sauntered_downward | for salutosinedelectat

for salutosinedelectat

Follows this.

They couldn't just teleport themselves there. Any miracles, demonic or otherwise, would attract too much attention. No, Crowley was actually going to have to sit there, plugging their information into an online search engine, and do it all manually. Fluctuating airline prices were demonic work, and right now a trip to Japan was over six thousand pounds more expensive than if he had bought it three days earlier, which was totally outrageous. Crowley didn't know a lot about money except what it made men do to each other, he'd never had to. But now, making money appear out of nothing could turn the wrong eye on them if he wasn't careful.

Luckily, he had quite a few credit cards that never needed paying or had a limit on them. They would work in a pinch for a moment like this. He didn't know if that sort of perk-of-being-a-demon could ever be taken away from him, but he hoped not.

The flight itself was a long one, and Crowley settled himself in for it by making sure they were flying at least first class. That way they could see everyone coming at them and have a few glasses of wine on the journey.

"I don't think they know about these passports," Crowley says. "They might, but I doubt it. I had them made back during the last World War, just kept them in good condition."

The second World War was something that Crowley took responsibility for, but he hated every moment of it, and what his side did to make it worse made him sick. He was more than prepared to hide away if he needed to when things went wrong back then. And, at the time, he had also created a passport for Aziraphale, in case he wanted to come along. No other reason for that, he told himself.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Crowley doesn't let Aziraphale fumble long. While seeing the angel flushed and red is nothing short of completely adorable, it's never Crowley's intention to truly embarrass him. He won't leave him floundering. He slides his hand down to take Aziraphale's, to direct his touch up, still above the fabric, to where his hardness is pressed. He should really have the angel remove his especially tight trousers (not quite as tight as the ones he wore in the early 1990's that required him to ensure he never had any genitals on, because the pressure made them far too uncomfortable), but he doesn't want to move too fast. One step at a time. A touch, and he moves his hand to stroke through the fabric.

Crowley could've easily written poetry about Aziraphale. He liked poetry well enough, found some joy in it, but never got past his own ego to put pen to paper. But it had always been there, the desire to write a little about how he was feeling, about the things he wanted. He lived through all of human history, all of the different eras of human poets. He could've written anything. Would that have wooed the angel sooner?

They would never know. But they have this.

Well, isn't it good that they find themselves with so much time? Not that time had actually been much of an issue before, thousands of years as they lived on Earth, but poetry doesn't have a time limit. Maybe one day, who knows. In whatever form it takes.

The look on the angel's face is soft and curious, nervous but not entirely hesitant. There are far too many implications within them being together in the manner, romantically, physically, emotionally, after so long, after what they've been through. A culmination yet only a new chapter, he would hope, should nothing succeed to end them too soon.

He feels and observes his indications, feels Crowley through the fabric of his trousers, strokes him through the fabric with a gently firm press of his palm, taking the opportunity to lean down and press some kisses over his collar and up towards his throat.

He can give him this. He can give him love. He can give him safety, finally, return it as Crowley's given him. They have time, and he has a lot of catching up to do.

Crowley moans. It's definitely not dignified, but after something like six thousand years of loving and wanting the person who is now kissing your neck, now touching you, it's sort of impossible not to. Aziraphale may blame himself for waiting, for not wanting to move fast enough, but Crowley will always regret not speaking up. For offering things and trying to save him, rather than just saying the words, the words he can say now.

"I love you---" The words come out as a sharp gasp, and he moves his hips into the angel's touch. He slides one hand up into Aziraphale's hair, gently tangling in his soft curls.

It didn't have to take this, he thinks. It didn't have to take danger, take being on the run, for this to happen. They could have, and probably would have, met here at some point. Crowley would have waited forever. There has never been anyone he has loved, ever, save for Aziraphale. Never anyone who has ever come close.

Maybe they would have. Could have. Maybe, had they had the time to grow more free Aziraphale would have begun to properly look inward, process some things, think some feelings over. But hypotheticals are pointless in situations like these. They have this, now. They have what they have, they have these moments, they have this bed, they have each other, and so much more.

The sound that comes from Crowley, his words, his shifting, a beautiful menagerie of details that make Aziraphale's heart race. To be touching him, to be kissing him, it's... Oh, it's so much more than he would have imagined a while back.

So he kisses up his throat, his chin, meets him with a new kiss on his lips. Crowley's hand in his hair, Aziraphale's hand at work, gently, confessions and kisses and stronger connections as he sentles ontop of the demon, is something he never would have expected of this night. Most of all, back on the airplane, when Crowley had said his name, and Aziraphale expected him to say more.

"I love you too." in a breath against his lips

They love each other. Could Crowley have imagined these words coming from their mouths only a few hours ago? Oh, maybe, in some wild fantasy imaginative thought that might've passed by while he was staring at Aziraphale. But nothing that could've happened in reality. And now, here they are.

He leans up, capturing the angel's lips with his again. His free hand he slides down his back, tracing it down his spine, to the curve above his buttocks. He wants to touch Aziraphale everywhere. He wants to be touched everywhere. The physical form has so many nerve endings, they all deserve to be delighted.

And then there is what can happen in the mind, against the souls. Crowley reaches in, sliding a sensation against Aziraphale, one of desire.

He feels him reach, an instinctual part of him wanting to recoil to some sense of made up safety, but he ignores it, coyly reaching back, offering love, offering that adoration and appreciation, and welcoming him into his soul, into his aura. He's been here alone for so long, this is all so new and strange, and he's still a little nervous, but it's Crowley. That's all he needs.

More kisses, more touches of his hand over the fabric of his trousers, and some shifting along with the feeling of Crowley's hand on his skin. To touch and to be touch, even so gently, so sweetly, oh, it's almost overwhelming by itself.

He pulls his hand away, gently, blindly traces his fingers up to the zipper, to the button, carefully picking at them. Brushes a hand under the fabric when he can reach, to the side, simply feeling more of his skin, more of his warmth, taking his time. At his hip, he gently pushes the fabric down, another request, less coy as he goes.

Crowley lifts his hips a little, making it easier to lower the trousers down. He would, given the chance, just miracle them off, banishing them to the far side of the planet for all he cared. But they're taking this at Aziraphale's pace, and there' a level of patience that must be had for this. And with Aziraphale's hand on his skin, touching him under the fabric of his trousers, he can certain take the anticipation.

Crowley has never considered himself a gentle person. A sweet person. Those are words that aren't associated with demons, or the sort of person that Crowley has always affected himself to be. But he would be that sort of person for Aziraphale. He would touch him as sweetly or as gently as the angel would want. He lets his hand run gently down the angel's back, between his shoulderblades where his wings would be.

He kisses Aziraphale again, and this time gently nibbles against the angel's lower lip. A gentle bite, a soft bite. Something to offer a little teasing.

Crowley might not consider himself those things, but Aziraphale has known the sweetness there is to him for a very long time. The kindness and the gentleness that he, by what is said, should not have. Perhaps by virtue of how long they've known each other. Perhaps thanks to all those late night drinks in the bookshop, all those lunches, all those meetings in the park. Perhaps it was all the things they could never say, that bubbled right under the surface. Regardless, he's known it to be true.

The angel arches his back slightly, once again along with Crowley's hand, reacting, feeling the temptation to expose his wings, a true part of his essence, but...no. Not yet, anyway. He does consider it, but he waits. He asks him to wait.

A soft breath against Crowley's lips when he feels the teasing bite. Still so gentle, he thinks, fondly so. And he takes the moment to push down his trousers, which takes a bit more effort by just how closely they're hugging against his skin. A couple more sweet, small kisses are given, before he has to pull away to actually get rid of the last barrier between them.

Normally, Crowley loves his tight trousers. They're fashionable, they're always in style, and they make temptations an absolute breeze. In this exact moment, he could curse them, because they mean he has to properly wriggle his way out of his trousers in a fairly undignified fashion in order to lie on the bed fully naked with Aziraphale.

Well, what's a moment's undignified wriggling to a lifetime of fashion?

He sits up once the trousers are gone and leans in for another kiss. He slides his hand down Aziraphale's torso this time, past the black mark on his chest to his ribcage, which he carefully traces his fingers along before making it to his hip. Now that there are no clothes between them, he has so many options where to touch, places he could caress or tease to give the angel different sensations. He starts with the hip, with a careful, feather-light brush against the bone there, and follows it up by tracing his fingernails lightly against the thigh.

And here they are, the closest they could be to their natural states - others, hidden, much too intense, much too harmful, and he's grown so used to this shape, their forms -, together in more ways than one, and he can barely believe it's happening. It's so much.

The feeling of Crowley's hand gently brushing, touching, his gentleness, it makes his heart flutter, even against the dull ache, the actual physical presence. But, in all things physical, the angel's attention is clearly being pulled towards much more enjoyable matters.

It makes him want more, which is...a rather new, and rather exhilarating feeling. That he may or may not coyly share with Crowley, uncertainty included.

Crowley feels that wanting, the desire for more. He also feels the uncertainty, which brings on it a layer of nervousness on Crowley's part. He can't just seduce Aziraphale and move directly into touching him or making love to him, that might do more to scare him away than anything else. And----careful moment of pause for the fact that Crowley just thought of the whole business as "making love", which should have made him cringe to even think of a term like that, much less as something he'd want to do.

But more. Crowley can do more.

He moves to push the angel back onto the bed and lean over him. He looks down at the angel in this position, then leans down to press his lips to his throat.

He trusts Crowley, for what it's worth. It doesn't mean thinking there can't be mistakes, missteps. No, he trusts him to read cues and accept requests, a true form of trust that considers the other person as not being perfect, but as trying.

And it's with that trust, so carefully cultivated for so very long, that Aziraphale lays back on the bed and closes his eyes, reveling on the feeling of Crowley's lips on his throat, their bodies pressed together, their souls intertwined.

Oh, there are romances and poetry and songs that come to mind. The eagerness that starts to win over his anxiety and he feels it crawling to the top.

A hand brushes up to the back of Crowley's head. The angel shifts carefully under him, holding onto, sharing more of his true emotions with him. Not all, not yet, but certainly more honesty than he's ever afforded before.

He presses his lips to Aziraphale's collarbone, and then to his chest, right above the black mark there. He wants to try again, he wants to see if he can heal him again---but that's for another moment, another moment of trust and giving, not for this moment. They can take care of each other as they need to, because they have each other, now.

Another kiss, this one at his sternum, and then again, at his ribcage, slowly working his way down his torso, tasting his skin.

He's reveling inside in the feeling of Aziraphale's soul entwined with his. Sliding himself against the angel, twisting him around himself. Physical intimacy and ecstasy is one thing, but something so private, so intimate, that's something humans can never do. They can never have what he has right now with Aziraphale. It is entirely theirs

He traces his lips down the angel's stomach, to rest just above his hips. He moves his lips to his hipbone to kiss, and then the other, before looking up, as if asking for permission.

He wants to cover the demon with feelings of love and protection. Now that he can, the conflicting between the instinct to pull back and the want to reach I'm gets all the more intense, but, judging by where they're standing, it looks like there's a clear winner.

The angel feels Crowleys lips trace down his body, each one a whole new sensation, many of those tonight, and he bites his lip slightly. There are quiet breaths, there is the wondering, easily drowned out the moment a new kiss is pressed against his skin.

He looks down at him, flushed, shifting his legs ever so faintly. When he can't say it, he shows him, yes, with all the other parts of it, the not knowing, the this is new, with even the I Love Yous, he shows it all, but the permission is granted.

Oh, Hell, but Aziraphale is beautiful like this. Face flushed, looking down at him while he's kissing all over his body. Talk about fulfilled fantasies that Crowley never actually expected would end up happening.

He thinks that he can't give back to Aziraphale the emotions he's offered. After all, it's not in a demon's nature to know protection---but Crowley is often protective. It's not in a demon's nature to love or care, and Crowley does both, to his own annoyance. He offers the sensations back to the angel, giving them back to him along with a shot of his own demonic feelings: The enjoyment of desire. The fulfillment in touch and taste of another. He imagines it's something that Aziraphale has never felt before, certainly not this way, and he slides it into the sensations he gives him.

As he does, he presses his lips to the angel's shaft, then traces his tongue down it.

The angel shudders and gasps, letting his head fall back on the back and bringing a hand up to cover his mouth.

It's like a shot of something strong, altogether, the physical and non-physical sensations that aren't necessarily unknown, in theory, but less so in practice. Even less so, of course, with the person currently sharing them with him, which brings on its own set of enhancements to how it all feels.

A spike of surprise is what comes through, like static of when two charged things touch together. But it's not a negative thing, no, and the feeling pleasure echoes behind the sensation. For as much as he doesn't hold particular expectations moving forward, that doesn't mean that he's not curious to see where they end up.

Not that it's really particularly mysterious. And maybe it's a complete lie, when it comes to expectations. There's some eagerness right there, and it doesn't hide quite so well that it can't be noticed.

Crowley feels that eagerness and rides alongside it, tracing his tongue back up the angel's shaft before wrapping his lips around it, bringing it into his mouth. He could be more careful, he thinks. He could move a little slower, kiss more of Aziraphale's body, take his time. But there's really only so much patience that he has, really. And they've been waiting a very long time.

He wants to share more with the angel. He can give him all of his love, all of the time he's wanted and waited, but that doesn't seem like enough. He wants to give him more, give him more of his emotions, slide things against him, share things the angel hasn't felt before. The thrill of driving down an open road 60 over the speed limit, the danger in meeting a lover one is not supposed to have.

But in a way, that last one, is that so far away from what they have now? A liaison between them, two lovers who are definitely not meant to be together but love each other despite it? There is a thrill to that, even if it comes with the heartbreak that they won't ever have the peace they want.

Two lovers that aren't meant to be together. Two lovers against the world. How many stories like that has he read over the centuries? He's entirely lost count. But there's something so stereotypically sweet about that. Such a cliché, overall, but the kind that even the most critical minds often fall into a appreciating, even if only secretly.

His breathes are muffled by his fingers, and his legs are tense and somewhat restless, the warm sensation of Crowley's mouth around him making him shudder and grip his free hand on the covers. More muffled breaths, face flushed and bright, and he opens his eyes slightly to look down at the demon.

He's losing track of where the physical sensations end and the emotional ones begin, the feelings they're sharing, as they're threatening to blend in together. Would that be so bad? Certainly not, but he's trying to keep up.

There's a vibration to the feelings he shares, a gentle buzzing now. He tries to share...stories. No specific ones, just the enjoyment of adventures and dramas and romances within your mind. The exhilarating feeling of endless possibility in nothing but sound from something or symbols on a surface, no need for magic. The idea of art and creation. The excitement in things that just are. Perhaps not quite as exciting as what Crowley shares, but he may be excused for being somewhat distracted.

Crowley feels the slide of stories across his soul. The feelings of art, creation. Whole, pure, artistic. Something so uniquely Aziraphale that the demon can't help but shudder at their perfection. He wouldn't expect something thrilling and sinful from the angel, he'd expect something that would get his blood pumping from emotion and heart instead, and he isn't at all disappointed. Possibility. That's what he feels from the angel's sharing. Giving to him the endless possibility of a story.

What kind of a story do they share? 6000 years of friendship? Of loving? Of wondering and staring and longing? What sort of possibility do they have now, making love in a small flat in Japan? What does it mean for the world? Probably nothing for the whole universe, but it means everything to Crowley. He loves this moment, and he expresses his pleasure at the angel's choice through his emotions. He shares his thrill at the stories back to him.

Meanwhile, he lowers his head, slowly working himself up and down over the angel's shaft, tracing his tongue as he works his mouth. He could share a few sinful stories of his own this way, but it's a bit better to just share what he knows. And, after all, the demon's tongue might not be forked, exactly, but it does know what it's doing.

A muffled gasp and a grip at the covers, although it soon moves to gently dig into Crowley's fiery red hair. With his eyes closing again and his head tilting back, his mouth still covered, the angel's thoughts get hazier, more vague, but he holds onto the feeling of possibility. Of hope and continued existence. Of companionship. Of the two of them. Their story.

The stories he's read throughout the centuries can't even begin to compare. The greatest romances make even more sense, like a door was unlocked and opened to reveal the last detail he had missed. The ones with a more erotic penchant, well, that can be easily accounted for. Art and story and song. Vague feelings of exhilaration and pleasure and...relief, of a kind, now that the words and the emotions have been brought out into the light.

Hope for them, hope for their story. Even if they're the only ones reading it.

A moan comes deep in Crowley's throat at the feel of Aziraphale's hand digging into his hair. He loves to give things to Aziraphale. His time, his energy, everything he can. And if he can give this to him too, well, Crowley isn't about to let that moment pass by. It's how he likes to express that he cares.

He shares with Aziraphale the thrill he gets from giving. From every time he's found something that Aziraphale would want, or held a door for the angel, or been there when he needed him. That moment in the war, when he handed over the bag of books, knowing it was what the angel would want. All of that, being able to give it is as precious to him as anything. And this, this too, is just as precious.

If just a little more raunchy, really. What can he say?

What can he say, indeed. Although he clearly doesn't need to say too much about it, because he's getting no complaints from the angel.

Maybe it's selfish of him, but Aziraphale has always been good at taking what the demon offered. Little gestures, or some of bigger meaning - that moment in the war, oh, that moment stuck with him and downright terrified him at times -, moments, glances, encouragement, understanding. He doesn't believe he was always that deserving of that level of appreciation and dedication, quite the contrary, but he appreciated it all the same.

And he sure is appreciating this, by how vibrant and muddled - a contradiction, to be sure, but he's made of them - his shared feelings and his thoughts begin to get.

Good. He wants to distract Aziraphale, he wants him overwhelmed by sensation and feeling, out of his head where he's always thinking so much. Always thinking, always contemplating and overthinking things. He just wants Aziraphale to feel with him.

He traces a hand up to guide with his mouth, curling around Aziraphale's shaft as he moves up and down. It's easy, really, to touch the sensitive skin on a human body and get a reaction. It's something different to be intimate. Fucking, for what it is, is something that humans do and they do regularly. But this? What they're doing? It's different---at least to Crowley. He's never been with someone he loved. He's never loved anyone but Aziraphale. And he's feeling Aziraphale's feelings, feeling them muddle and brighten with his movements. Humans don't have that connection between them.

I will give you anything you want, he tells the angel. Just say the word.

I just want you is the fuzzy sounding answer that comes back.

He gently grips his fingers in Crowley's hair, seemingly still caring to not grip too hard, not in any way that would hurt or sting. Because of course he wouldn't. And his over hand, still over his mouth, doesn't serve to cover too much as the fingers as slightly splayed, and the angels breathes in a shaky gasp and makes quiet, restrained sounds.

Oh, Aziraphale could easily understand the anatomical aspect of it. In fact, if he was asked, he most probably could recite every detail of what a body does. A normal one, however, and theirs exist with far different limitations. But it's nice to simplify, at times.

Desire is a bit of an overwhelming feeling for him. In the usual sense, it's somewhat still alien to him. Pleasure, however, is familiar in many forms, and there are many forms at play in this moment alone. But he still tries to reach Crowley with more than that, something a bit clearer - unnecessary, to be sure, but he is who he is -, and music is what comes of it. Music, not a particular one, much like the stories. Feeling. Emotion. Losing yourself into something beautiful.

Something beautiful. And in its way, this is something beautiful. Something shared with just them. Pleasure and love and intimacy---three things that neither of them have truly partaken in through their time on Earth. Oh, Crowley has been part of temptations before, but they've always been work. Sex and desire have never just been something he's wanted, something he's wanted to share. It's different with the angel. The angel makes him feel things, makes him love things.

He could do this forever. He could finish Aziraphale off with his mouth over and over again and never stop, and that would be good enough for him. At the same time, he wants to feel more of the angel, wants to share pleasure with him, wants to be with him. With that thought in mind, he breaks away from his shaft, kissing back up his stomach to reclaim his mouth with his lips.

He shares the sensation of being inside of a lover, of claiming them as your own. He also shares the sensation of being the one claimed, the one taking in the sensation, of giving. What do you want? he thinks to the angel. Crowley would easily do either with the angel, and gladly. It's all what Aziraphale wants.

for salutosinedelectat

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

how do I type this while threading that 'ok this is smut but thats not what it means here BUT'

A++ you did just fine

no subject

no subject