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Aziraphale loves kissing.
The angel is no stranger to indulgences--expensive wine, custom clothing, dinners at the Ritz, rare books and curated classical vinyls. It should come to no surprise then, that he loves kissing Crowley. Relishes in every second Crowley’s lips are on his, lingers in the senses even more so than he does with other earthly delights.
Oh, how he loves kissing Crowley.
He loves to kiss his mouth, his jaw, and his Adam’s apple, too. The bones protruding at his collar and shoulders, the lean muscle of his torso. Down further to the ridges of his hip bones, the valley between them. He could spend hours there, mouth lazy as he maps out every contour of the demon’s form.
And how Aziraphale loves Crowley kissing him.
Nipping at his jaw, down his neck. The angel is in only his button-down shirt and slacks now, Crowley kissing at the edge of his clothing. Starting at his wrist, working the sleeve up his arm, folding the cloth gently with a mouth trailing in its wake. His pace feigns patience, but his lips--hungry, pressing open-mouthed kisses to flushed skin--betray him.
But they have time now. So Crowley paces himself, learns how to go slow, luxuriates in the taste of Aziraphale and the feeling of being this close after all this time.
When Aziraphale’s sleeve is neatly folded as high as it will go, just above the crook of the elbow, Crowley moves to the angel’s collar bone. The soft divot nested between bone jumps when the demon’s mouth bites and pulls at the skin there. Sure to leave a mark in due time with increasingly hot, increasingly unchaste kisses.
(Aziraphale loves when Crowley leaves marks. Bites, bruises, and on occasions, lipstick stains.)
Aziraphale can’t help the whine that escapes his lips.
“Oh, Crowley.”
Crowley loves hearing his name from the angel’s lips. Almost as much as he enjoys kissing Aziraphale, giving him the attention he likes, the little bruises littered here and there. Almost as much as he likes kissing the soft curve of the angel’s jaw, the tender skin of his neck, watching Aziraphale’s eyelashes flutter with pleasure.
Almost as much as he likes Aziraphale’s hands at the crook of his waist, where his hips narrow. Where--Aziraphale has told him on one very memorable, very drunken occasion--the angel lets his eyes linger when he thinks Crowley isn’t looking.
(“You’re a bit of a tease, Crowley,” Aziraphale had slurred, one very late night. The several emptied glasses of wine served as plausible deniability for the pink blotting his cheeks then.
“A tease, angel?”
“Surely you must know, my dear! With the way you walk…”)
All this to say, Crowley loves Aziraphale. And Aziraphale loves Crowley.
When their lips meet again, Aziraphale can feel the smile on Crowley’s face as he kisses him, languid and luxurious. Full of love, devotion, and decadence. It’s a sweet kiss, but they’re both growing impatient--grasping at the fabric of their clothes and pulling each other closer, moaning and panting.
It takes concentration, but eventually Crowley presses a hand to Aziraphale’s chest, gentle at first, but insistent when Aziraphale doesn’t seem to want to move away.
“I’m sorry, dearest,” Azirphale laughs with a shy smile, eyes beaming at Crowley. “I couldn’t stop myself.”
“No need to apologize, angel,” Crowley murmurs, voice low and graveled. His eyes don’t leave Aziraphale’s mouth save for brief flashes to the angel’s eyes. “I just thought we might want to, ah…take this elsewhere.”
They could kiss for hours more--they had been kissing for quite a long time already--and Aziraphale really considers it. Considers staying on the main floor of the bookshop for a very long stretch of time. Letting hands, mouths wander and wander, enjoy the sensation of each other fully and thoroughly.
But he was growing a bit impatient himself.
Aziraphale nods, a bit dazed, a hypnotized smile dragging out the corners of his lips. He leans in, peppering Crowley’s jaw with saccharine kisses.
“Of course, my dear,” he murmurs. “We just have to be careful, you know.”
“We always are,” Crowley hums, a bit amused that the angel still feels the need to warn him. As if he didn’t know by now, as if this was still their first time.
Reality seems to know something unusual is happening when Crowley and Aziraphale fall into bed. The laws of the universe, unprepared for anything of this sort, respond in ways as strange as the occurrence of an angel and a demon being so intimate. So they’ve learned to be careful, learned to control themselves, lest the electricity go out on the block or the windows of the bookshop shatter or a sudden thunderstorm take SoHo.
It goes like this:
Aziraphale, closing the door, hands idle on Crowley’s waist before they sink into the other side of his belt, giving him a tug closer.
Crowley, whispering in Aziraphale's ear, breath hot on the angel’s skin. All sorts of promises, all a murky concoction of sweet and filthy. Making the angel blush everywhere for every reason.
Crowley, on his knees in front of Aziraphale. He supposes he could miracle the clothes off of his angel (it has happened before, it will happen again) but now it seems that it would take away a bit of the fun in this moment. No, he wants to take his time now, feel the skin newly exposed as the fabric slides down. Make his angel, nearly weeping with want, wait a few minutes more.
It goes like this:
Aziraphale, taking no such time or delicacy with Crowley’s clothes. The moment his head clears enough, coming down from his high as Crowley rises from his knees, something switches in blue depths, widening to catch the light. Aziraphale’s hands work frantically, hungrily at what clothes are still on the demon’s body. He kisses Crowley like he is suffocating and Crowley is air.
Crowley adores it when he’s like this. All these years since the angel first tried the ox rib yet he still has the same hunger, as if he had been starved all this time. So very human yet so very divine.
It goes like this:
Aziraphale, laying with his legs wrapped tightly around Crowley. The angel’s halo glowing brightly, scales emerging and disappearing on Crowley’s sweat-glistened skin. This is far from their first time, but Aziraphale can’t help but marvel how good it feels to have Crowley inside him, to have him so close after all this time.
Time stretches--literally. The minutes ebb and flow, and Crowley and Aziraphale can feel it. Teeth gritting, hands grasping at the sheets, street lamps flickering. Beads of sweat gleam in the low light, Crowley tasting the salt on Aziraphale’s skin as he kisses his collarbone. Laces his fingers in between the angels, pinning his hands beside white curls. Pace at Aziraphale’s precise command.
“Harder, Crowley.”
“More, Crowley.”
“Please, Crowley.”
And Crowley, never one to deny Aziraphale, readily complies.
“Fuck, Angel,” he mutters, breath hot on the skin just behind Aziraphale’s ear.
At a more self possessed moment, the angel might light-heartedly chastise him for the foul language, but Aziraphale is no more than a few seconds away from a flurry of curses himself.
“You’re so gorgeous, you’re amazing,” Crowley continues, breathless. Voice low, the way Aziraphale likes it. “I wish you could see just how pretty you look, my love.”
“I’m--ah, Crowley--quite fond of the view from here--oh G--” Aziraphale cuts himself off before he lets any blasphemy slip. Crowley smirks at the near miss. “Fuck you feel good.”
And Crowley nearly melts there, nearly loses all his composure.
The night is full of moments like these. Crowley and Aziraphale, falling into each other, until the hours of the night fold into the morning. One after another passing seamlessly until the sun starts to creep up the edges of the windowsill. In a bit, Crowley will arise to get breakfast for Aziraphale and a coffee for himself. But now, the two enjoy each other’s company, enjoy the warmth of each other, enjoy the feeling of having all the time in the world together.
Because, at the end of the night and the beginning of every day, Aziraphale loves Crowley, and Crowley loves Aziraphale.