits, can feel his own face heat up with the gratification of it as Aziraphale bursts into a wide, beaming smile.

“You knew I would want seconds. You sweet thing. Come on. Let’s get you onto the bed.”

Crowley scrambles to his feet, and Aziraphale isn’t far behind, crowding him onto the mattress. There is force behind it, new but not entirely unexpected, and Crowley is half prepared for this next bit to be rough and demanding, an attempt at satiating the insatiable.

Instead, Aziraphale kneels beside him, and softly combs his fingers through Crowley’s hair. Softly spreads it out on the pillow, until it forms a flaming halo around Crowley’s head, and gives a contented sigh.

“Oh, you’re beautiful, my dear. Always thought long hair suited you very well.” One hand is still in Crowley’s hair, lightly scratching his scalp, and bless it, Crowley can feel it in his toes. The other is trailing down Crowley’s chest, exploring his options.

“I think…” he finally says, sounding casual. “I think I’d quite like to ride you now, dear. If that’s all right with you?”

Crowley swallows. And tries not to look like he’s been fantasising about this at least since the first time Aziraphale complained about having to ride a horse.

“Fuck yeah, it’s all right with me,” Crowley says, maybe a bit too loudly, but Aziraphale isn’t thrown by his enthusiasm -- in fact he beams -- and Crowley can’t help it, he has to pull him down into his arms immediately. “Love that smile,” he growls into Aziraphale’s lips, licking at them with his forked tongue, “but right now I wanna fuck it right off your face.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale is managing to express both mock outrage and thrilled delight, and Crowley kisses him properly, sliding into his mouth and stroking their tongues together. He doesn’t know where his sudden confidence has come from. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Aziraphale is so obviously, utterly happy. Crowley doesn’t think he’s ever seen him like this. Not even over an especially nice pudding. Not even over his stupid magic tricks. Aziraphale groans into his mouth and curls his fists in Crowley’s hair. Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s prick twitching against his thigh, already stiff again. When the kiss breaks, Aziraphale is still smiling. For me, Crowley thinks. His heart gives a little squeeze.

He smooths his hands down Aziraphale’s back, curves over his hips to cup his arse. Satan, that is a fine arse, he’s always known it, and he can’t quite believe he gets to hold it in his hands. “Mmm,” Aziraphale hums into his neck, giving him little bites. Crowley grips those glorious cheeks harder, and Aziraphale sinks his teeth into the join of his neck and shoulder.

“Aaah, like that, do you?” Crowley growls, rutting against the angel’s soft belly.

“Mmhmm,” Aziraphale manages, rutting back. If this keeps up, Crowley’s going to lose it all over him again and Aziraphale won’t be getting what he deserves. Can’t have that. Crowley traces his thumb around the tender skin of his rim, miracles more slickness there.

“Are you ready for me, angel?”

Aziraphale lifts his head, looks into Crowley’s eyes. That staggering blue-green brightness, the sun shining on the sea. It’s his now. “Yes, my love.”

Crowley’s heart gives a bigger squeeze. He almost breaks eye contact. The intensity of Aziraphale’s expression is too much. Crowley was going for dead sexy and commanding. How did they end up here?

“I want you now. Wanna make you come, angel. Make you shout my name.”

Aziraphale’s eyes go wide. “Oh, yes, my love,” he whispers. In one fluid motion he lifts his hips, wraps his hand around Crowley’s prick, and slides slowly down on it, gasping. Crowley groans as the tight heat of Aziraphale’s body engulfs him. Then Aziraphale starts to move.

“So good, Aziraphale,” Crowley murmurs, stroking his shoulders, his arms. “You feel so good.” Aziraphale has full control of their motion right now, setting a leisurely pace with the rise and fall of his hips, but Crowley still feels like he’s in charge. He’s going to make it good. He picks up Aziraphale’s hand and brings it to his lips, kisses the back, the palm. Aziraphale’s eyes fucking glow.

“My darling,” Aziraphale begins, his voice high. Crowley doesn’t wait for him to finish. Says it in a rush, before he loses his nerve.

“Wanna show you how much I love you.”

Aziraphale makes a little noise in the back of his throat, and his whole face opens up. He falls forward, bracing himself on one arm and stroking Crowley’s face with the hand he’d been holding. His lips are parted in wonder, his breath coming fast. He’s stopped moving. He’s speechless. The angel is speechless. Crowley did that. He feels like Superman.

Crowley turns his face into Aziraphale’s palm again, pressing his lips against the soft skin. “Don’t freeze up on me now, angel.” He turns back to catch Aziraphale’s gobsmacked eyes. “Nothing to be afraid of. Not anymore.” Crowley gives the gentlest thrust of his hips.

At that, Aziraphale seems to recover. He meets Crowley’s thrust, then rocks forward again, then again more deeply as his eyes flutter shut in pleasure with a long, low moan. He moves to sit upright and starts to go faster, riding Crowley in earnest. Fuck, it’s good. The sweet wet pressure all around him, the friction as Aziraphale pulls almost all the way off with every stroke -- it takes every ounce of control Crowley has to stay right where Aziraphale needs him. His prick is burning with want, but his heart is soaring, and Crowley thinks if he can just keep his hips still and focus on that feeling, that feeling like flying, he might last long enough.

Aziraphale has pinked up all over, radiating heat and shining with sweat. Crowley has never seen him such a mess, and he swells with pride as Aziraphale works himself harder and faster. Aziraphale’s prick is red and wet, just begging for Crowley. Crowley licks his own palm and takes hold of the hot hard breadth of it.

“Yes, my love,” Aziraphale gasps, “Oh, yes,” as Crowley strokes him firm and fast, matching the pace Aziraphale has set, no time for subtlety. At the same time, he starts to thrust up into Aziraphale. “Oh, fuck! Oh, yes!” Aziraphale shouts, “Crowley! Crowley!”

Aziraphale’s hips stutter and he flings his head back as he comes, exposing the soft column of his throat that Crowley badly wants, right now, to take a bite of. He keeps his prick working, delving deep while Aziraphale spurts over the back of his hand and keeps shouting, just vowels now, going on and on. Crowley did that, then. Well done, him. And then Crowley feels the tight heat of his desire peaking, the delicious sensation of Aziraphale’s hot body all over him. The fevered wet friction drags along his begging prick as Aziraphale works it ecstatically, and his orgasm hits him like a train.

Aziraphale keeps moving against him in a slow, rocking motion as Crowley spends himself in him. Eventually, he leans forward and comes to rest on Crowley’s chest, peppering kisses on his neck and jaw. “Oh, my love.” He sounds utterly blissful and spent, satisfied with himself and the world. “That was wonderful.”

“Hm.” Crowley runs a hand through the damp curls on Aziraphale’s forehead, breathes in the scent of him. It is familiar, of course, but there’s a new note to it. Metallic, a little spicy. Completely and utterly earth-bound. “Sated?”

Aziraphale’s quiet laughter vibrates against him. His eyes are wide and shining with affection, fixed on Crowley like they never want to watch anything else. “Never. But happy.” He punctuates his words with another kiss. “Very.”

They lie drinking each other in, hands still exploring, but the urgency gone, for now.

“So,” Crowley begins after a while and notices with some annoyance how nervous he sounds. He clears his throat. “Husband?”

This is a different pink than the one Aziraphale had just minutes ago, but it suits him just as well. There is some embarrassment in it, but underneath it, he seems quite pleased with himself. He rolls to the side, shifting some of his weight off Crowley’s body, but keeps one leg draped over him. Not going anywhere.

“As I said, it was… a spur of the moment thing.”

Crowley doesn’t quite know what to do with that. It seems like there is more to it, but Aziraphale remains quiet. He seems lost in thought, his hand drawing nonsensical patterns on Crowley’s chest, halfway between fidgeting and caressing.

“It’s - not really a term that applies to us, is it?” he finally asks, and Crowley lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. Not too fast then, no hurried attempt to walk back the decision he’s made at a moment’s notice. No more need to hide the true nature of their relationship, but a careful attempt to put it out there, examine it for the unique thing it is.

Aziraphale isn’t finished. “I do think of you as many - as all the things humans mean when they use it. My partner. My… significant other. Precious.” He looks up at Crowley with a slight smirk, as if to say don’t challenge me on this, you know I’ll win. Crowley feels his gaze slide away, and has to grit his teeth against the conflicting emotions swelling in his chest. When Aziraphale speaks again, his voice has gone soft, or softer even than it was before. “Beloved. And, after what we did today, I rather think for something close to forever.”

Beloved, Crowley thinks. Forever. He throws an arm over his face, unable to stifle the sob choking his throat. He’s had a long time to come to terms with eternity, and it’s never sat well with him. Always left a bad taste in his mouth, like frustration and ashes. Why go on always, making people’s lives a little more miserable, choked with love and squirming with want and tethered by the terror of torture and loss? What was the point? But it’s not like that anymore.

Now, immortality looks as rosy as Aziraphale in his arms, no head office to report to, nothing to fear. Freedom. Freedom to love his angel, to spoil him as he’s always dreamed of. No limits. Just whatever they want, forever.

“Sounds good to me,” Crowley manages, wiping his eyes, feeling Aziraphale’s arms tighten around him. He feels warm and glowing with hope -- or maybe it’s just Aziraphale. “So,” he says, looking down into his angel’s gentle, adoring face, “what are you in the mood for now?”