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"Shall we begin, my dear?"
Aziraphale was looking over a certain snake demon with an expression of subdued anticipation. For a change of pace, the two of them were in Crowley's flat, and the living room furniture had all been moved aside in favor of a large, cream-colored canvas cloth. They were going to try something new today, and he was quite excited by the prospect.
"Stand in the center, if you please, and place your hands behind your head."
Crowley squirmed and cracked his neck. He knew, of course he knew, that it hadn't been a good idea to open up about the embarrassing state of his current tempting endeavors while drinking in the bookshop last night...but...well, at this point, keeping things from the angel was growing more and more difficult.
So, there he was, venting, just venting his fucking spleen about how he can't seem to be an effective demon anymore, and he sure as Hell wasn't good, so what even was the point of it all?
And the angel, bastard that he was, had gotten that Look.
So, really, Crowley should have expected this.
And his angel, quill in hand, did look excited… and that was worth any amount of mortification.
"‘Course, angel," he mumbled, as he slunk to the center of the canvas, placing his hands behind his head and valiantly resisting the urge to curl his shoulders inward to keep from feeling quite so exposed. His hair, grown to his shoulders by now, was held out of the way with a high ponytail.
You are Anthony J. Crowley, demonic flash bastard extraordinaire. Being nearly naked is nothing new. No reason to get soppy here.
Aziraphale beamed, taking in the view. In the center of the canvas stood one demon, clad in nothing but an iridescent red thong that left very little to the imagination; next to him was a black coffee table, atop which sat two ink bottles (one black and one gold) and two elegant quills (one black and one white). If he could spend the entire day just admiring that perfect, lean body, it would not be a day wasted. Alas, there was other work to be done. (They'd gotten to bantering during one of their regular drinking sessions the other night. Crowley had started going off on how he was "no good" and "broken" and "couldn't do anything right, even if it was wrong", and Aziraphale had had about enough of that kind of self-talk.)
"Thank you," he said primly. He then shed his outer coat and vest, rolled his shirt sleeves up to the elbow, and took the black quill in hand. Carefully, he dipped it in the dark ink, and began to spell out the word 'kind' over the demon's heart in flowing calligraphy. "No slouching, dear... that's better."
Utter wanker, Crowley thought, as he straightened his shoulders even more.
At this angle, he couldn't see what his lover was writing without bringing his chin down on the top of Aziraphale's white-blonde hair and jostling his hand. No, he had just stand here and--horror of horrors--take it. He focused on the soft scratch of the quill, trying to suss out what letters were taking shape on his chest. However, in the space of a few breaths, his thoughts were consumed by the feeling of the quill on his skin, the coolness of the wet ink, and the utterly compelling feeling of being the center of all the angel's considerable focus.
"Remember, dear, no peeking," the angel said sweetly, a little smile turning up one side of his mouth. "I'll show you everything once I'm done. Though I can't say how long it'll be."
He finished the word and then blew on the ink softy.
"There we are, first one done. Not so bad, yes?"
Without waiting for an answer, he fetched the white quill and dipped it into the golden ink, then stepped behind Crowley to write a longer word down the nape of his neck: 'beautiful'.
"I - 'course I remember,” the demon dithered. “Wasn't trying to peek, of course I wasn't. Erm. The quill tickles, is all, angel. I'll behave myself, though, promise."
Crowley couldn't help worrying his lower lip in his fangs as he felt the quill scrape the sensitive skin of his neck. This scrap of underwear the angel had chosen for him (and what angel selects a thong, that's what he wanted to know) was rapidly getting damp. Bloody hell, he knew he was soft for his angel, but this was really too much. He'd never live it down if the mere touch of Aziraphale's quill was enough to make him quake.
"Mhmmmm." The angel blew softly on the ink once more, allowing it to tickle the back of the demon's ear. "I know you will. You might take a little convincing, but I know you'll behave for me in the end. Because you're such a--" He leaned in, whispering by that ear. "--good demon." The white quill lifted again, this time spelling out a phrase between the shoulder blades: 'And, behold, it was very good.'
Fangs digging into his lip, nearly hard enough to draw blood, Crowley lifted his chin to the ceiling and suppressed a shudder. The quill was writing, writing, writing between his shoulder blades now. It would be easy, so easy, to let his focus narrow down to that single, moving point of contact and let everything else fade into the background. He didn't even know why he fought the sweet pull of Aziraphale's control anymore, except that falling into it was especially sweet when he'd exhausted his will to resist.
"You can't--bless it, angel, you can't just sssay things like that,” he hissed. “It's a...wossname...logical impossibility, it is."
"The two of us are logical impossibilities, my dear, by our very existence," the angel chuckled. "And if it's impossible, then I will write us a new truth. Now do be still."
Letting the ink dry on its own now, Aziraphale continued to inscribe single words on each side of the demon's spine: 'lovely' in black, 'tender' in gold, 'clever' in black, 'beloved' in gold, 'creative' in black, 'gentle' in gold, 'worthy' in both. Each came with its own little flourish that scraped the skin lightly; when he'd finished, he used both gold and ebony lines to connect the seven words, forming a corset design.
Crowley found himself taking deep, steadying breaths (it seemed to help the humans) and falling into that soft, hazy space almost out of necessity. If he needed to stay still, then still he'd stay, even if it meant giving in and letting himself have the sweetness he was meant to question, to struggle against. Eventually, his mind quieted, until the only input was the swoop and drag of Aziraphale's pen (though he still couldn't decipher what was being written). Distantly, some part of him noticed a warming, a gathering of blood and energy, in his cunt. It was unimportant, but it was there nonetheless.
Minutes ticked away, slowly and softly, as the angel went about this delicate task of creating art and meaning on the canvas of his beloved's freckled skin. Aziraphale was pleased when Crowley finally settled down and accepted his situation, honored to have that trust in his hands. The quill scratched more carefully on the bony parts (as the angel didn't desire to cause true discomfort), adding spirals, teardrops, and detailed lace patterns as needed to fill in the spaces between the words, until the only places left untouched where the groin, inner thighs, armpits, and the hands and feet. And the face, of course. Most of what was written were more singular words of praise, but the final touch was seen sprawling across the taut lower belly, in larger font than the rest, in both black and gold: 'My beloved is mine, and I am his'. With a satisfied sigh, he lowered the quill and nodded.
"I do believe we're finished, my dear. Would you like to see?"
Crowley shifted, resisting the urge to stretch his serpentine spine and possibly smudge the angel's hard work.
"I, erm...I'm a bit...well, if you want me to look, I'll look. As long as you're happy with it, I am. I...just, well, 'm not in the habit of looking too much at this old thing," indicating the lanky corporation that, for some reason, his plush angel loved so well. "I'd much rather be..." Here, he dipped his head, giving Aziraphale a once-over, lingering on his bare forearms. "...appreciating the artist."
The angel smiled slightly, but was undeterred.
"In good time. But this is about you, my darling. I want you to see yourself as I see you."
With a flick of his finger, a full-body, tri-folded mirror appeared in the flat. Covering the serpent's eyes with one hand and guiding carefully with the other, Aziraphale coaxed Crowley forward, so that the demon was standing in front of them. Then, in one move, he lifted his hand away and stepped away, making sure he was not reflected in any of the mirrors.
"There you are,” he breathed. “And aren't you a wonder..."
When Crowley opened his eyes, only a swift, firm command to his knees kept them from buckling and leaving him sprawled inelegantly on the canvas. His body was simply covered in the angel's fluent, flowing, and inescapably prim script. At first glance, Crowley thought of mandalas, of Celtic knotwork, of Arabic calligraphy, wherein the writing itself was the art. He shifted his weight and watched in awe as his muscles made the patterns shift, expanding and contracting with his breathing. As his eyes began picking out the words twined amid the intricate patterns, his hands clenched reflexively; he tried to speak, to protest, that his beloved had got it all wrong, that this wasn't him… and then, his eyes fell on his lower belly, and only a broken cry escaped him.
"Angel, I--please..."
"Shh." The angel stepped forward now, catching the demon's quivering chin in his hand and pressing a slow kiss to his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, and then fully on the lips. "Come, look closely."
Hand lifted, Aziraphale escorted Crowley a step closer and then turned him to the side, so the mirrors caught the full view of his back.
"I want you to pay special attention to this area for a moment," he said softly, with a circling gesture around the corset artwork. "There are seven words in this design, three on each side, one at the base. As you find them, I want you to read them aloud."
The tears in Crowley's eyes had been threatening to spill over ever since he'd seen the way Aziraphale had adorned him, but now… now, only the deep desire not to ruin the angel's work kept them contained. His eyes squeezed shut, blocking out the gold and black script lining his spine for a moment of reprieve, and then he forced them open again.
"All-all right, ok, angel. Read the words. Got it." He started at the top, searching out the letters.
"Lovely.” There was a sniffle, and a narrowly-averted desire to quip something about how angels shouldn't tell lies.
"Tender. I… angel, I am too stringy to be tender." The disapproval in Aziraphale's eyebrow cut off the rest of that line of thought.
"Erm… clever.” All right, fair enough.
“Be, oh… oh, beloved.” His recitation was interrupted with a strangled sob.
Warmth radiated from Aziraphale's very core, so great was his pride and joy in this moment.
"Yes," he whispered, giving that slender hand a gentle squeeze, and then a few encouraging strokes with his thumb. "Come, don't stop now. Just three more to go. You're doing so well, my dear."
Just a little more. He knew he was nearing the demon's limits, but he also knew Crowley could endure just a little more. Crowley needed to hear his own voice say these words.
The snake licked his lips, forked tongue flicking in and out. "… yes, angel.”
He squinted at the letters again.
“Creative.” Acceptable. If the rest of these were on that level, he might just make it through.
He found the next one, and a low, pained whine slipped out.
"Angel, I...oh, bless it. Gentle."
One more. Just one more, and then it's done, and we can wash this off and preferably never speak of this again--
Oh, but then his eyes landed on the final word at the base of his spine, gold and black overlapping each other, the bright and the dark...
"I…yellow, angel. Yellow."
The angel’s response was instant: "Of course, dear. Come now, turn this way."
Aziraphale quickly had Crowley do an about-face, where he would no longer be overwhelmed by the mirrors, and then held the demon’s face tenderly and sprinkled kisses on those perfect cheekbones and lips.
"There we are, is that better? I'm so proud of you, my dear boy. You did so well, so amazingly well, just now. So good for me."
Blast, he'd really wanted to hear Crowley say the last one, but he could be satisfied in knowing the demon had at least read it, that he'd seen it, that he knew it was back there.
There was a great, heaving breath, and Crowley managed to look up into his angel's eyes, his own eyes swimming.
"Oh...oh, no, I… do you… do you really think I-I'm..." His voice sank, rough with the grit of tears. "...worthy?"
"I've always thought it, my dear heart," Aziraphale murmured. And that was the truth--those blue eyes were soft, but their conviction was firm and steady. "You are worthy of everything, of care and consideration, of the space you live in, of the body you inhabit."
Crowley could feel the tidal pull of his body towards Aziraphale, as well as the unreasonable strength of gravity tugging his knees towards the floor.
"Angel,” he gasped. “Angel, I need to touch you. I need to not be standing, and I need you… sweet fucking Someone, I need you to kiss me absolutely stupid. But it feels wrong to smear all of this… can you, fuck, I don't know... can you do something?"
"I can," came the gentle reply, with his thumbs stroking the demon's face. "But then I need you to do something for me, as well."
With a snap, the demon would feel a small ripple of energy wash over his skin.
"There, a tiny miracle, to keep the ink from smudging. Now, I will kiss you, after you go put some clothes on."
Crowley could feel the miracle settle in, the tingles of divine power a familiar blend of pleasure-pain. Then, the rest of the angel's words sank in.
"Aww, no, angeeeel,” he whined plaintively. “I'm nearly naked, covered in your artwork, soaking through these ridiculous underthings, and you--you want me to dress? If you don't at least hug me so I can feel your blessed hands on my skin, then I'll--I'll--I'll spread a rumor that your Wilde collection is going up for auction!"
It was a desperate and completely empty threat, for Crowley could never bear to displease his lover so thoroughly, but--desperate times. Aziraphale blinked, and then blinked again, and then had to repress the urge to laugh. He knew Crowley wouldn't really do it (if he knew what was good for him), but... perhaps it was all right to capitulate.
"Well," the angel sighed in mock defeat. "It seems you’ve given me no choice, you foul fiend."
Smiling, he stepped forward once, twice, thrice, forcing the demon to step backwards, until his back bumped the wall and the angel's front held him there. Then, he held that face and kissed him with deep fervor, and Crowley released a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Aziraphale felt the sigh and understood its meaning, allowing his own weight to push against the demon's slender frame and chase out all the stress and anxieties and fears hiding within. The kiss continued for a full minute before the demon remembered he had a task to complete. With a final nip to Aziraphale's gorgeous bottom lip (both lips were gorgeous, but there was just something about the bottom one that made Crowley feral with the need to put his teeth on it), he made a show of sighing and pushing his beloved away.
"Fine, then. I suppose I can go get dressed,” he drawled. “Trousers, he says. Trousers, at a time like this. With me all unclothed and adorned..." The reality of his words struck him then, through the snark, and he softened and lifted one of his angel's hands to kiss it reverently. "Hey, thank you, angel. I...I don't mean to make light. Truly. I'll go put on some clothes, yeah?"
Aziraphale accepted the kiss and the gratitude with his usual composed demeanor.
"You're very welcome, my dear. Now, off with you." He knew the demon couldn't resist snarking at him, any more than he could resist planting a solid slap on that painted ass as Crowley turned towards the bedroom. "Don't keep me waiting."
Reports may have been exaggerated when they said that Crowley yelped in response to that spanking, but he did move to his bedroom with alacrity afterwards. Truly, getting dressed was just about the last thing he wanted to do, but he'd long since found that it was almost always worth his while to concede to Aziraphale's unusual requests. With this in mind, he grabbed clothing (nothing fancy, nothing showy, the angel would've said if he wanted something specific) and emerged a scant few minutes later, wearing what he thought of as his "urban(e) demon" uniform: black pants, jacket, and the V-neck shirt that he'd been maintaining for the past decade or two.
"Well, angel, here I am. Covered up all your lovely work, but here I am."
While Crowley was changing, Aziraphale busied himself with tidying up, tossing the empty bottles in the trash, miracling the quills and canvas cloth back to his shop, and moving the furniture back to its prior formation. The only thing he left behind was that set of mirrors. He also put his vest back on, and rolled his sleeves down. When the demon reappeared, fully dressed, the angel made a small sound of appreciation and drew him close.
"And you didn't dally about, just as I asked. Such a good boy for me." He pressed a warm kiss to Crowley's mouth to silence any protest, and then stepped back and clasped his hands together. "Now then. For the next stage of our game, you're going to stay like this for the rest of the day."
Crowley was so caught up in the delight of Aziraphale's mouth, even leaning in for more, that he didn't initially process his angel's words,
"Sure, yeah, angel, whatever you--waaait just a minute. What do you mean, 'stay like this the rest of the day?' Stay dressed? Stay in my flat? I...well...I would've thought you'd want your blessed way with me. Or, erm, something. "
Had he got it all wrong? Surely Aziraphale wasn't going to wind him up like this, only to… leave it all alone?
“What'm I supposed to do all day?
The angel blinked incredulously at Crowley, as if he'd been asked a most absurd question.
"Well, I most assuredly don't know, dearest. Whatever it is you've been getting up to these days. Going on drives, seeing films at the cinema, spreading foment, that sort of thing.” Then he smiled his calm, bastard smile. “Frankly, darling, it doesn't matter to me what you do all day--so long as you don't lay a finger on yourself. Go about business as usual. At sundown, you may visit the bookshop. If you've left my artwork alone, no alterations or removals, nothing, then I will reward you most handsomely." The last two words were crooned and full of promise. "Do you understand, my dear?"
..... Oh, my. Crowley was struck dumb for a moment, then recovered himself.
"Oh… yeah, I hear you. I'll, erm, see you tonight, then."
“Good. Until then.”
A final kiss was shared before Aziraphale swept out of the demon’s flat, looking as smug as he ever had (the bastard). When the door closed behind him, the full import of this proposition came crashing down on Crowley. It was damned silly, was what it was. There shouldn't be anything different or challenging about wandering about the city, amusing himself as he was wont to do; no one would see his--no, the angel's markings. No one would know. By all rights, it should be a perfectly normal day, but he could already tell it wouldn't be.
Back at the bookshop, the angel shut the door and took a steadying breath. Despite his composure earlier, he was deeply excited to see how this game would end. Oh, he hoped Crowley would play by the rules he set, because he dearly wanted to reward the darling creature. But! Nothing for it but to wait and see. He flipped the sign to ‘Open’ and settled behind the front desk. Only a customer or two wandered in, mostly curious souls seeking to pass the time with browsing, and Aziraphale allowed it because it gave him something else to think about besides a certain troublemaker.
Across Soho, Crowley was having trouble stepping out the door, opting to pace instead.
All right. All right. You can do this. You're an infernal tempter. A few markings on your body can't throw you off your game. You're going to get out there and make mischief. You'll swing your hips, and curl your spine, and leave little inconveniences everywhere you go. You can do it.
With a last exhale, Crowley exited his flat and descended into the wider world, walking as he normally would… no, bless it all, he wasn't walking normally at all. He couldn't stop thinking about the thoughtful art on his skin, thinking about how, if he was labeled as beautiful, as beloved, then perhaps he ought to walk with a little more consideration for his corporation, a little more awareness of the artistic masterpiece that he was displaying (somewhat) to the world. With realizing it, his slithering gait became more upright, his movements more conscious.
His first stop was a little park, where he had a mind to get a chuckle out of stirring up the pigeons, but found himself thinking of the word 'beautiful' on his nape and instead lost himself in the iridescent hues of the birds’ many feathers.
(Only for a moment, and then he grunted at himself in disgust and stalked away.)
His second stop was a coffee shop that had slighted his angel the last time they visited--surely he could get into some well-deserved mischief there. However, while he stood at the counter, awaiting his red-eye, the words 'tender' and 'kind' crept into his mind. Rather than sassing the barista, he found himself offering the polite suggestion of a local tent city where the cafe might leave the day-old baked goods (perhaps with a carafe of hot coffee).
The rest of the day, the demon wandered the city in a haze, accomplishing nothing but a vast amount of cardio. By the time he stumbled onto the bookshop’s street corner, just as the sun was skating the horizon, Crowley was well and truly worn out from the effort of attempting to cause trouble and being thwarted by his bloody body art.
In the shop, the clock chimed six times and the angel inside heard the telltale steps of his beloved's approach right before the bell jingled and the door swung open.
"Angel, oh, thank fuck,” Crowley groaned. “Please tell me I can stay. Can't face the world right now."
Aziraphale was right there to greet him, ushering him inside and shutting the door before cupping that face and kissing him. "Of course you can, dear. Right on time, such a very good serpent you are. Go on to the back. I’ll be with you in a jiffy."
Crowley could only nod and stumble off. While he did so, Aziraphale went about closing up shop, flipping the sign to ‘Closed’, locking the doors, and shutting the blinds in short order. Then, after pouring a glass of Macallan whiskey, he joined the demon (who was currently sprawled across his loveseat).
"Here we are then," he encouraged gently, pressing the glass into Crowley’s hand. "Drink up, and catch your breath."
Crowley gratefully drained the glass and then heaved a sigh from the very depths of his heart (which he was still inclined to deny that he had), flopping his head back. The whiskey’s burn was a welcome distraction from his feelings, and the warmth of it in his belly allowed his spine to sag back into its usual, more serpentine configuration.
"I’ll have you know,” he grumbled. “That it’s bloody exhausting walking around with--with all your words written on my skin, angel. It was like you were on me, standing right beside me or on my shoulder. Couldn't get a blessed bit of mischief off all day. Got immersed in the ‘wonders of creation’ and all that instead."
Well, now, that was quite the surprise. Quite honestly, Aziraphale had no idea how the day would treat Crowley. It might have been an ordeal for him; it might have been a breeze. The idea to make the demon walk about while covered in celestial artwork had been a last-minute addition to the angel's plans, an option that occurred to him in the final stages of creation. Not that he would tell Crowley that--he merely sat in his desk chair, hands folded in his lap, eyes twinkling, quite pleased with the results.
"And our agreement? I'd like to assume that you followed the guidelines I set for you, my dear, but I know how stubborn you can be."
Crowley gave an exasperated sigh.
"Haven't touched myself, angel. Could barely stand movin’ around, feeling like I oughta be in the Louvre. Sure wasn't going to take my clothes off or mess with your warding." He squirmed a bit. "It… it would've seemed like sacrilege, somehow. I mean, you put them there..." His face twisted into a strange expression. "...and called it good. So. Erm. No, all quite intact. Haven't laid a hand on m'self, in any sense."
Now that information made the angel smile, and not in a bastard fashion. Forcing the demon to become aware of himself as something beautiful, of his corporation's care, of the way he moved and the space in which he did so, had very much been a part of his plan.
"Well, I'm certainly glad to hear that, my dear, but I'm sure you'll understand that I need to verify it for myself." A gesture was made, two fingers in a skyward wiggle, as he leaned back in the chair expectantly. "Up with you now, and remove your clothes, if you please."
“Ngh. Right.” There certainly was not a blush rising in Crowley's cheeks. He was a deviant creature of the world, not a shrinking violet prone to fainting over a simple request for nudity.
And this wasn’t just for the sake of nudity, he reminded himself. The swirling marks on his skin were Aziraphale's handiwork; if the artist wished to inspect his piece, well, he was entitled to it. Crowley stood and peeled off his jacket, then the shirt, then the snug pants, letting the clothing puddle around his feet. In the end, he stood as he had that morning in his flat: completely sky-clad, save the indecent thong just barely covering his quim. On impulse, he turned slowly, offering his angel a view of his back as well.
Aziraphale’s lake-water eyes were bright and shining as they surveyed the demon’s lithe form. If there was certainly not a blush on Crowley's face, then there was likewise certainly not a rapidly growing bulge in the angel's trousers. Yes, this had been a splendid idea after all, as any excuse to watch Crowley disrobe was an excuse well-made. Leaning forward, he ran a finger down the demon's spine, and found that his miracle was still intact, not a drop smudged, not a word changed.
Crowley shivered at the touch.
"Everything to your satisfaction, angel?"
"Yes," the angel breathed, and in the same breath, he rose from the chair and grasped that slender waist in his hands. A second later, he’d spun the demon around and pulled him in for a heated kiss.
When their lips parted, he crooned, "You've done so well for me, my darling, my raven. Let me reward you." His fingers wove into that apple-red hair. "I have some ideas, of course, but this time, you may make a request."
Slightly dizzy from the kiss, Crowley had to bite down on the impulse to assure Aziraphale that what he wanted most was whatever the angel saw fit to give him. There had, after all, been Talks about Crowley Asking For Nice Things and the Importance of Voicing His Desires and (most importantly) how very much it turned Aziraphale on to hear how Crowley wanted him. A lurid slideshow of possibilities ran through his mind before he settled on one.
"Fuck's sssake, angel,” he hissed, suddenly very aware of the wet and aching cunt that he’d been actively ignoring all day. “Uh… I've been thinkin' about that mouth of yours all bloody day, hearin’ your words in my mind. Just… Please, put your mouth on me."
The angel practically purred at that, very pleased with the progress they'd made. Having Crowley learn to Ask for Nice Things and Voice His Desires had been exceptionally difficult, usually because the demon was of the opinion that nice things were wasted on him and desires were for other people.
"Of course, love. Come, sit." He gestured to the loveseat.
While the demon situated himself, Aziraphale all but threw aside his own coat and vest (and this time the cream-colored shirt joined them). Then he knelt down, between those decorated thighs, kissing everywhere he could reach: neck, collarbone, chest, ribs, belly. Where his mouth could not reach, his hands did, sliding between skin and sofa to caress Crowley's back and hips, nails pushing in lightly.
"Beautiful," he whispered. "Beautiful and good."
At the first touch, Crowley's mind went blank, completely void of anything but the feeling of those plush lips and that clever tongue on his skin. One hand had a death-grip on the edge of the couch cushion, the other wedged into his mouth (the keen edge of his fangs on his skin helped him stay present and not fly apart). At the angel's loving words, though, that hand shot from his mouth, grasping for his beloved's shoulder.
"Fuck, fuck yes, angel,” he panted. “Wanna be that for you. Wanna be everythin’ you want..."
"You always were and will be, my beloved," came Aziraphale's soft voice, as he laid kisses and bites to those slender thighs. "Do you remember the words on your back? There are seven." His mouth trailed around the hip bones, the lower belly curve. "The number of divine perfection." He breathed a hot breath upon the swathe of red fabric that just barely separated him from Crowley's most intimate parts.
The demon shuddered, and was mortified to feel tears brimming in his eyes.
"Oh... oh, oh fuck, angel, you can’t just-just say that…!"
Divine perfection? Him? How could an angel say such blasphemous things so casually? He wanted to protest, to insist that such high praise was far too much… but with that glorious mouth inches away from where he so heartily desired it, Crowley found it easier to let it be, to let it go, to let the angel's loving praise wash over him, through him, and then run down his freckled cheeks.
Aziraphale saw those tears, that catharsis, and was so glad that he grew a little misty-eyed himself. Focus, now, old chap.
"That's it," he soothed, stroking the demon’s thighs. "Let it all out. Good serpent, very good."
That thong was in the way now, and the angel frowned at it like it had personally insulted him before tugging it aside. His own Adam’s Effort throbbed when he saw how flushed the demon's flower was, how wet and swollen with need. Aziraphale wasted no time, first laying a kiss on the mound and then diving in, devouring the demon like he'd devoured countless prior desserts. At the feeling, Crowley clenched his jaw, his hands, his feet--anything to keep himself grounded. Aziraphale enjoyed having his mouth on any configuration Crowley chose to present, but somehow the depth and dedication of the angel's attentions were always a surprise. The loving precision of that tongue made Crowley feel incandescent, alight with the divine radiance… but greedy demon that he was, he wanted more, always more.
"Ah… a-angel… fingers, oh fuck, please use your fingers!"
"Mhmmm~" came the reply from below. Without ceasing his tongue, the angel shifted his shoulders so he could bring one hand up. Giving the fingers a brief lick, he slid two inside slowly, moving in and out a few times to coat them in nectar, and then easily finding that spot inside that made Crowley squirm so nicely. His free hand continued to roam over the demon's stomach and chest, whatever it could reach. As his angel's fingers entered him, Crowley gave a shudder and went utterly boneless. His high, breathless whines dropped to deeper moans, hands thrusting into the angel's pale hair, shuddering as he felt an orgasm approaching. (Really, where was his self-control?) Heated whispers slipped from the angel's mouth in between his tongue's movement, telling him good boy and that's it and yes over and over. The quivering inside told him Crowley was getting close.
"You may climax whenever you wish, my dear,” the angel rasped. “Don't hold back."
"Ngk-” Oh, lord, that voice... “Angel! Fffffuuck yes, oh please-!"
Crowley's whimpers devolved into a long, full-throated cry as he clenched around his love's fingers and pressed against his tongue, body spasming as release finally washed over him and soothed his aching cunt. When his body settled and he regained control of his mental capacities, he realized that his hands had tightened in Aziraphale's hair and quickly retracted them.
"Fffuck... sorry f'r pullin' yer hair, angel. You're jus’ so good, you make me lose, lose... wossname...motor coordination." He flopped his arms back at his sides, then made grabbing motions in Aziraphale's direction. "Need t' hold you now, please..."
The hands in his hair had been a surprise that Aziraphale didn't mind in the slightest... indeed, no, he’d quite liked the shiver it sent down his spine. He smiled at the hands reaching for him.
"Of course, dear. One moment." He quickly removed the rest of his clothing and then climbed onto the loveseat, situating them both so they laid across it longways, with him resting on top. Crowley, in turn, let out little noises of contentment as he wriggled under the soothing pressure of the angel’s weight and then held tight.
"Angel,” he murmured, after a few minutes spent in post-coital stupor. “I, um... that is, erm, is there anything I can do for you? You've been so bloody wonderful to me. Let me make you feel good, too."
"Your existence makes me feel good," Aziraphale murmured into the shell of Crowley's ear, sliding his hands into those fiery locks and grasping. "Listening to your voice, seeing your eyes follow me, makes me feel good." While he spoke, his hips gave a shift and a shimmy, so that their nether regions were grinding together slowly. "Watching the sun catch in your hair makes me feel good."
Crowley whined in the back of his throat, embarrassed by how quickly his nerve endings kicked back into gear, even after being thoroughly overloaded. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of loving Aziraphale, but he sometimes inexplicably felt that he shouldn't be so blessedly easy for this angel, so ready to melt at every touch. And yet, there he was, panting and needy again, just from a few kind words and the pressure of the angel's blessed cock rubbing against his sensitized groin.
Aziraphale felt that slickness against his Effort, and his patience and self-control finally gave way to his raging desire. With a practiced movement, the angel slid down a few inches and then drew his hips forward and up, sheathing his cock inside that wet and waiting core; the noise he made while doing so was not unlike the one he'd make when savoring a delectable slice of tiramisu.
"Ahh, yes... so good for me." His grip in the crimson hair tightened, and he started thrusting, gently at first and then building to a faster pace.
The demon gasped softly, feeling the shift, knowing what was coming and then gritting his teeth when it happened.
"Oh, please, yes, angel…” He gripped that broad back when the pace picked up, tingling spreading through his lower back. “Ohh, fffuck, just--just like that…!"
Crowley continued vocalizing, desperate to show his angel just how much he loved this, loved being filled, loved feeling the expanse of skin against his own, loved the weight pressing into him. It wasn't as though he could ever get enough of the angel, but this was his very favorite way to try. Nothing, nothing, was as good as giving himself over totally to the business of knowing his angel as biblically as possible.
"Please,” he whimpered. “Please, you...you've got yer marks on my outsides… want--ah!… want you to mark me inside too! Want you all over, all in, everywhere, want--oh, oh yesss!" Crowley fairly tripped into another orgasm, body tightening around his angel's cock like a vice.
Aziraphale shuddered and gripped the couch cushions with both hands, nearly losing himself and just barely holding back.
"I will," he breathed, a promise. "But not yet. Not until I've eaten my fill of you."
True to his word, the angel kept Crowley on that loveseat, without pause, for well over an hour; after the third (or fourth?) climax, the demon had been unable to do anything except cling to his shoulders for dear life. Sweat had formed on his brow and slid down his cheek, mingling with the salt he tasted on that slender neck. Only when he felt he'd had enough did Aziraphale begin to thrust more insistently.
"Close now," he gasped, biting at the neck tendon. "Oh, my word... oh! Oh, fuck-"
With a guttural cry, he rammed forward, striking deep, and emptied his aching body inside his beloved. Goosebumps rose on his arms and legs, pleasure chasing up and down his spine.
At the feeling of Aziraphale beginning to shake apart over him, Crowley felt a surge of lust.
At the sound of the angel cursing, combined with the feeling of that Effort swelling and spilling inside him, Crowley's body shuddered through a final orgasm, shaking and clenching.
Once he was spent, Aziraphale slumped against his demon, gasping for breath; instinctively, Crowley wrapped his limbs around his beloved, wishing (not for the first time) that they could, somehow, stay entwined like this continually. They laid like that for several minutes, limbs and fluids mingled together, basking in the rays of afterglow. Then, with a little wave of his hand, the intricate ink on Crowley's body wavered and lifted before dissolving into thin air.
"As much as I'd like to leave that on you forever," the angel murmured. "I know that would surely be too much for you."
Crowley gasped as he felt the miracle drift across his skin. If he'd been asked a few hours earlier, he would've said it would be a bloody relief to be free of those words... but now that the moment had come, he felt a bit bereft. As if sensing this, Aziraphale stroked Crowley's face tenderly.
"But just because the ink is gone doesn't mean the words are any less true. Lovely, tender, clever, beloved, creative, gentle, and worthy are the backbone of who you are."
As Aziraphale enumerated his qualities, Crowley felt a tingle where each word had been written along his spine, a brand of love upon his soul.
"I…” He swallowed, and then surrendered. “Yes, angel. But...I...well, you know. Very forgetful demon, me. I, erm, might need reminding now and then?"
"I know you are, darling," Aziraphale replied with utmost fondness, petting the demon's hair. "So I shall remind you as often as you like, unto the end of time. Now then,” he added, shifting to stand up. “Let's get you cleaned up."
Bending, the angel kissed his exhausted devil and then easily lifted him into a bridal carry to carry him upstairs, where a hot bath awaited them. Afterwards, the pair climbed into bed and settled into their usual post-sex cuddling position: Aziraphale as big spoon, Crowley as little spoon.
Crowley fell asleep within seconds, the poor thing.
Aziraphale enjoyed the closeness for a bit longer and eventually drifted off to thoughts of how very blessed he was to have this marvelous creature at his side. He might Fall in the end--truly, he might, for any number of his transgressions against God and Heaven. However, he'd decided long ago that his love for humanity, and especially his love for Crowley, was well worth that risk.
That was his truth, written on the tablet of his heart.