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[Listen, he has to start with like or he'll never get anywhere. He knows he'll like it; the rest of the vocabulary has to be earned.

Which he could say and Crowley would no doubt delight in him managing that much, but instead he interrupts himself with a soft gasp and a flutter of eyelashes, sliding his other hand over to rest on Crowley's hip and squeeze. Hello, yes, he's listening. He's appreciating, goodness.

So, then, what he manages to say is,] I will, hm. I will make love to you... on a picnic in the country.

[There is an agenda here.]

[It's not quite the filthy he wanted, but on the other hand, he only ever wants Aziraphale, and him being filthy just isn't him, not at first. Maybe someday, but right now . . . his grin fades, but it isn't in displeasure. Love, he thinks again, and stills his hips so he can kiss his sweet, darling angel the way he deserves.]

Is that a promise, love? I'll hold you to it.

Edited (words?) 2019-06-04 20:19 (UTC)

[Oh, so he gets his ride in the country? Thank you, he loves that. He returns the kiss warmly, but he still manages to look just a tad smug about it when they break apart again. Hmm.]

I give you my word, Crowley. I will see to it that you're well taken care of.

[Gonna bring a nice blanket and bang him on it, but classier. Romantically.]

[Obviously he gets his ride in the country. He's going to get a ride in the country in more ways than one, frankly, because Crowley is nothing if not a right bastard about that kind of thing and will pointedly remind Aziraphale of it, but also, don't be such a brat about it.]

Is that what you call it.

[Actually, no, you know what, the smugness is-- well. Not actually grating, but at least riling enough that he wants to do something about it.]

Go on. Try a bit of dirty talk. It won't kill you to tell me you want to bugger me, you know.

[Let him be smug! He deserves this. Or: he is still smug, but he also opens and closes his mouth a few times, like he isn't sure Crowley was listening? To his very risque dirty talk a moment ago?]

I— I just told you that, didn't I?

[Alright, alright. He will do this. If only to prove a point, he will do this, and he will do it as pettily as possible. He begins slowly, because the details are highly important.]

We will go out on a ride to the country— by train, I suppose— and it will be a lovely day. Then, we'll sit under a tree, and I'll feed you grapes and those fancy little cheeses on the toothpicks you like so much, and we'll sample a delectable vintage, and- [ah; a little inhale, ah,] and I will fuck you under that tree, Crowley, because I love you more than anything.

[It's so incredibly petty, and yet he listens to every single detail, because of course he does. And of course he'll truly enjoy every minute of this picnic, he knows he will, he'll delight in the blue sky and the sunny day and the delighted hum of Aziraphale next to him as he sighs over the meal-- but right now, certain bits of him are only really interested in one aspect of that speech.

It's well worth the wait. Crowley jerks atop Aziraphale when he hears that, that one word, oh, well, god, he thought-- he didn't think that-- but oh, god, his eyes go wide, he wants to savor that, every bit of it, from that delicious promise to the quiet reassurance that oh, yes, he loves him.]

Right.

[Fuck. That's the second time in less than an hour he's made Crowley go blank. Fuck.]

That wasn't so hard, was it.

[Right. Yes. Let him just reboot, let him just--]

Come fuck me now, angel.

[Now is he allowed to be smug? He is, of course, watching Crowley with perfect Heavenly innocence. So, that's getting penciled in on his agenda, yes—]

What happened to what you wanted to do? Honestly, Crowley, you're so easily distracted.

[So fickle! So indecisive! Aziraphale knows he won't manage to keep it together all night - he's hardly managed up until now - so yes, he will, indeed, milk this moment for all it's worth. Maybe that even makes him feel a little bold, enough to wriggle one artfully manicured hand between them and palm against Crowley experimentally. Brow lightly creased in concentration, he is not the picture of the world-wise angel, but thought of his lovely, lovely demon going to pieces over him is very encouraging.

He thinks, and decides that if he's ever going to get to say this thing he wants to say right this second, it's going to be now, so-]

Hmm. This is hard.

[Please, Crowley. Ask him nicely.]

[Maybe this is what will kill him. Not Armageddon nor Hell's wrath, but one smug angel, taking six centuries of sexual tension and delighting in drawing it out. It doesn't matter that he's not experienced, that the look he levels Crowley isn't the practiced seduction of some of the incubi he's known-- it's him, and that's all he's ever needed.

So yes, it works. He ruts his hips up needily into Aziraphale's hand, awful line or no, because he very much needs this right now, please, thank you, god, what the hell does he want him to say?]

Aziraphale.

[Don't do this to him.]

[Oh, but if that isn't the loveliest sound - his name, his name spilling so earnestly and desperately from Crowley's lips. Not angel, as much as he quietly delights in Crowley's not at all hidden affections— not even love, as new and brilliantly exciting as that one is, but his name. Said like that, almost like a prayer.

A blasphemous prayer, naturally, what other kind of prayer could there be while Aziraphale grips him through his trousers and purses his lips. Considers.]

I need you to do something for me first, my dear.

[Not... really, but he just wants to see what Crowley will do while he's like this. He's not at all immune to this, the way Crowley looks at him all but makes him ache for him, but. Just to see.]

Apologize for calling me round in Paris.

Are you--

[He'd thought maybe say please, which, by the way, would be super kinky and delightfully awful, he would love that, but of course not, of course it's this, why would it be anything but this, oh, god, he's in love with the world's stupidest, most perfect angel.]

Are you bloody joking!

[Oh no, new plan, this is much more delightful. Aziraphale bites the inside of his cheek quickly, trying to raise his eyebrows and look very serious instead of immediately dissolving into giggles.]

No, I mean it. Why shouldn't I?

Because you've got my bloody cock in your hand, and this is not the sort of thing people do in bed!

[Is he whining? Yes, a little, and frantically at that. To his credit, he'd be able to suss this out far easier if he wasn't half so wound up, but he's been sucker punched twice in the past half-hour, so cut him some slack.]

Angel!

[It is now the sort of thing people do in bed, dearest. Darling. Appreciate him and his very soft hands.]

Oh, alright, but I'll remember that one for later.

[He shifts, barely an inch off the bed with Crowley laid on top of him, and he taps him on the side of the ribs with his free hand a second later, helpfully.]

Sit up, please.

[He huffs, displeased and quite frankly still a little on edge, but soon complies. The loss of Aziraphale's hand is mourned, but on the other hand, he can at least wriggle off his leather trousers, so. A net positive, maybe, and also incidentally hello, here he is, entirely without clothes, because who wears underwear, it surely isn't him.]

You were eating crepes. I don't know what you expected from me.

[Aziraphale sits up and stretches a bit, shaking out his arms - very much not the sensual something or other someone should do in bed, but of course he's like this.]

Manners, Crowley, for— for somebody's sake. You could have been more delicate.

[Or said nothing at all! Also an option! But never mind, he will get his apology later. For now he looks at Crowley and then crooks a finger at him, also not sensual.]

Now, do come here.

[His lap, specifically. And his cheeks are burning yet again, so don't foolishly think he knows what he's doing just yet.]

[It's not sensual, but it's Aziraphale, which means he doesn't really care. Welcomes it, in fact, with a return of his sharp grin, long legs stretching out as he takes his time in climbing into his angel's lap. He makes sure to settle just so, squirming this way and that, legs drawing in to nudge against Aziraphale's hips, hands sliding hungrily over bare skin, just really delighting in the act.

It's a tease. It's also very genuine, because he is delighted. He's delighted that even this has taken on the flavor of them, bickering and amiable and adoring; that what had been unthinkable a day before is now so seamlessly a part of their dance.]

Bossy.

[A beat, and then:]

Go on.

[Crowley is... annoying, honestly, a very annoying, bothersome little demon, but bothersome in such a particular way that Aziraphale can't fathom being without him. So all of his teasing and wiggling and calling people bossy are things Aziraphale wouldn't be able to stand in anyone else, but like this? Well, he loves him, and that is more than enough.

And oh, he's lovely, even if he's a pain. Aziraphale touches his fingertips against his chest, feather-light and giddily exploring, and tilts his head to kiss him again before he does anything like give Crowley what he wants. Hold on...]

You are exquisite, my dear.

[A real snack, as the youths say. He leans his forehead against Crowley's and looks at him fondly, so very up close, absolutely saccharine while he dips his hand down to run that same feather-light touch down the length of his cock.

And that one is intentional, actually, you're welcome babe.]

[The thing about angels (and demons, who are essentially the same thing, just the off-brand version, if you will) is that sex is an effort. In that bodies are assigned, yes, but it's not very hard to change the little things, so long as you don't go around wildly contorting yourself. Hair? Oh, he's grown his long and cut it short over and over. Eyes you can't ever change, of course, but the body? He could have any figure he wanted, external or internal, it's all just bits and pieces.

Maybe someday he'll try the other side, just to see what Aziraphale thinks. He was so stunned the first time he saw Crowley with short hair; this might just stun him.

Anyway. Effort, right, and effort means changing yourself as you like, which means that it's really no effort at all to just get himself ready, which means he really could just be getting fucked right now. Like. Just as an FYI. That could happen at any time, and in point of fact Crowley would like it to happen, not that these sweet touches to his chest aren't lovely (they are, electric and shocking, and he squirms beneath them, but more, also).

Ah. More compliments. He's just about to open his mouth to whine a little, when--]

Ah--

[Nope just kidding that's perfect Aziraphale is perfect this is just ideal, with those adoring eyes staring up at him, and he does whine, a very pointed little sound, as his eyes half-close.]

I love you.

[It's blurted out, clumsily but very much meant. Certainly not just for the touch-- rather, for the way he just did that, paired the two together, saccharine sweetness and teasing touch both, almost deceptive and slightly cruel, or at least engineered to drive him up a wall, which it is.

Fucking hell. He can't think about that, though. He can't think about what he just said, because he'll fall apart if he does. Instead: one hand darts down between them, knocking Aziraphale's hand so he can take them both in his, a nice hard firm touch. One of these days he'll teach Aziraphale edging and that'll be it for Crowley, so long, thanks for the memories, he'll die on that bed, but until then, he just wants to throw them both headfirst into this.

Call it a demon thing.]

[They know everything about each other, more or less, a ninety-nine percent perfect, encyclopedic knowledge. Like two halves of one whole, they are, and yet Aziraphale still finds it in him to be pleasantly surprised when Crowley reacts to him like this, the impatience that flashes in his gaze before he all but melts, and then—

Well, of course he does. Aziraphale has known. But it sets something alight in his heart to hear it, especially like that, unbidden and unplanned and so very Crowley, always a boiling pot of emotions spilling over endlessly. Aziraphale blinks and Crowley loves him, his lips part to take in a shuddering breath and Crowley loves him, and he's waited years and years to hear it.

It is of course a brief moment before Crowley charges on, and that's probably lucky, because sooner or later Aziraphale's emotions will hit the point at which he tears up embarrassingly over how much he loves this messy, perfect demon— but later. For now he says oh and then, when Crowley's hand wraps firmly around them both he says oh again, but a little louder and more insistent. Making the effort is one thing; having that effort, hmm, appreciated is another thing entirely.

Aziraphale prepared for absolutely nothing and suddenly has no idea what to do with his hands, groping at air for a bit before he puts them on Crowley's waist, which seems like as good a place as any for now. He manages an airy little laugh.]

You're always one step ahead of me, aren't you, Crowley? [Too fast, but this time, he'll catch up. Ah, and Crowley likes to hear him say what he wants, so let him try...] —Touch me. Er, keep touching me. You know, I rather think you'll figure it out.

[He'd laugh if he thought he could get away with it, but Aziraphale would take it the wrong way, and he can't stop now, not for anything, he might just discorporate if he stops. Instead: he grins fiercely, giddily excited in the precise same way Aziraphale is, and leans in to kiss him once more.]

As if I haven't imagined this.

[He'll get Aziraphale to speak properly filthily someday. Weeks or months or years, it doesn't matter, it'll happen. But for now, Crowley wants to overwhelm them both, which means that he'll be doing the talking, thanks, because he has figured it out, again and again, over centuries of pining.]

Figure it out-- I've figured it out. Every single time I let some human in my bed, I thought about you. If it was you. If I could have you like that, against a wall or in some alley, how you'd look, how you'd sound--

[Ah, wait, that's a bit more emotional than he means to be, but he's on a roll now, breathing out confessions against Aziraphale's lips like the world's worst penitent, jerking them both off before he grows too impatient even for that. It takes only a moment to shift forward, to spread his legs wider, to just fuck himself on him like he was built to take him, (and he is, thanks, who needs oil when you've demonic miracles).]

Begging me to keep going, telling me you missed me, needed me, how you thought about this-- how badly you wanted it, all those filthy things your lot are supposedly too pure for-- fucking you anywhere, everywhere, in the bloody Bentley, just to watch you go all scandalized like it actually bloody matters who sees--

[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.

...Ah, and,] In the- in the Bentley?

[Please, continue.]

[Is there anything sweeter than Aziraphale gasping like this? So overwhelmed he can't even look up, just hot breath and the sweet sting of his teeth as he mewls against Crowley's neck, god, god, had any of his fantasies ever lived up to this reality? Clumsy and imperfect and genuine and ideal, and he rocks his hips down much more gracefully, a slick movement that leaves him shuddering.]

Yes, in the Bentley. Take your pick where. Backseat or bent over the front--

[He tips his head down just so he can murmur it against Aziraphale's ear, hot breath and a grin so clearly evident in his voice. Maybe it's fairly explicit, given it's still their first time, but-- oh, well, he'd wanted to hear more, hadn't he? And Crowley's had ages to think about that one night in Soho, when all he'd wanted was for his angel to stay.

But that doesn't matter now, does it? I do need you, I always have, and he knows that's another statement that will ring about his head for the next few decades. Centuries, maybe. I do need you, and it's always, always been him chasing after Aziraphale, always eager to talk, always eager to push the envelope, not to tempt but simply because he liked him-- I do need you, I always have, and of course he'd suspected, but oh, what a balm, what a joy to hear it confirmed.

Maybe someday he'll demand Aziraphale elaborate. Really just dig in and talk about all those times he longed for Crowley. That would be nice.

Right now, though-- right now, he pushes his fingers through his hair, tugging pointedly so he can meet Aziraphale's eyes.]

Maybe just opening a window and seeing how quiet you could be.

[Aziraphale almost says something silly, like, there certainly isn't enough room in the Bentley to do anything properly, but what is a car compared to two supernatural entities with centuries of catching up to do? Surely, the Bentley would somehow find the space to accommodate them.

Well, if it hadn't burned to a crisp and exploded. He doesn't even think of that, every part of him absorbed in Crowley, trembling in his lap, the low vibrato of his voice saying all of these very sinful things about his precious car and doing incredible things to Aziraphale's imagination. Moving against him like this is already so much, almost too much, hasty and fast and just a little over-steeped in emotions.

Because Aziraphale's fantasies have all been very, say, soft— maybe one day he could have taken Crowley's hand, and they wouldn't have had to say anything, and perhaps they'd have even kissed, all very slow and gentle...

That was, of course, when Aziraphale had tried to convince himself that he could behave himself around Crowley at all. When he tried very much to tell himself that if he happened to enjoy Crowley's company, if he needed him in any way, it was purely professional, and he never really believed it but he tried anyway. Being so definitively proven wrong is excellent.

He blinks at him when Crowley pulls him back, face flushed and eyes wide. Personally, Aziraphale thinks he's being terribly loud right now, all little gasps and soft sounds—]

I would have thought you'd want me to tell the whole world how I feel about you, by now.

[But sure, he will make little gasping noises in a car, that's alright.]

That's--

[That's unfair is what that is, and he actually glares down at Aziraphale, not so much upset as huffy about that mix-up. No, that isn't what he meant at all, but on the other hand, things are so very perfect right now. He'd take a video if he could, just to be sure he'd remember this: Aziraphale all hot and bothered, delighted and overwhelmed, whining so softly as he stares up almost reverently at Crowley (and who would have thought, who could have dreamed such a thing might happen, certainly not him).]

You're confusing-- ah-- s-sex and love, angel--

[Because honestly: they're two different things. All Crowley wants is to see Aziraphale squirm out of a misguided sense of propriety when it comes to moaning and writhing. But love-- oh, god, please, let him shout it to the stars. Let him demand attention from all the forces in the world, Heaven and Hell both, let them all acknowledge it. An angel and a demon are in love, and there's nothing to be done but accept it, because Crowley won't allow anything short of that.]

Or is this your way of asking for exhibition kink?

Am I?

[Confusing sex and love, he means, but it could be a response to the question, too. Aziraphale is an angel, Aziraphale shouldn't feel sexual desire at all let alone act on it, particularly with a demon of all people to choose— but he does, and he is, and as far as he's concerned, the two are linked enough to be inextricable from each other. Maybe in another life he'd have taken a human lover here and there, like he knows Crowley has, and it's quite alright if Crowley wants to consider them separate items, but.

Well, the way he looks at Crowley, love and adoration down to his core with just a touch of something more light-hearted, teasing— the just-enough-of-a-bastard part of him— even if sex and love are always, always separate, the love is always going to be there. It's there right now, while he looks up at Crowley and politely wonders whether he wants to get fucked into next week in the back of an old car.

So: maybe, because he loves him so much. That could also be the sexual euphoria talking, though, so don't quote him on any of this.]

Well— we'll see about that, shall we?

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