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[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?

[It doesn't matter. It really doesn't, not at all. Maybe they'll clarify this later and maybe they won't, but right now, he's focused on the present. On the little gasps that Aziraphale emits each time Crowley rolls his hips down, that delighted little oh he breathes every so often. The way he stares up at Crowley with those wide eyes, overwhelmed in the best way . . .

God, but he loves him. He thinks it faintly, not so much a rational thought as an emotion. Oh I love him, and he leans in, kissing him surprisingly softly, even as he feels his cock twitch, heat pooling in the pit of his stomach.]

Swear it.

[Oh, hello, that's rather serious, isn't it? And maybe it's not about sex, not at all, and instead something about a next time, a guarantee that things will go on past these next few minutes.]

[It's so much, and it's all Aziraphale can do to keep up. The kiss is both a welcome reprieve and just as overwhelming for its timing, to kiss him like that right now makes him ache in the sweetest way. He shuts his eyes and they stay shut for an extra moment when Crowley leans away to speak again, while Aziraphale savors this moment.

Just in case, you see. Just in case they're plucked out of this life together and destroyed come tomorrow morning, which he'd thought about, and now all at once resolves to put a stop to himself, simply and without any fuss. How hard can it be, after helping to stop the end times?

He opens his eyes. Wait—]

Swear— that we ought to make love in your car? [No no, that's very "I like pears" of him, he's keeping up—] Crowley...

I love you, [He starts there, again, because it bears repeating now, over and over and over for all the times he didn't say it before. He's breathless, voice quiet, but it's not as if anyone deserves to hear him but Crowley, anyway.] I always will. I swear to you, I- I will even call you my boyfriend in public, and everything.

[Which sounds silly, all things considered, but it's the sentiment of the thing; he won't back out now.]

[It's like a crack, not so much a shattering as a soft, subtle thing, his expression faltering as he stills his hips and stares down at Aziraphale. It's euphoric and heartbreaking all at once, thrilling for how it comes and awful because it's taken so long, six thousand years, and in all the times he fantasized he never once imagined Aziraphale swearing such a thing.

Sex, yes. Romance, perhaps. But love-- oh, no, never. Fidelity, loyalty, adoration, how could he expect that from his angel? Even if it was unspoken, even if he knew Aziraphale would rather be on Earth than in Heaven-- well, that was only in part for Crowley, if it was at all. He has so many other Earthly pleasures he loves, so no, not for him. It was always Crowley who was desperate for the angel to stay.

But here they are, and Aziraphale's eyes are so impossibly soft as he murmurs that.

He'll have to hear it a thousand more times, casually and frantically, reverently and easily, before he can believe it fully. But for now, he bows his head forward, pressing their foreheads together, something like a sigh leaving him as he moves once more.

It takes so little after that. Just moving like that, hips rolling back pointedly, and he kisses him as he finishes, spilling messily between the two of them. He isn't done with Aziraphale, not by a long shot, but he wants to devour him in a different way now, intimate touches and whispered words he can't bear to hear. Love you, and he breathes it out all but silently, still overwhelmed by enormity of what they're speaking.]

[Frankly, it's terrifying to promise someone eternity. Aziraphale realizes on some level that he's probably already promised this thing - his loyalty, his love, forever - to God, but ah— had he, really? Hadn't that just been assumed? And here, with Crowley—this one is a choice. His choice.

So it's terrifying but it's just fine, and something hangs in the balance in those seconds Crowley looks at him, infinite in their own right, before he moves again. And Aziraphale, like he was put on this earth to stick close to every romantic movie trope in the book, needs only the feel of Crowley around him and those barely-whispered words to come with a shudder, hands squeezing desperately at his hips, his waist— just to hold onto him like this for a little longer.

He's still then, just breathing, until the fussy part of him cuts in with Hmm! Messy, and he tilts his head to nose against Crowley's cheek. Hello, love.]

Ah. [What, hmm, what do people say...] How about that?

[Aziraphale.]

[He snorts, undignified and very real, because just like that, the fragility is broken. Not gone, oh, dear me, no, not at all, but at least they can move on without much fuss. Crowley ducks his head down, nuzzling right back up against him, pleased by the softness of his angel. And ah, right-- a lazy snap, and there goes that mess, because he knows Aziraphale will fuss sooner or later.

He takes his time in climbing off, stretching out those long legs with a low groan. There's something wonderful about the languid way he does it, knowing now that Aziraphale won't leave. He lays out and beckons him close, come here, it's cuddling time. Keep him warm.]

How about that? You're the one who was a virgin until about twenty minutes ago.

[Oh, he's cleaned up, what a lovely demon. Aziraphale hums and settles in next to him, brushing a lock of hair out of his face before looping an arm around his waist. Hello, he was made for cuddle time.]

Oh, well, you know. [.....] It was lovely.

[Look, it's been a very wild and exciting day for a whole host of reasons, give him time to grow into his pillow talk.]

You didn't think, ah... That is to say, it was... the sort of thing you like?

[Did he do okay!!]

[He might be hurt if he didn't know Aziraphale so well. As it stands, he registers that talk for what it is: affectionate, but not particularly experienced. With a little sigh he turns into that touch, burying his face against his neck, pressing up tight against him. Warmth.]

It was good, angel.

[There's nothing but lazy sincerity in his voice. But nothing can be perfect, and he loves Aziraphale but he's also so, so dumb sometimes, so:]

Just wait til I teach you more. Talk about temptation, hmm?

[Ah, is there anything quite so good as being pressed close like this? Not at this precise moment in time, surely, this is It. Aziraphale kisses his temple, or close enough, and wraps his arms more firmly around him. Luckily, angels don't have any tedious problems like limbs falling asleep.]

My dear, you've already tempted me. [There are degrees, technically, he supposes. That isn't the point.] I know I've been... difficult, but I assure you, I am now thoroughly convinced.

[See? All it took was the end times to make him emotionally raw enough to actually, like, get with the times.]

[Difficult is one word for it. There is literally no one, no one, who has pined longer than Crowley has for this stubborn, exasperating angel, and it'll be a long time before he's finished sulking over it.]

Is that right?

[Elaborate, please, because his little heart needs the assurance.]

[Luckily for Crowley, Aziraphale's guilt over repeatedly refusing him is... lingering. Before it was guilt over wanting him at all, doubting whether or not it would be so bad, really, if Heaven would really throw some kind of fit...

Well, they likely still will, but over the other things they did today. So the guilt and anxiety have found a new home: feeling awkward about being such a... just being the way he is.]

I... yes. You were right, about being on our own side. [And yet he still glances skywards, at the dark ceiling, just in case. Hmm.] And I rather think I'd like it to stay that way.

[Heaven will throw a fit, because loving thy enemy isn't meant to involve actually fucking them. Hell will, because tempting an angel is all well and good, but love isn't a part of that, and oh, the Almighty Herself knows he's acted solely out of selfish love these past twenty four hours (or eleven years, or six thousand).

So yes, they'll throw a fit. But they're going to anyway, so they might as well really sell it, huh?]

Which means we ought to figure out what to do with-- with those sides.

[He doesn't pull back, because he doesn't want to, but his voice is at least a little more brisk.]

Does Heaven execute people? Because Hell does. Hell loves that kind of thing. Do you know how many demons I've seen on trial? That's their whole shtick: awful punishments for varying crimes.

Edited 2019-06-11 12:43 (UTC)

[Oh, good, they can get this messy business out of the way at last. It won't be a relief, not until the morning or whenever Heaven and Hell decide to make their moves (which will undoubtedly be at the same time, so very alike as they are, ultimately), but it's progress.

They do work so well together, after all. Aziraphale still finds a moment to run his fingers theough Crowley's hair with a curious little hum.]

You get trials?

[So, yes, things are actually quite grim. He moves right along, looking over his shoulder at where his coat was left earlier and quirking an eyebrow; a scrap of paper drifts out of his pocket and floats over for him to pluck it out of the air.]

I— or perhaps more accurately, our dear friend Agnes— had an idea. Look.

[Read this and come to the immediate obvious conclusion he did, dear.]

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