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Aziraphale has two fingers inside of him when Crowley has an idea.
“You could put your hand in me,” Crowley says, trying to sound casual even as Aziraphale’s fingers rub at his prostate.
Aziraphale goes very still, inside and behind him, and Crowley doesn’t move. He just lets Aziraphale think.
Finally, Aziraphale says, “Goodness. Really?” and he sounds a little breathless and yes, good, that was exactly the point of this.
“It doesn’t have to be right now,” Crowley says. He twitches his hips back a little and stifles a groan. “If you don’t want.”
“It’s not that,” Aziraphale says, far too quickly, but he starts to fuck Crowley with his fingers again and Crowley falls forward onto his forearms, gasping. It isn’t like Aziraphale to shy away from saying completely explicit things in bed. He’s made Crowley come untouched doing just that on more than one occasion, in fact. “I’ve never done anything like that before.”
“S’the same mechanics - ah, fuck - as what you’re doing right now. Just a bit more.”
“A bit more,” Aziraphale repeats, more air than words, but he laughs a little.
Crowley’s cock hangs heavy and neglected between his legs. Aziraphale hasn’t even so much as brushed his fingers over it since Crowley turned over onto his hands and knees, but Crowley can feel that it’s leaking, a slow steady drip of fluid onto the sheets below him.
Finally Crowley says, “Please,” and it comes out as a whine.
He doesn’t specify what he’s asking for. He’ll take anything at this point as long as it’s something more.
But Aziraphale says, “Yes, alright,” and he tucks a third finger inside along the other two.
Crowley hears himself making an embarrassing gurgling noise but he doesn’t care. He’s too busy shoving his hips back, working Aziraphale’s fingers inside of himself, squeezing down on them.
“Easy, darling,” Aziraphale chastises, but he crooks his fingers at this new angle and strokes Crowley’s prostate obligingly.
“Fuck,” Crowley says feelingly. He lifts his head back up and twists around, suddenly desperate to see what Aziraphale looks like, whether there’s hesitation in his gaze.
He finds Aziraphale looking at the place where their bodies are joined with pink cheeks and a jaw that has gone slightly slack. Aziraphale is hard, too; Crowley can see the line of him through the fabric of his trousers, which he is still wearing for reasons Crowley can’t fathom aside from making Crowley lose his mind.
“Angel,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale’s eyes snap up to meet his. He looks hungry. “If you turn me over, you might be able to see, when. Well. When.”
It takes a second for Crowley’s meaning to land. He can see the moment realisation hits, watches Aziraphale suck a breath in between his teeth.
And then those fingers are drawing free of him, and Crowley whines again but doesn’t have time to say anything at all before Aziraphale is tugging at his hips and turning him onto his back.
“Angel,” Crowley says again, just to say something, as Aziraphale pushes his knees up towards his chest, grabs a pillow from the top of the bed and tucks it under his hips to get a better angle. Aziraphale is working at the tasks in front of him with a single-minded focus, which must be difficult given the small wet spot that is starting to form at the front of his trousers. “You don’t have to rush, I’m not going anywh-”
He breaks off in the middle of the word because Aziraphale has slipped those three fingers back inside him, and the angle is different this time, and it’s devastating. Crowley’s feet aren’t even on the bed anymore, his legs are draped across Aziraphale’s shoulders, and he scrambles for some leverage that will allow him to pull those fingers deeper, or to pull Aziraphale’s body closer to his.
He feels so exposed like this. Aziraphale hasn’t even undone his bowtie, has barely even cuffed his sleeves, and here Crowley is, spread out beneath him dressed in nothing but sweat and lube and the precome that is now starting to pool on his stomach.
Aziraphale grabs his cock then, as if catching onto the end of Crowley’s thoughts, and Crowley’s back arches off the bed. He presses mindlessly up into Aziraphale’s fist, which has the secondary consequence of changing the angle of Aziraphale’s fingers inside him.
Crowley makes a noise that is all consonants and air. Aziraphale keeps stroking him but pulls his fingers free for a moment so he can brace his hand on the bed and lean in enough to kiss Crowley’s open mouth, to get his teeth around Crowley’s bottom lip.
Crowley kisses him back, all teeth and tongue and no finesse, but Aziraphale is making soft noises into his mouth and his hand is still hot and slick on Crowley’s cock and Crowley is going to either come or die like this, he’s certain of it.
And then Aziraphale takes his hand away and Crowley whimpers around his tongue (he’d started sucking on it in an effort to do something and Aziraphale had groaned and ground his cock against the back of Crowley’s thigh and Crowley had wanted that to continue so he’d kept at it).
“Sorry, darling,” Aziraphale says, not sounding very sorry at all as he levers himself back upright, as he strokes damp fingers over Crowley’s side, his hips, the curve of his arse. He runs a thumb over Crowley’s hole and Crowley shivers, full-body and uncontrollable. “It’s very hard to kiss you when I’m doing this, you know. Rather a shame.”
“Yeah,” Crowley says, trying to be agreeable, trying to think about something other than the way Aziraphale’s eyes have refocused on his lower half, on his aching, dripping cock and the place where he’s toying so casually with Crowley’s rim.
“But there are other benefits,” Aziraphale says, still sounding unbearably collected despite the breathlessness in his voice, and he works his fingers back inside Crowley one at a time. Very slowly.
Crowley tips his head back and looks at the ceiling and feels the stretch of one finger and then two and then three, feels the twitch of his cock every time Aziraphale nudges a fingertip or, fuck, a knuckle, over his prostate. Aziraphale is twisting his hand and Crowley can feel the sensation in his fucking teeth, and he’s panting and clawing at the sheets like some sort of wild animal, and then Aziraphale’s pinky finger edges inside of him and he loses his breath entirely.
“Oh, well done,” Aziraphale says, sounding genuinely impressed.
Crowley mumbles, “Shut up,” but he doesn’t mean it, he never means it, the flush on his cheeks and his chest gives him away every time.
He manages to look back down the line of his own body at Aziraphale and finds that he is being watched, that Aziraphale is looking back up at him with that hunger still in his eyes, like he’s starving.
And then Aziraphale says, almost conversationally, “It’s a pity I can’t have you inside me while I do this,” and Crowley’s brain nearly whites out at the thought of it.
“Ngh, angel, please,” Crowley says, begging and moving his hips in tiny, barely-there thrusts, “do this first and then I’ll fuck you after. I will. I promise.”
“I rather thought I’d like to ride you, actually,” Aziraphale says. He turns his hand again and then he’s in up to his palm and Crowley groans, at the feeling and the words. “If that’s something you’d like.”
“Anytime,” Crowley says, “really, whenever you want, just after this, after you-”
“After I put my hand in you and make you come?” Aziraphale asks, evidently having well and truly gotten over his initial surprise at the idea and having settled back into his usual patterns with a vengeance.
Crowley has never understood how he’s able to do it, to talk about things like this so conversationally. Like he’s discussing the weather.
“Fuck me,” Crowley says weakly, and his cock jerks and spills a few drops of come across his stomach.
“That’s rather the idea,” Aziraphale says, and then he pushes himself back a little so he can lean over and clean up Crowley’s mess with his tongue, never once actually taking any part of Crowley’s cock into his mouth in the process.
“You bastard,” Crowley says, breathless and hopelessly in love, and Aziraphale smiles softly up at him as he tucks the tip of his thumb in with the rest of his fingers.
“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale says, almost in a whisper, “you feel so lovely, you know. So good for me.”
Crowley’s whole body shakes with another shiver at that, and Aziraphale seizes the opportunity to pull his fingers and thumb a little closer together and push.
If Crowley had his wits about him, he would say that it’s an odd sensation. He’d say that it’s new, that it’s not entirely comfortable really, that it feels like too much and not enough all at once.
What he says, though, is some combination of whimpers and “Fuck, fuck, oh my god,” and the blasphemy doesn’t bother either of them because they know that it comes from somewhere deep inside of Crowley where ‘god’ isn’t Her, where it’s bliss and overwhelm and feeling, where it is love, and it is this.
Crowley lies still for a moment with a pillow under his hips and his thighs pressed to Aziraphale’s shoulders and his heels digging into Aziraphale’s back, feeling the press of Aziraphale’s fingers and thumb and the meat of his palm inside of him. He can feel where his rim is clenched too tight around Aziraphale’s wrist, sensitive and twitching a little around the new sensation. His mouth is open, and he thinks he is probably moaning or drooling or some combination of both, but he doesn’t have it in him to care.
“Alright?” Aziraphale asks him gently after a few moments, after Crowley’s muscles start to relax a little, after his arched spine reconnects with the bed.
“S’good,” Crowley manages. His tongue is dry.
“Good,” Aziraphale says, and he presses a kiss to the inside of Crowley’s knee and that’s devastating, somehow, that gentleness.
And then he says, “I’m going to-” and he pulls his fingers down toward his palm at the same time he pushes forward a little more, and Crowley is shaking at the feeling of it, of his knuckles pressed up against his prostate and then sliding forward, replaced by the skin of his palm and then his wrist and-
“Oh,” Aziraphale says, choked-sounding, and Crowley feels the drag of his own skin against the place where his cock is still hard against his stomach. He forces his eyes open to see Aziraphale staring, wide-eyed and wondering, at the bulging press of his own hand beneath Crowley’s skin.
“See,” Crowley makes himself say, trying to sound smug but mostly just sounding shattered. And then because Aziraphale doesn’t look up to meet his eyes, because uncertainty is settling in his bones in this silence, he asks, “You okay?”
“Very,” Aziraphale says. His voice isn’t steady anymore, and fuck but Crowley loves him like this, loves when he sounds undone.
“‘Kay,” Crowley says, and he shifts his hips a little. He and Aziraphale both groan at the feeling of it, but it does what he hoped it would do. Aziraphale starts to move, fucking him slowly, feeling the catch and drag of Crowley around him.
Crowley throws his head back again and this time when he closes his eyes he sees stars, little pops of white in the dark. It doesn’t feel like the rising tide of an orgasm, at least not an imminent one, but it does just feel, a full-body thing that makes Crowley wonder if he’s real like this or if he’s something else, just floating in the feeling of it.
And then Aziraphale bends forward more, pushing Crowley’s knees even closer towards his chest in a move that might not work if Crowley’s spine and hips were a little more human and a little less snake, and he wraps his mouth around the head of Crowley’s cock.
Crowley feels like he’s been slammed back into his body by an invisible force, like he’s been crushed back into a space that’s a little too small and a lot too hot and there is an urgent, burning thing at the base of his spine. Distantly, he recognises that his voice has gone high and reedy and thin, and he hears and feels when Aziraphale hums encouragement around him.
He gains control of his eyes for a second, stops them rolling back in his head for just long enough to look at where Aziraphale has swallowed him down completely, and he sees that Aziraphale’s nose is pressed to the bulging place where his hand is buried inside of Crowley, and Crowley loses the last of his control.
He comes apart with a shout, his whole body trembling, back arching off the bed like a drawn bow. Aziraphale swallows around him, choking a little when Crowley thrusts up a bit too far into his throat, but he doesn’t pull away. He kneels between Crowley’s thighs with his eyes closed and his hand buried almost to the elbow inside of Crowley’s body, and for a moment it looks like worship.
When he does pull off he does so gently. Crowley’s cock hits his stomach with a soft smacking sound, soaked in saliva and sweat and a few sticky streams of his own come, and Crowley makes a wounded sound, flings an arm across his face.
Aziraphale kisses his thigh, says, “So beautiful for me, darling,” into his skin, and then he pretends like that doesn’t make Crowley’s chest cave in and sets about pulling his hand free of where Crowley’s body is still clenched around it.
He does this gently, too, with soft words and gentle touches to Crowley’s overheated skin. Crowley can feel the way he’s holding himself steady, the way he’s almost vibrating with his own need but is holding it back for long enough to make sure that Crowley is okay, that this is still soft and hasn’t made its way into unwanted pain.
Crowley loves him desperately for that.
Aziraphale’s fingers come free with a slick sucking sound and Crowley gasps at the loss. He’s a little relieved that the pressure is gone but he feels cored-out, finds the distance between them unbearable, and he reaches down with a shaking hand to wrap his fingers around the back of Aziraphale’s neck and pull him closer, pull him up, to slide his legs down to wrap around Aziraphale’s waist and press messy open-mouthed kisses to his lips.
“In me,” Crowley says, forming a coherent thought in an attempt to calm this howling thing in his chest, “come on, angel. Want you inside me.”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says against Crowley’s lips, against his wild tongue, and it sounds like it’s shaping up to be some sort of self-sacrificial rejection. Crowley bites it from his mouth.
“Fuck me,” Crowley clarifies, because this is a departure from the plan and the devil’s always been in the details, it’s where Crowley has always liked to reside. He meets Aziraphale’s eyes. “If you want.”
“If it hurts-” Aziraphale starts, which is not a no.
“I’ll tell you,” Crowley promises. He knows it will sting and burn but he’ll say something if it hurts. He will.
Aziraphale hesitates for only a moment longer before he says, “Alright,” and his hands fairly fly to the button of his trousers.
Crowley’s hands meet him there, shoving down his zip and working inside his pants and finally wrapping around the length of him. Aziraphale’s head tips forward against his and he moans, thrusting a few times into Crowley’s grip before pushing himself backwards and batting Crowley’s hand away.
Crowley makes a disappointed noise and reaches for him again but Aziraphale shifts out of reach, just far enough away that Crowley can’t touch him but can see the jut of his cock above his undone trousers. It’s flushed so dark it’s nearly purple, and as Crowley watches, a little drop of fluid gathers at the tip.
“Just a moment,” Aziraphale tells him.
He’s out of breath and his hips are still jumping forward in little aborted thrusts, but he’s undoing his tie and pulling at the buttons of his waistcoat faster than Crowley’s ever seen. For a moment it looks like he might just tear his shirt open and have done, but he doesn’t. He makes quick work of his shirt and throws it to the side where it lands on the floor next to his waistcoat and tie, and that alone makes Crowley’s blood run hot again.
“There’ll be creases,” Crowley says, smirking, just to goad him a little. To make him own the way he’s looking at Crowley, to see just how far gone he really is.
“I find I don’t care in the least,” Aziraphale says, and then his trousers and pants join the pile on the floor and he is finally, blissfully, pressed back against Crowley.
Crowley’s brain short-circuits for a moment at the sheer expanse of skin, but then Aziraphale is pushing his legs apart and up again and Crowley is letting him, is sucking a bruise into his neck and saying, “Yes, yes,” as Aziraphale slides inside of him with a groan so deep and profoundly grateful-sounding that for a moment Crowley thinks he’s come on the spot.
But he hasn’t, and he fucks into Crowley in a way that is somehow gentle and not at all at the same time. Crowley is being tossed around with every thrust and his arsehole is burning at the friction and the stretch, but Aziraphale’s hands are warm and soft in his hair, on his chest, and Aziraphale’s lips are gentle where they kiss his mouth and his ear and his forehead and his neck.
Aziraphale is an expert at finding ways to make him feel loved rather than used. Crowley knows that well enough by now.
It isn’t long before Aziraphale gasps something about being close into the side of Crowley’s neck, and Crowley says, “Good, yeah,” and works his hand between their stomachs to take hold of himself (he’s hard again, has been since a few moments after Aziraphale had gotten back inside him) and for some reason that’s what does it. Aziraphale comes with a snap of his hips and a moan that could very charitably have been considered to contain Crowley’s name, and then he collapses forward onto Crowley with a sigh.
The hair at the back of Aziraphale’s neck is damp with sweat. Crowley plays with it and lets Aziraphale breathe, hot and uneven, into his skin. Aziraphale is softening inside him and Crowley ignores the way his own cock is still hard and still pressing into his palm and the skin of their stomachs, leaving sticky trails on their skin.
Aziraphale does not seem content to ignore this fact for long. He pushes himself up onto his elbows and rocks back, slipping free of Crowley with another little sigh, and then he pushes Crowley’s legs back down against the bed and settles himself across Crowley’s hips, his thighs bracketing Crowley’s waist.
“We don’t have to-” Crowley starts to say, but Aziraphale is shaking his head and wrapping a hand around Crowley’s cock, and the words die in Crowley’s throat.
“I’d still like to ride you,” Aziraphale says, conversational again, and Crowley makes a sound like he’s dying and flushes red down to the middle of his chest.
Aziraphale seems to take this as the encouragement that it is, because he holds Crowley’s cock steady and then sits on it, working his hips in little movements, fucking himself open on the tip of him. He has his other hand splayed flat across Crowley’s chest and Crowley feels pinned, like an insect on a board, and his cock throbs and starts leaking in earnest.
“I’ve always liked this, you know,” Aziraphale says as the head of Crowley’s cock slips inside of him, as Crowley fights to hold himself still and slams a hand into the headboard. “You get so wet so quickly.”
It’s an embarrassing thing to have pointed out like it’s a fact, but Crowley can’t exactly deny it, so he just says, “Glad you approve,” and immediately knows that that’s stupid, but Aziraphale laughs and it’s warm and then Crowley is laughing, too.
He likes that they can have this together. All of it. The heat and the passion and the soft things, too. The joy of it.
It’s slow this time. Neither of them are in a hurry. Crowley holds Aziraphale’s hips as he sinks down, as he seats himself with a hum and a little wiggle, and he runs his thumbs over the silver-pink stretch marks of the skin there when Aziraphale begins to set a leisurely pace.
It feels gentle. It’s not a crush of stimulation, it’s not a push past a previous limit. It is slow, and it is soft, and it is right.
When Crowley comes again, it washes over him like a wave, and when he opens his eyes, Aziraphale is smiling down at him. He reaches for Aziraphale’s cock, but Aziraphale shakes his head and moves off of him, slides up his body so they can lie with their sides pressed together.
Crowley takes his hand.
“Love you,” Crowley says, sex-drunk and lazy, head lolling to the side so he can make a study at the curve of pink lips, the upturned tip of his nose.
Aziraphale kisses him. It's still slow, and soft, and it feels like coming home.