sauntered_downward | for salutosinedelectat

Crowley could really care less what attributes Aziraphale gives himself----either, both, neither, as long as they're connected, he's comfortable with it. So long as Aziraphale is attached to whatever is or isn't there, Crowley is on board. Having something to work with makes it a bit easier, of course, and Crowley immediately shifts his body to move his hardness against Aziraphale's newly created maleness.

He wants to share with Aziraphale, more than just the sexuality behind their touches and movements, but more of himself, in the way that humans can't. After all, they can connect, they can touch, they can feel each other. Why not share both? And he has so much he wants to feel from Aziraphale, so much he wants to know about him. Again, he's a bit greedy.

He cups Aziraphale's face as they kiss, and shares his desires. Physical, touch, and to know him, to share with him.

Another muffled sound, right into their kiss, soft, yearning, feeling Crowley press himself up against him, feeling his request for that connection, for that sharing, and it's almost scary, almost overwhelming, without quite breaching that threshold, at least not yet.

He hears him, he hears him, and he shows him so, thinking about, showing him how much he loves him, how much he appreciates him, how much he appreciates all his presence, his protectiveness, all of his efforts in keeping the angel as well as he could. He shares, now, he shares all of the things he couldn't share, all of the things he couldn't even admit to himself.

And a touch, to his side, down to his waist, gently tracing his fingers along the belt until they brush on the skin bellow Crowley's belly. He doesn't mind being more forward now, that he's only leveling the field, as it were. A silent request of his own.

Crowley lets out a gasp at the sudden wave of Aziraphale coming over him. The feeling of love and appreciation, all of the things Aziraphale is giving to him. He takes it in greedily, pulling it in and begging for more. At the same time, he gives his adoration for Aziraphale, 6000 years of longing and love, the sensation of watching him and desiring affection. Being at arm's length has not always been easy---sometimes Crowley felt like he'd rather be a million miles away than be so close to Aziraphale and never be able to touch him, never be able to ask him if he loved him in return.

Now they have this.

He lifts his hips in response to Aziraphale's hand on his belly. Crowley is a lot of things, and responsive is one of them.

There's some guilt that comes along with facing how long Crowley had desired something more out of their friendship. Aziraphale had dared to acknowledge it back in the late 60s, with much struggle and much pain, much fear and worry, and it had all been an entirely unpleasant experience. For both, he realizes know, quite obviously, but there was nothing he could have done then. He thinks. He thought.

But if he could go back - if he could go back to so many different times, he would have done things differently. He would have been kinder. He would have been braver. But, perhaps, different paths would not have brought them here.

He wishes, he hopes, this was worth it in the end.

But he doesn't share that in detail - the guilt is there whether he wants it to be or not, and Crowley deserves that acknowledgement too, in the very least. After everything.

But the affection he craves, the love Aziraphale's been keeping deep down, it's there, and it's all over him.

A couple more kisses and he blindly tries to work his belt open. It's not exactly a common shape, snake head and all, so he has to fuss with it for a moment, but when he does get it open, he can't resist brushing his hand up towards Crowley's stomach again, feeling the skin, feeling how he responds.

Crowley can feel the guilt and it doesn't make sense----why guilt? Really, it's Crowley who should feel guilty. After all, Aziraphale was offering him something beautiful and wonderful, their friendship. Was it really Aziraphale's fault that Crowley felt so much more for so long? He remembers the night in the car in the 1960's, when Aziraphale had told him he moved too fast, and that was the first time, the very first time, that Crowley had ever felt like it wasn't fair. How had he moved too fast, after 6000 years? How could he move any slower? And then, followed it up with another emotion---no, really, how could he move slower, because he would, for Aziraphale.

He feels the angel fumble a bit with his belt, and then move his hand back up to his stomach. He wants to just take his hand and move it back where he wants it, but that's not how this works. Crowley has become very good at waiting as long as it takes.

And it's not always painful, waiting. He shares with Aziraphale some of the delights he felt in longing. In wanting. In watching Aziraphale secretly while he was drinking or looking out a window, in delighting in his presence in secret. While never as fulfilling as being in his arms, there's something decidedly romantic in it, and Crowley reveled in it.

Aziraphale didn't so much offer him friendship as Crowley reached out for it. It had been a mindless offer in the beginning, a delight in the middle, a necessity by the end. A kind of relationship they both necessitated, someone to relate to, someone to understand, even if they were different people, they at least had that.

More of Crowley's revelations, and it's hard not to feel a little exposed, a little embarrassed, but not unpleasant. To know that he had been wanted in such a way, the romance of it all, it's somewhat...flattering. Once again, it's hard to tell where the limits of Aziraphale's observations lied, where the denial and distraction began. But the parts of it that are not regrettable, they feel like poetry. They feel like a song.

And Crowley doesn't need to wait for too long on the physical melody that accompanies this, as Aziraphale's hand moves back down and he has to pull away from the kiss for a moment, finishing up with the belt and moving along to his trousers. He's red, fumbling and embarrassed, but keeping quiet for now- A hand moves along the top of Crowley's thigh, over the fabric, and he looks at the demon for direction.

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.

for salutosinedelectat

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