Work Text:
Before he got to know Aziraphale (before he was tempted by him, to be precise), Crowley had never particularly seen the appeal in sex. Technically, as a demon, he was supposed to both embody and invoke all of the deadly sins in others, but it’s not like he’s ever been all that great of a demon anyway.
Case in point: Crowley is currently having his brains sucked out through his dick by an angel. Aziraphale, as it turns out, is sinfully good in the bedroom. What had started as an innocent enough offer from Aziraphale (“Really, Crowley, it’s simply heavenly, the things humans can do with their lips and fingers and tongues”) had led to a somewhat begrudging Crowley agreeing to give it a try (“Just this once, angel, don’t expect this to be an ongoing thing”). And now, Crowley can’t believe he’s gone 6,000 years without getting his rocks off with Aziraphale. He’s honestly furious with himself (not Aziraphale, never Aziraphale) for not even considering that it might be different with his angel than with the short-lived and even shorter-sighted mortals with which he’d tried to tangle limbs on a few different occasions before giving the whole thing up as disgusting.
Crowley definitely doesn’t think it’s disgusting now. In fact, Crowley is pretty sure his knees are going to give out on him any second, and he’s got his fingers tangled in Aziraphale’s downy-soft curls, holding on for dear life. It’s only when his legs give a truly alarming wobble that Aziraphale pulls off with a wet pop, lips glistening with spit and Crowley’s own secretions, and dear God-- Satan-- Somebody, he’s going to be the death of Crowley.
“You all right, darling?” Aziraphale inquires, perfectly innocent and proper and amused, if the twinkling in his eye is any indication (and it always is). His hands run along Crowley’s thighs, which only makes them quiver more, and Aziraphale gives a quiet chuckle at the noise that leaves Crowley, which in no way resembles any actual language. Aziraphale gets to his feet anyway, clearly used to pulling meaning from Crowley’s wordless sounds, and presses his (absurdly, frustratingly) still-clothed body against Crowley’s. Slightly too-rough tweed scrapes against his bare legs, and he’s not sure if he feels more or less ridiculous for the fact that he’s also still clothed from the waist-up. Then, he stops worrying about his state of (un)dress altogether, because Aziraphale’s kissing him.
Tasting himself on his angel’s lips really shouldn’t be as arousing as it is. He’s tasted his own pre-ejaculate before, as well as his own spend, because he’s always been insufferably curious. He hadn’t been too impressed on either front, but something about Aziraphale being involved makes it new and interesting and delicious. Crowley groans softly as he licks his way into Aziraphale’s mouth, chasing his own taste while he grinds his swollen, spit-slick cock against Aziraphale’s stomach. He’s no doubt making an awful mess on his waistcoat, but that’ll be easily sorted later with a frivolous miracle or two.
Aziraphale’s making soft, encouraging noises of his own, his hands gripping Crowley’s narrow hips hard enough he desperately hopes there’ll be bruises later (and if he uses a frivolous miracle of his own to make it so, well, that’s his own business). When Aziraphale finally draws back, long after Crowley’s forgotten how to breathe, it’s with a wicked little smile that makes Crowley’s heart stutter and his dick throb.
“Come with me, darling,” Aziraphale instructs, as if there’s any chance Crowley wouldn’t tail him like a lovesick puppy. The fingers he laces with Crowley’s are therefore superfluous, but they make his heart swell all the same. And though he’s not entirely sure his legs have yet remembered how walking works, he manages to stumble after Aziraphale well enough.
Somehow, they make it to Aziraphale’s bedroom, and though Crowley is fairly certain it didn’t exist until precisely that moment, it’s exactly what he would have expected. The bed is massive and plush, heaped with an excess of pillows and old-fashioned duvets, while stacks of books tower overhead on nearly all sides, threatening to topple at the slightest provocation. Crowley loves it, loves him, and he murmurs as much when Aziraphale draws him in for another long, slow, deep kiss that makes his knees reconsider their stability once again.
Luckily, he doesn’t have to stay upright for long. Aziraphale gently-but-firmly pushes him down into a seated position, which just so happens to coincide with the moment his legs finally give way. Crowley collapses, an inelegant sprawl that comes from both having too-long limbs and a rather (literally) serpentine nature. It’s at that point he gets annoyed enough with the fact that he’s still only naked from the waist down that he goes to snap his fingers and miracle the rest of his clothes away. But Aziraphale seems to sense his frustration, stills him with a soft touch and murmurs “Allow me.”
And oh , it’s worth those few seconds’ extra wait for the way Aziraphale’s lips brush reverently against every bit of flesh that’s revealed as he unbuttons Crowley’s shirt, leaving a tingling trail in their wake as he makes his way up Crowley’s body. Crowley’s breathing heavily, fingers tangling themselves in the ridiculous patterned blanket beneath him. Aziraphale’s lips find his nipples, the hardened little peaks damnably sensitive and making him shiver as they’re teased. And then, Aziraphale’s mouth is on his neck, and Crowley hisses. Again, Aziraphale knows what he’s thinking, what he wants, before he even has to ask for it. Perfectly white teeth sink into his neck, the dull, aching pain going straight to Crowley’s cock, making him gasp out his angel’s name.
Aziraphale, the bastard, simply chuckles and lets his hands slide up along Crowley’s bare thighs, raising goosebumps in their wake.
“Angel, G-- fuck, are you trying to kill me?”
Aziraphale hums as if in consideration, and Crowley’s eyes narrow into dangerous slits, though his angel seems remarkably unperturbed by his demonic glower.
“No, I suppose not,” he allows at last, finally dropping to his knees before Crowley. (Still clothed, of course he is, the posh bastard, and it makes it even hotter when he goes down on Crowley once more.)
This time, Aziraphale ducks his head a little lower, bypassing Crowley’s cock in favor of drawing one of his heavy balls into his mouth with almost loving care. The sound which leaves Crowley is most definitely not a whine (but it might be pretty close to one), and he tangles his fingers in those lovely, feather-soft curls once more as a shudder runs down his spine.
“Aziraphale,” he gasps out, and the answering hum his angel gives feels absolutely incredible around him. Not one to do things by half, Aziraphale lets Crowley’s thoroughly-loved bollock slip free from his mouth, only to draw the other one in. Crowley fights not to writhe overly much on the bed in response.
Crowley’s breathing’s gone ragged by the time Aziraphale finally comes up for air (not that he needs it, of course, but he’s surely taken pity on poor Crowley, whose brain cells have firmly left the building). Aziraphale’s fingers rub small circles on the glistening-wet, exposed head of Crowley’s aching prick, which simply makes him shudder once more.
“Ah ah, not yet,” Aziraphale murmurs, when Crowley, impatient, tries to grab for Aziraphale’s wrist, maybe force his fingers to wrap around him. Aziraphale’s admonishment earns a sullen hiss, but a quick pinch to the tender flesh of his inner thigh makes him yelp and subside.
“Turn over, my love,” Aziraphale directs him quietly, and despite that lingering hint of mischief, he looks so fond and Crowley’s so overcome just from hearing the endearment that he doesn’t protest any further, simply does as he’s told. Somehow, he’s not prepared for the way Aziraphale grips the tight globes of his cheeks, nor for the hot, wet, probe of his tongue.
“Fuck!” Crowley gasps out, body undulating as he fights the dual instincts to jerk away from the contact and press back into it. It feels so strange, so wrong, even as it lights him on fire from the inside out.
Aziraphale eats ass the same way he does nearly everything else, and really, Crowley shouldn’t be surprised that his angel is into rimming. What he is surprised by is how much he enjoys receiving it. The arguable filthiness of the act just makes it even hotter. Crowley’s soon gripping the sheets tightly enough he’s threatening their integrity (and it certainly doesn’t help that he’s slightly lost control of his corporation and his normally blunted nails have morphed into claws). Aziraphale, naturally, seems perfectly content to keep him spread wide open, working his tongue over Crowley’s tight pucker like he has all the time in the world (which, he does, but fuck).
For being such a prim and proper creature, Aziraphale is truly shamelessly sloppy as he eats Crowley out, coating him in saliva that drips and runs down his crack, down onto his balls. Aziraphale’s tongue thrusts and plunges insides him with wanton abandon, accompanied all the while by the pleased noises Crowley’s learned to associate with him enjoying a particularly tasty snack. Crowley will never again be able to watch (or listen to) Aziraphale eat without getting hard. Right now, he’s absolutely desperately hard, cock hanging heavy and swollen and neglected between his legs, oozing a steady enough stream of precome to rival the slippery mess Aziraphale is making of his arse. But just as he tries to slink his hand down between his thighs, Aziraphale somehow senses it and pulls back, delivering a sudden smack to his rump that’s more startling (and arousing ) than it is truly painful. Crowley gives a strangled noise that in no way, shape, or form resembles any language on or off planet earth.
“You may touch yourself when I give you permission, Crowley. I’m not finished yet,” Aziraphale informs him, tartly, and Crowley whines and slumps inward, spine curving convex and arse thrust backward in a way that puts his arousal more fully on display. (And no, he’s most definitely not pouting.) This earns a soft chuckle, and Aziraphale’s hands stroke his arse, his sides and back. When Aziraphale ducks his head down this time, it’s to lave at the spit-streaked flesh of his sac.
Aziraphale lingers here longer than necessary, and Crowley can’t decide if he loves or hates his choice of fixation, given the alternatives. His mood firmly tilts toward the former, however, when Aziraphale takes him in hand, long, slow strokes taking the edge off his desperation while Aziraphale draws each of his bollocks into his mouth in turn, delicate as eggs. His tongue swirls around each of them in turn, cheeks hollowed just enough around them to provide a delicious hint of suction. Crowley groans, hips rocking a bit in encouragement for him to go faster, give him more. But Crowley has always gone too fast for Aziraphale. When it comes to lovemaking (and Crowley’s abruptly sure that’s what this is, however lewd on the surface), his angel clearly intends to set the pace.
Crowley’s upper body has slumped down into the mattress, collapsed, and it’s only a minor demonic miracle that keeps him from shredding the sheets when Aziraphale finally releases his testicles from his heavenly grasp and instead wraps his lips tenderly, softly, around the oozing head of Crowley’s cock. God Herself couldn’t stop him from crying out with blessed, blessed relief, babbling in Enochian and Aramaic and a thousand forgotten tongues as Aziraphale takes him apart as easily as breathing. When Crowley comes, it strikes like a lightning bolt, searing and sizzling and blinding in its intensity.
When he comes to a small eternity later, Aziraphale is rubbing soothing circles in his lower back. Crowley abruptly realizes (remembers) that he’s just been thoroughly enraptured, and Aziraphale hasn’t so much as unfastened his bow tie. His body (quite coincidentally) remembers that he is not, in fact, human and isn’t subject to such mundane things as refractory periods, and he’s abruptly hard all over again.
“Welcome back, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs, fondly amused, just the teensiest bit teasing, and Crowley grumbles his frustration into the duvet crumpled beneath him, although he also hasn’t lowered his arse-- which Aziraphale nips in retaliation, earning a sound from Crowley that definitely isn’t a squeak. Aziraphale’s hand is rubbing soothing circles into his flesh again a moment later, though, so he can’t complain overly much. And it’s not like his brain stays online for more than a few seconds anyway before Aziraphale casually remarks, “I think I’d like to fuck you now, dear.”
Crowley promptly bluescreens.
Aziraphale, thankfully, can be remarkably patient when the situation calls for it (as he’s already so thoroughly demonstrated), though there’s an undeniable air of wicked amusement to his silence as he waits for Crowley to reassemble his sloppily scattered wits.
Eventually, Crowley clears his throat.
“Hnnngyyyeah, that sounds good,” he croaks. He doesn’t even have to see Aziraphale to know that he’s beaming. Crowley could bask in his angels smile, warmer than any patch of sunlight. Right now, though, he’s not basking so much as sizzling, his body contradictorily shivering with white-hot desire and anticipation.He's certain he's never wanted anything so badly in his entire life the way he wants Aziraphale inside of him right now. (And that's a long, long time.)
Aziraphale shifts behind him, making the bed creak, and then the rustle of fabric makes Crowley whip his head around to see Aziraphale starting to shrug out of his jacket.
“No -- I mean, please. Don’t… Don’t get undressed,” Crowley finishes in a low, embarrassed mumble, flushed hot under his angel’s questioning gaze. But then, Aziraphale smirks (a tiny, precious thing) and shrugs his jacket back on.
“Just this, then?” he inquires, too casual, as his lovely manicured fingers find their way unerringly to his button fly down below, instead. (Crowley had mocked him for retaining the old-fashioned feature for his trousers, but now, just the sight of Aziraphale slowly, deliberately slipping each button free of its hole is enough to make his mouth water.)
“Yessss,” Crowley hisses, the only way he could possibly respond. He’s already slick and open and ready thanks to Aziraphale’s efforts, desperate to be filled in the kind of way only Aziraphale can help him with. Though the current position is putting a bit of a strain on his neck, craned as it is to peer back over his shoulder, Crowley can’t look away as Aziraphale unfastens his fly, reaches within, and eases out a gorgeous, fat prick.
The plump head’s already slick with precome and exposed, though as Crowley watches he leisurely strokes himself a few times. This time he actually does salivate watching Aziraphale’s foreskin glide smoothly across his glans. In fact, he’s starting to reconsider which hole he wants it in when Aziraphale gives a firm swat to his rump, making him-- well, definitely not squeal, he’s a very fierce demon after all. But it’s definitely some kind of noise, and Crowley gets the idea well enough and turns back around to face frontward, giving his arse an inviting little wiggle instead. Besides, he’s sure he’ll have plenty of time to worship that gorgeous cock later. (Over and over and over again, if he has his way-- and how did he think sex was gross before? Crowley is certain he could spend the next few centuries exclusively in bed with Aziraphale and never grow bored.)
Crowley isn’t given too much time to ponder, plan, or postulate future bedroom endeavors, however, as Aziraphale’s soon shifting audibly behind him. A warm hand rests on his lower back, settling something that’d been skittering around nervously inside him, and then, the blunt head of Aziraphale’s cock presses against him. Crowley can’t help but draw in his breath, giving a small, helpless sound, and Aziraphale is murmuring soft encouragements he only vaguely processes because then, finally, Aziraphale’s pushing more firmly against him and-- “Oh, fuck--” He’s in.
Crowley clenches around the intrusion instinctively, spasming, and Aziraphale sucks in his breath audibly and lets out a groan that draws an answering strangled sound of pleasure from Crowley. That warm hand in his back is rubbing those soothing circles again, and along with Aziraphale’s quiet murmurs, it’s enough to make him relax, bit by bit, the dull throb of the initial pain settling into an ache that’s almost pleasurable (and neither Aziraphale nor the universe at large is surprised at all to discover that Crowley’s a bit of a pain slut).
“Good?” Aziraphale asks after Crowley’s been mostly still and quiet for a long moment, save for a slight stutter in his breathing.
“Hnnnghhh,” Crowley answers quite eloquently, and Aziraphale chuckles.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he murmurs, his dry sarcasm unmistakable, though Crowley doesn’t have time to get properly offended before Aziraphale shifts, pressing that gorgeous, thick cock deeper inside him. Crowley lets out a groan so low it’s almost infrasound. (Coincidentally, at that very moment, the owners of all dogs in a surrounding 10-kilometer radius quite suddenly find their beloved pets burst into frenzied barking at nothing in particular.)
This time, Aziraphale doesn’t give him any time to properly adjust, instead sinking inexorably deeper until he’s bottomed out, and Crowley feels so incredibly, impossibly full. He’s entirely forgotten how to breathe now, and his cock is dripping a steady stream of precome beneath him that’d surely ruin the sheets without miraculous intervention.
“Such a good boy,” Aziraphale murmurs, somehow sounding both fond and faintly mocking. His cock is nudged right up against Crowley’s prostate, and when he gives another squeeze (then slap) to Crowley’s rump, Crowley’s second orgasm tears through him so fast he’s fairly certain he screams before everything whites out.
Crowley doesn’t quite lose consciousness, but he is having a hard time keeping his occult aura firmly seated in his quasi-mortal body, and a smidge might spill over while his orgasm rocks his world. Aziraphale, ever patient, is still seated within him and still rock hard as the aftershocks fade. Crowley shivers.
“All right?” Aziraphale inquires mildly. Crowley croaks out a response that definitely isn’t anything even remotely coherent, but which Aziraphale clearly takes as an affirmative. Because, a second later, he’s withdrawing (and fuck, Crowley can feel every centimeter of that fat prick drag against his prostate on the way out). He nearly sobs with how good it feels, how sensitive he is after already coming twice (and his cock is still hard, might stay hard until the end of time at this point). His nerves are on fire, his whole body flushed and dripping with sweat (he could turn it off, of course but there’s something appealing about the physicality of his pseudo-mortal body right now). And then, he swears sharply in Enochian when Aziraphale’s hips snap forward abruptly.
What had started as momentarily intelligible curses quickly deteriorates into gasps and cries and shouts and moans. Aziraphale sets up a punishing pace, his breathing audible behind Crowley and occasionally punctuated by soft grunts or compliments (“You’re doing so good, darling, you feel absolutely incredible around me, you take my cock so perfectly). Tears really are pricking the corners of Crowley’s eyes now, serpent nature be damned, and all he can do is hold on tight, claws finally snagging in the fabric of sheets that were never designed to withstand an amorous, well-fucked demon.
When Aziraphale finally buries himself inside Crowley, momentarily stilling save for the twitch of his hips and the throb of his cock as he spills his hot, heavenly release deep within Crowley, the aforementioned demon can only whine and shudder. He doesn’t come again, at least not yet, but he feels almost feverish with desire and is sure Aziraphale is in no way finished with him yet. His cock gives a dull, aching throb where it hangs, presently untouched and still leaking a veritable lake of precome beneath him. He almost has the wherewithal to be embarrassed about it.
It’s at precisely that moment that Aziraphale withdraws (too soon, much too soon), and Crowley lets out a sound of complaint at the sudden, devastating emptiness. Before he can get too used to it, though, three fingers are plunging inside him, making him gasp, toes curling and a fervent “Fuck” escaping him as Aziraphale unerringly finds his swollen prostate. The angel, who he’s beginning to think has quite the sadistic streak, simply keeps him plugged up with his delightfully plump fingers. The mild, familiar tingle of Aziraphale’s Grace makes Crowley suspect he’s using a minor miracle to be able to reach his prostate at all. (Crowley approves.)
“You’re so lovely,” Aziraphale murmurs, and he sounds so warm and fond and genuine that Crowley feels stripped bare in an entirely new way. His heart pounds in time with his cock as he fights the urge to squirm away from Aziraphale’s unbearable kindness. Aziraphale clearly realizes it, too, as he tsks and shifts position, moving in closer. Crowley momentarily chokes on his own saliva as this makes Aziraphale’s fingers shift within him, though they otherwise blessedly remain where they’re at, keeping him full and sated. The bed creaks as Aziraphale winds an arm around Crowley’s midsection, and he’s close enough now that his clothing rasps against Crowley’s too-sensitive skin (and fuck, he’s still fully dressed, Crowley’s so turned on he can barely think).
“Shh, you’re lovely. You’re everything I could ever want,” Aziraphale murmurs, brushing kisses and affection and love all along Crowley’s spine, making him quiver with feelings too complicated and too much for him to even begin processing. He lets out a choked sound, almost a sob, a few tears finally spilling over and dripping onto the half-ruined sheets beneath him, and Aziraphale croons reassuringly.
“Angel, I don’t-- I can’t--” Crowley doesn’t even know what he’s protesting, what Aziraphale’s asking or wanting or expecting. Aziraphale’s lips have reached the back of his neck, all sweat-damp and plastered with auburn hair, and the stretch his angel must be doing to reach it make his fingers shift inside him again. And Aziraphale still hasn’t undressed.
“ Please ,” Crowley manages, pressing himself back against Aziraphale, dizzy and hot and overwhelmed, hoping that Aziraphale will know, he’ll understand, he’ll get the message Crowley is transmitting on a thousand frequencies save for one. And Aziraphale understands instantly, of course he does . He’s always understood Crowley, always been there, the rock upon which Crowley has built his church. (The thought shocks him in its blasphemy, which is excessive even for a demon. But Aziraphale is his church, his everything, and Crowley would sooner Fall a thousand times than lose him. And right now, he would give up his wings to have Aziraphale’s body pressed flush against his.)
Aziraphale snaps his fingers and makes everything better, Crowley’s jittery heart settling the instant he feels bare flesh against his. (Nevermind the fact that it had been Crowley’s desire to be fucked while Aziraphale remained fully clothed. Crowley doesn’t always know what’s best for him, a fact of which Aziraphale is unequivocally, intimately aware.)
“Turn over, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs, and Crowley makes a small, token sound of protest because that’ll mean detaching himself from the way Aziraphale’s currently plastered against his back. He obeys, though, because of course he’s powerless to resist Aziraphale’s requests, let alone his orders (and Crowley’s sure this is the latter, despite the gentle tone, a thought that makes him flush hotly all over again).
Splayed out on his back (and cringing as his flesh sticks to the sheet before he miracles away his own mess), he’s sure he looks absolutely wrecked, but Aziraphale is simply gazing down at him with inordinate fondness and affection. He settles himself between Crowley’s legs like he belongs there (and he does, absolutely and entirely), the soft curves of his belly resting against Crowley’s own nearly concave stomach as he stretches out over him, exquisitely complementary. Crowley loves him desperately, and he winds his legs around Aziraphale’s perfectly padded waist, locking him in place.
Aziraphale kissing him banks the fire his angel has sparked within him, soothing his burns and quelling his perpetual self-immolation. He’s not blazing now so much as smoldering, and he can’t help but tangle his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair as he kisses him back, bites at Aziraphale’s lips and swallows his tongue.
“Mine,” Crowley hisses, abruptly, ferociously possessive, and Aziraphale echoes and confirms the sentiment warmly, sliding his hand down, down, to wrap around Crowley’s cock, caught as it is between them. Crowley keens , arches his back, and claws at Aziraphale’s neck, his shoulders, his chest. Aziraphale groans softly, his own cock rutting haphazardly against Crowley’s rump. That simply won’t do, so Crowley lifts his hips just so and shoves himself down onto him. He’s not sure if the gasp he hears is his or Aziraphale’s (likely both), and he’s still so slick and open with Aziraphale’s release that it’s almost too easy for him to take Aziraphale balls-deep.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasps out, the sound muffled against Crowley’s lips. Crowley, meanwhile, is putting all his serpentine skills to the test, rolling his hips in a way that stirs Aziraphale’s cock deliciously inside him, each brush of it against his prostate sending an electric shock of pleasure through his system. He’s on less of a hair trigger now that he’s gotten off twice already, and he wants to use that to his full advantage.
Aziraphale lets out a rough laugh as he draws back ever so slightly, breaking the kiss, so Crowley’s sure he knows exactly what Crowley’s doing, but he doesn’t complain. He does, however, make grab Crowley’s wrists and pin them down to the bed firmly, a single arched brow simultaneously daring Crowley to complain about this development and inquiring whether it’s all right (and of course it is, there’s quite possibly nothing Aziraphale could do to him that he wouldn’t accept gratefully, gleefully, with praise on his lips). That doesn’t mean he won’t hiss and writhe, putting on a big show of being displeased while making certain he isn’t doing anything that would actually free him from Aziraphale’s grasp.
“Naughty boy,” Aziraphale murmurs, catching on quickly (of course, he’s a clever one, just one of the many things Crowley loves about him). His grip tightens, hard enough now he’s threatening to leave bruises once more. The thought of Aziraphale marking him in such a way, in any way really, makes Crowley’s heart stumble into a canter. Fuck, he wants Aziraphale to lay ownership to him.
It’s that thought which prompts Crowley to retort with all the snide flippancy he can manage, “What, are you going to punish me then? Show me the error of my wicked ways?” Aziraphale’s lips part, his lovely blue eyes visibly darkening. Oh , thinks Crowley. He has a kink. He can definitely exploit that to his advantage. Crowley smirks as he tilts his chin upward, defiant as anything, his distinctly demonic eyes on full display as he boldly meets Aziraphale’s gaze. “Smite me.”
Aziraphale growls, a low, fierce sound that makes Crowley’s cock throb, before he surges forward to sink his teeth hard into Crowley’s neck. Crowley yelps, writhing instinctively away from the pain, but fuck it feels incredible, and desire coils low in his gut when he realizes that Aziraphale is deliberately sucking a mark into his neck. Crowley lets out a low moan, clenching down around Aziraphale and rolling his hips again.
Aziraphale pulls back after a brief moment, eyeing his handiwork in consideration for a moment before giving a smirk that will never not make Crowley think absolutely filthy thoughts. Then, with just the slightest hint of indecision (and really, it’s only visible because Crowley knows his old friend, his lover so very, very well), he murmurs, “So, you want me to smite you, do you?” Crowley shivers. He’d been taunting Aziraphale, trying to get a rise out of him, sure, but deep down he thinks maybe he actually does want it exactly as he’d said it. He swallows hard and gives a slightly shaky nod of his head.
Now it’s Aziraphale’s term to breathe in somewhat unsteadily, and when he releases Crowley’s wrists, Crowley thinks at first that maybe he’s gone too far. He opens his mouth to apologize, to beg if need be, but Aziraphale clears his throat and nods at the top of the bed. A glossy wooden headboard with bed posts sits there that Crowley’s fairly certain wasn’t there before. (Though, to be fair, he’s been a bit distracted and hasn’t been paying particularly close attention. A marching band could have probably paraded through the room and he wouldn’t have noticed.)
“I’d like you to grasp each of the bedposts, darling,” Aziraphale instructs him, giving him a bit of a nudge to encourage Crowley to scoot further up the bed. Crowley’s heart is pounding so hard in his own ears, he can barely hear himself think, but he manages to wriggle his way unceremoniously upward (and that’s a bit ironic, he considers drily). That he does so without unwrapping his legs from Aziraphale’s waist (where they might never leave) and without letting Aziraphale’s cock slip free is a testament to his stubbornness and sheer desire to get absolutely railed by Aziraphale.
He wraps his hands around each of the bedposts, arms spread uncomfortably wide to accomplish it. He feels incredibly exposed. Aziraphale makes a small noise of approval and rocks his hips just a little where he’s still seated within Crowley.
“Now, hold on tight, dear,” Aziraphale murmurs. Crowley’s breathing kicks up a notch, and he trembles almost imperceptibly, his whole body tensing in anticipation (which, naturally , means he clenches down around Aziraphale’s cock again). Aziraphale’s eyes begin to glow, blue-white light eclipsing his pupils, irises, and sclera. Crowley’s mouth is dry, his demonic aura already fighting to squirm away from the holy light. And then, he touches a single, faintly glowing finger to Crowley’s chest, and Crowley spasms and screams .
It’s agonizing and all-consuming, like staring directly into the sun. His body convulses as his demonic aura fights to reject the Grace Aziraphale has just infused into his touch, and he dimly senses that Aziraphale’s already begun to scramble away from him, shouting his name in horror before his hips jerk and he comes and comes and comes, a full-body orgasm wracking him with pleasure so forceful its violent, painful. It’s the hottest, most intense fucking thing Crowley’s ever experienced. He loses awareness of everything around him for a moment, and when his vision and hearing gradually return to him (there’s a dull ringing in his ears that he really hopes is temporary), Aziraphale’s hovering over him looking dreadfully concerned. More annoyingly, he’s no longer inside Crowley.
Crowley lifts his head to complain about this, and the image before him tilts and lurches a little sickeningly. He has to blink hard a few times, letting out a low hiss of annoyance, before he manages to focus more fully on Aziraphale, who looks even more worried, if possible.
“Crowley, I-- I’m dreadfully sorry, I let things get out of hand, I shouldn’t have-- I could have killed you, or at least discorporated you, and I--”
“Angel,” Crowley interrupts, his voice rasping in his throat. “Shut up. c’mere, and kiss me.”
Aziraphale blinks, his expression relaxing by degrees until it collapses into one of utter relief. He wastes little time in doing as Crowley asks, moving to straddle him this time and leaning in to brush a soft, sweet kiss against Crowley’s lips. When he draws back, Crowley determinedly tries to chase his lips with a quiet growl of frustration, and Aziraphale huffs out a soft laugh. As Crowley’s head falls back to the pillow, though, Aziraphale’s gaze drops to Crowley’s chest, and his expression turns more somber, almost watery.
“Darling, I-- Well, that is, you may want to look down. I dearly hope it’s not permanent, but I don’t know if there’s any way to remove it, our auras aren’t quite meant to interact in such a way…” While Aziraphale is rambling and fretting and wringing his hands together, Crowley peers down at his chest and blinks once, twice. He feels almost sunburned, and most of his chest looks it, too. But that clearly isn’t what Aziraphale's talking about. At the point where Aziraphale’s finger had touched him, there’s a single dot, looking almost like a freshly-healed scar. And radiating outward from that point are arrowhead lines. It looks like the sun. It looks exactly like the kind of thing Crowley would have begged for Aziraphale to leave on him, if he’d had the wherewithal to specifically request such a thing.
“It damn well better be permanent,” Crowley replies heatedly, before his brain catches up with his mouth (a common occurrence). He snaps his mouth shut, face flushed hot as the burn on his chest, while Aziraphale gazes at him with a strange expression, almost inscrutable.
“You… want the mark to be permanent?” Aziraphale replies slowly, expression still unreadable because he’s wearing a look on his face that Crowley’s certain he’s never seen before (and after all this time, Crowley’d thought he’d seen them all). At this point, there’s really no point in denying it, so Crowley simply sets his jaw stubbornly and gives a curt nod, staring right into Aziraphale’s eyes as if daring him to say something.
“Oh,” Aziraphale replies, faintly, swaying just a little where he’s still seated atop Crowley (and for a moment, Crowley worries he might lose consciousness).
“Is that… alright with you, angel?” Crowley asks quietly, chest clenching with worry that it won’t be, that he’s (once again) gone too fast for Aziraphale. He’s going to scare him off, he’s going to ruin this, ruin everything--
Aziraphale’s hand cupping his cheek abruptly cuts off his bitter internal diatribe. Aziraphale’s eyes are shining suspiciously brightly, lending his smile a distinctly watery appearance.
“It’s perfect, dear boy,” he replies, quite firmly, and Crowley’s ever-present tension (and ever-present self-loathing) eases up a bit.
“Oh, well. Good,” he blusters, clearing his throat. “So…”
“So,” Aziraphale echoes, still smiling.
“Pretty sure I wasn’t done with you yet,” Crowley remarks off-handedly, and Aziraphale lets out a quiet huff of laughter as Crowley pointedly gestures toward where he’s still gripping the bedposts with a white-knuckled grip. Aziraphale decides to humor him by leaning in and giving him another long, slow kiss, gradually building in heat and intensity as he stokes the fire within Crowley once more. And if a few tear drops splatter down onto Crowley’s face in the process, well, no one needs to know.