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If there’s one thing Crowley has always known that Aziraphale’s liked, it’s tasting things. Watching Aziraphale eat is positively pornographic, all fluttering eyelashes, parted lips, and indecent moans. (Crowley may have developed a bit of a thing for watching Aziraphale eat as a result sometime around 41 AD, but that’s beside the point.) Really, he should have expected Aziraphale to be into this, faux-innocent angelic nature aside. He just wasn’t prepared for the level of intensity with which Aziraphale partakes of him.
Aziraphale approaches eating Crowley out the way he might a particularly delectable dish. (And if asked, he’d undoubtedly say Crowley is a delectable dish in and of himself, much to Crowley’s flustered dismay.) First, he takes his time undressing Crowley. This, he nearly always prefers to do by hand. There’s something he seems to particularly enjoy about taking the time to unwrap Crowley like a present just for him, and Crowley’s far too eager to give Aziraphale anything he wants to complain. Inevitably, Aziraphale remains nearly or fully dressed while Crowley’s stripped from at least the waist down (and often, from head to toe). This, too, is something Crowley can’t quite bring himself to complain about. (In fact, he might have a thing for it.)
Aziraphale undresses Crowley slowly, like he’s savoring every second. Crowley, meanwhile, does his best not to whine and shift impatiently, because he really does like giving Aziraphale anything and everything he could ever want, but he’s also inevitably rock hard and dripping a steady stream of precome by the time Aziraphale’s finished undressing him. And that’s only the start of things. After the undressing comes the admiring, the compliments and soothing hands stroking up and down his back, occasionally giving his rump a firm squeeze or even parting his cheeks so Aziraphale can view the treasure tucked away within.
“You’re so good for me, darling. Such a good boy. So beautiful,” Aziraphale murmurs, lips occasionally joining his hands in their worship of Crowley’s body (because really, he doesn’t know that he can call it anything else). Crowley trembles under the onslaught, face pressed into the pillow where he can hide the tears Aziraphale’s kind, gentle words inevitably bring to the surface. It’s so much, so difficult to bear, and yet absolutely everything he’s ever craved, all at once. It’s too much and not enough, and it lasts as long as Crowley can bite down on his pleas.
But eventually, always, he cracks under the assault on his senses and emotions both.
“Angel, please,” Crowley gasps, his thighs trembling with more than just desire. Aziraphale always makes a soft, apologetic sound, sometimes even apologizes outright (although he’s never really sorry for lavishing Crowley in all the praise and affection he feels Crowley deserves, and they both know it). Then, and only then, does he lower his mouth to that lovely pink hole of Crowley’s and eat him out.
The first time, the shock of warm, wet tongue on his hole had nearly done him in. Crowley had jolted and scrambled instinctively away from the contact, and Aziraphale had been looking at him with furrowed brow and concern clearly written in his gaze. Crowley had flushed and apologized, gotten back in position, and offered himself up as yet another dish for Aziraphale to enjoy. And once he’d gotten used to the depravity of the act, how dirty it seemed to have an angel’s tongue in particular on him and in him, he’d learned to enjoy it nearly as much as Aziraphale. (Crowley suspects, too, that his initial overreaction was but one of the reasons they’d developed this routine, which he suspects is for his sake as much as Aziraphale’s. And that suspicion is exactly why he doesn’t ask.)
Now, the first touch of Aziraphale’s tongue to his most intimate of places makes him shudder with desire. Aziraphale makes soft noises of appreciation against Crowley’s hole as he caresses him gently at first, teasing them both with just the very tip of his tongue. Crowley has to fight the urge to squeeze his thighs together, give the cock hanging heavy between them some sort of friction. When it gets bad enough, Aziraphale can always tell, always takes pity on him and gives his cock a few leisurely strokes to stave off the worst of his need. For the most part, though, his attention is reserved solely for Crowley’s arse.
Aziraphale keeps him spread wide open as he traces a circle around Crowley’s entrance, flicking briefly over Crowley’s hole in a way that makes it flutter in anticipation and makes Crowley himself groan softly. He takes his time with this, too, enjoying the give and take of coaxing that ever-tight ring of muscle to accept his intrusion. They could miracle things easier, certainly, but they both enjoy the slow build and anticipation, even if Crowley ends up squirming halfway through. Aziraphale’s attention isn’t solely given by way of his tongue, either. His lips leave sloppy, open-mouthed kisses against Crowley’s hole, teeth even occasionally scraping against him.
Aziraphale is never satisfied until Crowley’s open beneath him, pliant, wet, and messy with saliva. He thrusts his tongue in and out, fucking him open with a leisurely sort of pace that suggests he has all the time in the world for Crowley. Sometimes, he’ll thrust a finger or two in beside his tongue, coaxing Crowley to relax even more, open even wider for him. On one particularly memorable occasion, Aziraphale hadn’t been satisfied by merely two or three or four fingers. (Crowley hadn’t either, had begged and pleaded for more, had wanted Aziraphale to split him wide open. Aziraphale had fucked him with his fist, wrist-deep, and Crowley had come so hard he nearly blacked out. Later, he’d begged Aziraphale to fuck his loose, sloppy hole with his cock, and Aziraphale had been only too happy to oblige.)
Most of the time, Aziraphale gets Crowley off just like this, his tongue buried in his ass, fist pumping slickly over Crowley’s dripping-wet dick, no lube needed from how much Crowley’s leaking. He loves the way Crowley clenches around his tongue when he comes, the way Crowley sobs his name. Only after Crowley’s come down from his climax does he withdraw, easing his own neglected, rock-hard prick from his trousers and slicking himself up before pushing into Crowley’s over-sensitive but still welcoming opening.
“ Fuck, angel--” Crowley always whines, always cries when Aziraphale sinks inside him while the last few aftershocks of his orgasm are still making his insides flutter. But he never outright says he doesn’t want it, because he always wants Aziraphale, and he craves the pain of overstimulation even if he won’t admit it aloud. Aziraphale grips Crowley’s hair in his fist, shoves his face into the mattress, sometimes holds Crowley’s wrists behind his back while he fucks into him long and slow and deep . Though Crowley knows he must be desperate to get off, Aziraphale still never seems to be in a hurry to take his pleasure from Crowley’s body. With nearly every thrust, he buries himself balls-deep inside Crowley, grinding viciously against him in a way that stirs his insides and never fails to brush up against his prostate. Crowley’s whole body shakes with how overwhelming it is, a nearly never-ending whine torn from his throat with every shift of Aziraphale’s cock inside him.
Even though Crowley’s almost always gotten off first while getting eaten out, even though he’s rarely given the chance to take the edge off Aziraphale’s arousal, Crowley still ends up being the one who comes first when Aziraphale fucks him. He sobs and shudders and whines as his climax rips through him, and it’s only at the tail end that Aziraphale finally grips his hips bruisingly tight, slams into him over and over again hard and fast, fucking him with reckless abandon in chase of his own release. Aziraphale spilling his essence within him is often the last thing Crowley’s consciously aware of for a while.
When he comes to, sometimes Aziraphale’s cleaning him with a warm, damp flannel, gingerly checking to see whether he’s done any lasting damage to Crowley. (The one time Crowley had snapped at him for it, pointed out that even if Aziraphale had hurt Crowley, he could just heal himself up, Aziraphale had given him a look and he’d shut his mouth. Aziraphale needs this, for some reason Crowley doesn’t fully fathom, so he gives it to him the same way he gives him everything.) More often than not, Aziraphale is cleaning him up with his tongue instead. He laps up any mess from Crowley’s stomach first, making a small sound of approval at the taste, before returning to Crowley’s thoroughly wrecked hole. He’s always so very, very gentle at the end, clearly eager to taste himself on and in Crowley but not willing to do anything that could hurt Crowley in the slightest.
Sometimes, Crowley dozes a little while Aziraphale cleans him up. He’s warm and groggy and content with the after-effects of at least two incredible orgasms, and he never feels as safe as he does with his angel. The first couple of times Crowley had dozed off (and indeed, the first couple of times he’d blacked out during sex due to a sheer earth-shattering climax), Aziraphale had hesitatingly awoken him, not wanting to do a thing to him without making sure he was alright with it first. In fact, Crowley is pretty sure Aziraphale hadn’t even moved after he dozed off the first time in bed, only awakening with a wince and a hiss when Aziraphale’s softening cock had slipped free. (Crowley’s since given Aziraphale essentially carte blanche to do to him as he wishes while Crowley’s asleep, but Aziraphale still treads carefully and only does what he knows Crowley’s okay with. Crowley loves him a disgusting amount for it.)
Eventually, when Crowley’s been all cleaned up and Aziraphale has miracled any mess out of the bedsheets and off his own person as well, Aziraphale draws a pliant Crowley into his arms, kissing him softly and slowly, slipping his tongue into Crowley’s mouth so he can taste himself and Aziraphale and the way their aromas intertwine. By the time he’s done kissing Crowley, their lips are both swollen and inevitably at least one of them is hard again.
If there’s one thing Crowley has always known that Aziraphale’s liked, it’s tasting things. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.