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Aziraphale’s fucking up into him, small pants of exertion brushing over the pale of Crowley’s chest.
Crowley quite likes this, he thinks, looking down at Aziraphale as he thrusts ceaselessly. He lets out a content sigh as Aziraphale tightens the grip on Crawley’s hips, bending his spine a little to extricate an airy gasp from his angel.
Speaking of, Aziraphale’s hair is damp and sticking to his forehead, his trousers a plastered shroud pooling just above his knees. Crowley isn’t wearing any clothes, and the contrast between them— Aziraphale, fully dressed save the unbuckled trousers and exposed, fat throbbing of his cock; Crowley, whose own tight black attire, save his glasses, had been miracled away of his own volition as soon as things grew heated — shouldn’t be as intensely vulgar as it is.
“Crowley,” Whispers Aziraphale, right in his ear and a little impatient. Crowley isn’t paying attention. “Crowley!” There comes the slight indignation, and Crowley pretends to open his eyes to whisper back,
“What now?” There’s no real reason for them to be whispering, honestly, they’re alone in the room, Aziraphale’s bedroom that he almost never uses except for maybe extra storage for misbehaving books in need of a time-out.
“I want to- Please, Crowley.” And what could that mean?
At the expression of mild confusion on Crowley’s face, somehow Aziraphale blushes an even deeper red. He gestures at his own visage with one hand, and oh, those were temptress’ eyes. The worst kind of pity stare. Puppy-dog.
“I’m not taking these off,” Crowley protests, through a barely hidden groan (because through this Aziraphale still hasn’t stopped that basically sinful roll of his hips that should be illegal-) because, “They’re part of my aesthetic.” Aziraphale chuckles at this, even as a bead of sweat runs down his neck. Crowley wants to lean forward and lick it away, so he does, then smirks at the slight tremble that wracks Aziraphale’s frame. And the deeper fuck Aziraphale rewards that particular motion with almost makes him want to keen, so it was well worth it.
But Aziraphale is nothing but stubborn.
“Please, my dear boy.” And his breath is so quick, light, fond, and the hand which was hovering around his face reaches up, and Crowley very carefully does not move.
The hand rests on his shoulder, sexless, understanding. Then pushes down, accompanied rather wonderfully with a very dramatic snap of Aziraphale’s hips, and Crowley nearly swallows his tongue.
“Why d’you even want to see, anyway?” Crowley manages to push out, strained. And Aziraphale simply smiles, in a knowing way that in any other circumstance would leave Crowley annoyed and wanting to stalk away to brood for a while.
(He wouldn’t. Go away, for long or far, that is. Even Aziraphale, dense and stupid as he is, knows Crowley can only have him out of sight for so long before he gets twitchy.)
Aziraphale grinds hard, tightens the hand on Crowley’s hip and delights at the stuttered breath it reaps. Crowley likes to be quiet, Aziraphale knows, he barely lets himself feel anything too deeply out of some fear it would consume him, but Aziraphale knows something else, too.
“I’ll tell you if you let me.” He leans over the small distance between them, and Crowley shivers slightly as he kisses one of his tattoos plainly.
Something quite amusing and darling about Crowley was that he could take the most salacious acts without more than a slightly quickened breath, but it was the senselessly vanilla, truly loving ones that really left him gasping like a newly-wed virgin.
So Aziraphale, earnestly just trying to get the two of them off, wholly concerned with them both achieving pleasure? Had Crowley’s toes curling and the heart of this infernal body beating like a slap to the face.
Crowley grits his teeth, muttering out, “F- Fine.”
And the gentle, careful way Aziraphale reaches to tuck the glasses away off his face shouldn’t be so sweet. On reflex, Crowley avoids Aziraphale’s gaze, waiting for the sound of disgust at the unholy articles.
There’s not a sound. Neither angel nor demon move.
Then, Aziraphale speaks. It’s a quiet comment, clearly the first thing that came to mind if the absent tonality is anything to go by.
“Beautiful.”
A pitifully desperate whine is heard in the room and it takes a few seconds of shock to realise that it came from Crowley himself. His eyes were cursed things, flaming hot and cold at the same time and so, so inhuman, just another stark contrast to show how he’s imbued with Satan’s corrosive power. Yes, they were his signature, and he hated it.
But here Aziraphale was, looking with such warmth. And he has the audacity to look surprised at how Crowley is still frozen in shock.
Aziraphale starts up again, faster, with a smile that looks too innocent to be the real deal, and Crowley’s voice can’t help but come out in pathetic keens and cries. “Silly demon,” Aziraphale says, oh so confident, “What did you think I was going to say?” And Crowley would respond, if he could, with something snarky to cover his insecurity, but the words don’t seem to want to leave him. Any words, actually, he’s too busy trying to catch up to where Aziraphale dropped the bomb, so to speak. “Pretty, pretty thing, don’t you know just how lovely you are?”
He keeps saying these... these things, and Crowley’s insolent heart may give out. Tears prick his eyes and the undeniable, immortal fondness he has for Aziraphale makes itself bold and at home inside Crowley’s mind again. He tries to speak, only once, because he can feel it building and building and he knows he’s not going to be able to stop it.
“Angel,” Crowley gasps, interrupting himself with a sharp cry, and if he wasn’t so secure in Aziraphale’s lap he’s quite certain he would have fallen to the floor, so unsteady did he feel. He’s going to make him... “You’re going to-“
Aziraphale, that bastard, somehow speeds up, angle just right, one hand wetly jacking his prick, the other at his leg and with so much enthusiasm Crowley knows he’s going to have to miracle away the bruises, if the unyielding grip he has on Crowley’s thigh is anything to go by. (Human bodies, even possessed with celestial beings as they were, could only take so much.) And Crowley is feeling so much and Aziraphale doesn’t care about his eyes because Aziraphale loves him and them and thinks they’re beautiful and Crowley simply can’t take the intensity of all this, all at once-
Crowley stops breathing for a full thirty seconds as he comes, vision threatening to white out and he barely notices Aziraphale’s thrusts stumbling and just pulling Crowley tight to his chest, before stilling. Only just sees Aziraphale miracle away the moisture, the mess and his own clothes from the two of them before laying them down.
The glasses lie, balanced and reflecting, on the bedside table, and he acknowledges them faintly before turning over with a weary groan, to face Aziraphale as he sinks into sleep.
Aziraphale’s kiss is all Crowley knows before he finally goes under.