[Oh— my, that is a lot of words. Aziraphale almost says something to interrupt, something about how Crowley could have said something sooner, but that sounds stupid even before he opens his mouth and so he does not say that. He barely even thinks that, because oh, when Crowley goes on, terribly hasty in words and actions, good lord.
Aziraphale can barely handle a significant glance and a brush of fingers, so all of this— hands, words, heat and pressure and everything he is wholly unprepared for— getting overwhelmed is putting it mildly. He makes a noise in his throat, soft and gentle despite the heat between them, and tucks his face into the crook of Crowley's neck. Kissing is too much, even looking at him is far too much; all he can do is tremble beneath him as Crowley's words roll over him like a wave.
A desperate, sexual wave. It's quite a lot. He says,] I—
[—And then gasps, pressing his fingers into his hips. He says "I" a few more times, a litany of thoughts he can't manage to get out, want and need and Crowley Crowley Crowley—]
I do need you— [He doesn't look up to say it, lips against Crowley's neck.] I always have. Crowley—
[His voice pitches desperately higher then and he rolls his hips to meet Crowley's, clumsily. Six thousand years of pointed repression and a handful of guilty fantasies do not a skillful lover make, but you know what, he's doing his best.
no subject
Aziraphale can barely handle a significant glance and a brush of fingers, so all of this— hands, words, heat and pressure and everything he is wholly unprepared for— getting overwhelmed is putting it mildly. He makes a noise in his throat, soft and gentle despite the heat between them, and tucks his face into the crook of Crowley's neck. Kissing is too much, even looking at him is far too much; all he can do is tremble beneath him as Crowley's words roll over him like a wave.
A desperate, sexual wave. It's quite a lot. He says,] I—
[—And then gasps, pressing his fingers into his hips. He says "I" a few more times, a litany of thoughts he can't manage to get out, want and need and Crowley Crowley Crowley—]
I do need you— [He doesn't look up to say it, lips against Crowley's neck.] I always have. Crowley—
[His voice pitches desperately higher then and he rolls his hips to meet Crowley's, clumsily. Six thousand years of pointed repression and a handful of guilty fantasies do not a skillful lover make, but you know what, he's doing his best.
...Ah, and,] In the- in the Bentley?
[Please, continue.]