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.

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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.

He briefly opens his eyes as Crowley changes position, but as soon as the demon is within reach. The angel wraps his arms around him, holds onto him, with a polite fervor.

Oh, he wouldn't have thought they would share a night like this. There are many moments he hoped for when he let himself think about them. But this feeling, the connection, this whole entire time where the rest of the world doesn't exist. Oh, he didn't expect that, he never expected that.

There's a faint needy sound into the kiss. An eagerness he hopes, hopes is not too unbecoming. Which clearly means he's still thinking more than he should be.

He needs some time to think about the question, the suggestion. Not too long, however, just floating through different sensations in that very moment, Crowley's body against him, the kissing, the tingling sensation all over his body, the spinning in his mind. But eventually he does answer, he wants to be claimed, he was to give, he wants to feel him and he wants to keep sharing his love.

Crowley moans against Aziraphale's mouth at the reply. He wants that, too. He wants to claim the angel, to be inside of him, to hold him and to love him. He tumbles into Aziraphale's eagerness, mirroring it with his own. He has wanted this, longed for it, for so long.

He slides his hand back down, tracing it over the curve of the angel's arse. So much time wasted, and he doesn't want another to go by, but he also wants to take his time. One moment at a time, one sensation at a time. He traces his hand over his arse, then back over the back of his thigh, before moving up between his legs, carefully.

The feeling of Crowley's hands on his body, his lips against his skin, everything else - that wasn't something he'd really thought about much, if one was entirely honest. Physical demonstrations of affection weren't something that alien in concept, as they had certainly spent enough time among mortals and he's read his fair share of romance novels, but none of that really prepared him for the feeling of the real thing. Where it's more than just the touch. Than just the kisses, just the breaths.

He pulls in a breath as he feels the hand against his skin, over his backside, on the back of his thigh, feeling himself hold that breath the closer his hand gets. He spreads his legs slightly in response, arms around Crowley's neck, nosing gently at his face and pressing little kisses on his lips.

Crowley smiles against Aziraphale's gentle kisses. The sheer sweetness of the angel, of his gestures, of his love. Should've expected it, really. Aziraphale is an angel, after all. Sure, he's a bit of a bastard, but he's definitely got too much good in him to be anything but totally gentle and loving in a moment like this. That gives Crowley the responsibility to lead the way into temptation, into the more debauched of the ways to share in romance.

It is a responsibility he takes on gladly.

He moves his hand down as Aziraphale spreads his legs, and presses a finger against Aziraphale's opening. A thought makes it instantly just a little slick, and he gives it a gentle push inside. He moves slow, careful, cautious, taking in Aziraphale's every response before moving forward.

Sweetness and care and nerves and wanting-- well, that one probably shouldn't be included, but it's rather difficult to think so when they're wrapped together in much more than an embrace.

At the feeling of Crowley's finger, he shudders and quietly gasps against his lips, hunching his shoulders up slightly, holding him tighter. A lot of it is nerves, eagerness, the novelty of it all, and who he's with. He's tense, but that's by nature, really.

Crowley moves his hand, sliding his finger in and out, curling it slightly to change where the pressure touches the angel inside. So much wanting, but he won't move too fast, not now. No, they have time. They have all night. They have forever.

Aziraphale gasps against his mouth, and Crowley claims his lips again, slipping his tongue in to trace against his. He sends through his own wanting, sends through his feelings of lust, of desire, of need. How much he wants Aziraphale in this moment. With his free hand he cups the angel's face, holding him close.

It's all so much at once, before he knows it, even though there's ways to go. The feeling of Crowley inside him, the taste of him, the want, the need, the lust, oh. If he's already feeling like this, he can only wonder what's to come.

He holds the demon as close as he can, any sounds that dare escape him muffled by their kisses. His thoughts, his emotions, bright but edgeless, swirl all around each other, taking in what Crowley offers, crashing in gently like waves on a shore. He's not used to wanting, not in this way. Longing, pinning, that was all there for a long time, but he never quite thought he'd get here.

One finger, sliding slowly in and out. And then he presses two, curling them slightly, stretching, testing the waters. He could, in theory, just make Aziraphale prepared for him and claim him immediately. But there's something wonderful in moving slow. In taking this one step at a time. In prolonging the wanting.

He breaks the kiss and presses his lips to the angel's neck again. Finding the sensitive areas along his throat to kiss, to taste. There is so much of him yet to discover.

"I love you," he murmurs against his ear. The words again. Whispered, spoken in secret. Their own violation against the world that hates them.

In all truth, the whole situation is entirely unnecessary. The preparation, the effort, it's not really natural to their constitutions to begin with. Which serves only to amplify its meaning, the emotions it invoques, the pleasure it creatures, physical or otherwise. They've always done a lot of incredibly unnecessary things. And they'll keep on doing them, because that's where happiness and feeling lie.

The angel tilts his head back slightly, moving along with the demon. The words make him pull in a breath and grip his fingers wherever they lay on Crowley's back and his shoulders. This might become his favorite part of their story: intertwined in an intimate embrace, pure and burning and bright, declaring their love against all that would dare destroy it, out there outside the silence.

He turns his head to meet him again, pressing his lips to Crowley's jaw, cheekbone, wherever he can reach hopefully forgiven for the moments when he can't help but to shudder, and whispers back, with just a bit of a contained struggle and bated breath.

"I love you too."

Crowley lets out a quiet moan at the feel of the angel's lips against his skin, at the sound of his words. He's waited so long to be able to say these words, to hear them, that it feels like he's dreaming, with only the feel of Aziraphale's breath and lips against his skin holding him into place in the real world.

He slides his two fingers in, curling them, moving them in and out. He wants to give sensation even as he prepares the angel's corporation. He wants what he's always wanted: to make Aziraphale feel good, to feel pleasure in everything he does. He's spent countless days just watching him in indulge in food or drink and felt nothing but pleasure at the sight of him. Now, he watches the angel's face as he touches him, moves for him.

The angel pulls in his breath in a gasp, arching his shoulders and holding Crowley tighter, closer. For all that this is, he's still somewhat reserved in his movements, his sounds, biting his lip, shaking with the effort of trying to keep mostly still. But his mind moves differently, reaching and pulling and swimming, almost dancing, almost music, taking in all the emotions and wordless thoughts Crowley can give him.

A quiet, needy sound, and he pulls on him. Opens his eyes just barely, meeting Crowley's, beckoning him.

Crowley's gaze meets the angel's and he gives him something that all demons know: a temptation. He tempts him with his gaze, with his body, with his fingers. He shares with him the sinful desire of lust and the want of touch. It probably isn't fair, sharing that with him right now, while they're in the middle of all of this, but he is so very tempted by the beckoning look in Aziraphale's eyes, he doesn't know what else to give him.

Want it. I'll give it to you. He croons to Aziraphale's mind.

He slips a third finger to join the first two in their movements.

It isn't fair, no, when he is already in the verge of being overwhelmed, not by the act, but everything else that comes with it. A temptation is hardly necessary, but it piles up with all else, makes him shudder, makes his thoughts vibrate.

He does want, and it's almost too much. He beckons and reaches, and, clearly, is not about the push back against the temptation. Physically, he arches, and the mutters his name.

"Crowley--"

for salutosinedelectat

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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

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Tops That Cry: The Anthony J Crowley Story

pls dont cry, crowley, he will be very concerned

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