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It's only two weeks after Armageddon when Aziraphale finds two feathers dotting the floor of the backroom.
The problem is that, for all the laws of physics that he knows the world to abide by, he shouldn't be able to see any part of Crowley’s wings floating about like loose and torn pages from a discarded book. No, their wings live in another plane, constrained by metaphysics and reality. Unless Crowley's wished it so, his feathers should remain unseen. Tucked away and hidden.
The demon has never been the sort to flaunt any part of his true form. Aziraphale remembers, with stark clarity, every occasion in which he has been granted the gift of a glimpse of a stretch of scales on skin or yellow slitted eyes. As much as Crowley enjoys calling attention to the lovely lines of his corporation, with his tight jeans and shirts, Aziraphale knows he's less than inclined to bare the core of him, to make himself vulnerable in any way that truly matters. Crowley's always been eye-catching, by his own design. But recently Aziraphale has finally understood that the demon's desire to be seen, to be admired in a pure physical form, is a seeping desire from within, far more poignant, that he didn't quite know how to handle.
Lips, hair, hips, and hands were on the table. He, himself , was off limits.
So, unless Crowley had decided to start tugging his wings into this dimension as a habit, there shouldn't have been stray feathers visibly lying around.
Unless.
Unless Crowley can't control their falling any longer, for some unknown reason.
Crowley's still lounging on the sofa, spine a bit stiffer than usual, while Aziraphale watches him, sitting in front of him. There's a glass of wine dangling from Crowley's fingers and his sunglasses have slid an inch down his nose.
They're drifting closer, Aziraphale can tell. Bodies touching easily, a rub of thumb while passing the wine bottle, a flick of yellow-gold eyes fixed on Aziraphale's face over the line of shaded glasses.
Aziraphale doesn't know what Crowley is expecting. Or if perhaps he's letting Aziraphale cross the final bridge. Catch up with him at his own pace, on his own terms, never pushing. Afraid, perhaps, that Aziraphale might decide to keep them on that tightrope of never acknowledging their closeness, as he's done in the past.
The idea is heartbreaking. And Aziraphale is still trying to work out a way to bring them together that doesn't feel subpar. That doesn't shape as a deflated momentum to six thousand years of shared yearning. To gently tease out of their lives the notion of fear, of impossibility.
Because he loves Crowley's keen and curious parts without limit, every shade of wicked humour. And for the first time, when they finally decide to touch, to break apart their barriers, Aziraphale wants it to be perfect, slow, like a winter sunrise. For the warm drag of their fingers on each other to leave no doubt they're on their own side, that they belong to each other.
To ask if Crowley might need any help is Aziraphale's duty. He's his to guard and take care of.
"Crowley?" He says it softly, trying not to jostle Crowley out of his good mood, even though Aziraphale himself is holding his own glass a bit harder than usual.
"Yeah, angel?"
"Is… is everything alright?"
Arching forward, Crowley's face furls into a frown. "What? What sort of question is that? Is what alright?"
Aziraphale sets his glass aside, leans just so over the gap between them. "... You. Are you alright?"
"Of course, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?" Crowley grates a swallow, pushing his shades back up into place. "Aren't you seeing me right here?"
Silly serpent. After all these years he still thinks he can fool Aziraphale, throw him off. He might be a demon, but lying is a thing Crowley has never excelled at: even with his eyes covered, his face is too open, too honest to his heart, too expressive to hide his flush, the lines of his frown and the turn of his mouth. A demon that has always been a raw nerve of emotion. And Aziraphale has millenia of experience in reading him, has stored a vademecum of gestures in his mind from all the long years he's so selfishly admired him. Right now, Crowley's whole body is a curved line, trying to pull away from Aziraphale's attention, self-effacing. As if, right at this moment, he didn't want to attract Aziraphale's eyes.
Which, on Crowley, is a tell bigger than the oceans.
Aziraphale knows him. Has tucked into his mind memories of a wounded Crowley in the 14th Century, trying to shy away from Aziraphale's eyes. Can see, as if it was yesterday, the hidden length of Crowley's tail when they bumped into each other in the Brocéliand forest and he'd had trouble shifting back entirely, coiling away:
M' fine, angel, nothing to worry about. Nothing that you have to concern yourself over.
Always wanting to spare Aziraphale any trouble.
Which is what strengthens his decision to probe, to coax the truth into the spotlight. Because it is about time Crowley understood that what lies behind them is a chapter already closed. That Aziraphale might have been forced to ignore Crowley's problems in the past, but now there's no reason to pull back, to avoid giving himself entirely. He can tell Crowley that any burden is theirs to share - to face together.
That their side isn't only a noun, stagnant, but a verb that moves to action.
"Well, yes, I'm seeing you," Aziraphale answers, breathes softly, "… and yet, I’m not really, am I?"
Crowley's impossible brows curve even more sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?" His voice skids up in a broken gasp that tails his question.
"lt means exactly that. That I'm not seeing all of you."
The second after Aziraphale's words are out, the air tenses in the space around them, curls and flicks full of electricity. Crowley's shoulders hunch and rise, a tongue sweeping nervously over pink damp lips. His mouth parts just barely, a breathy gasp to his inhale.
"Aziraphale, I don't know if you realise what you're saying…" He slides closer to the edge of the sofa, as if wanting to leave, to escape. "How much have you drunk?"
Aziraphale smiles, tries to be calm. "I'm quite sober, dear. And my question is perfectly normal."
"Perfectly normal." Crowley scoffs, but it's reedy, broken into splinters. "You're asking me about… about all my other bits, and you think that's perfectly normal." His face twists in a scowl that seems to be hastily covered fear. "What's gotten into you?"
If he gives Crowley a moment, Aziraphale knows the demon will leave. Confrontation about his own private difficulties is a sure-fire way to push him away. Afraid, perhaps that peeling his layers would somehow show Aziraphale how unworthy he is of time and effort.
How blind his demon can be.
This time Aziraphale is determined. The space between them pulses with promises. And in the past, it would have felt daunting to bridge those last inches, but Aziraphale has lived inside Crowley for a day, has seen the world through his lovely golden eyes, has felt the heat of the sun on his skin, from within. Greedily, Aziraphale has shifted and pushed against the barriers of Crowley's body, made it his for hours.
It's easy, easier, to find his way back to the angles and lines of Crowley. Like the sea finding its own horizon.
Without hesitation, Aziraphale slips from his chair, to his knees, wedges his body between Crowley's open thighs, curls warm hands around the knobby roundness of Crowley's knees. Tries not to tremble too badly.
Crowley's breath flows out, rasping. He looks down.
Aziraphale sighs. "Dear, you have me worried ."
"What?"
With infinite care, Aziraphale lifts the two feathers from his floor, lines them up neatly.
Crowley tips his head down to stare at the feathers. His glasses fall and clatter into his lap, as if forgotten by the occult power that held them in their wobbly place until seconds ago.
When he swipes his gaze back to Aziraphale, his eyes are all yellow-gold, completely on display.
"I found them on my floor," Aziraphale explains, "and I thought… You'd never-"
The sound Crowley makes is full of defeat. "Fuck."
"Oh, my dear, what is it? What are you not telling me?" The hand Aziraphale has still on Crowley's knee, flexes. "More importantly, why aren't you telling me?"
Crowley makes an angry sound in his chest. "'Cause it isn't your-"
Aziraphale lifts a hand and curves it around the sharp, flushed cut of Crowley's jaw, silencing the words that are forming. "It is. Everything about you is mine. And I'm sorry it has taken me so long to say it, to tell you that I'm more than ready for us to thread ourselves together. To make our side a place: your bed, or mine, or neither - perhaps this room. Whatever it is, that will be ours. For us together."
Aziraphale can feel the lock of Crowley's jaw under his fingertips, his own heart beating in a flurry. He seems thrown off balance, but his pupils widen, and the rosy splash of colour works its way down the long stretch of his throat. For a moment, Crowley only stares, as if surprised or struck down.
He seems to squirm, hips shifting on the sofa. "Nngh. You can't- can't say things like that. You can't-"
"Tell me, darling." Aziraphale allows his other hand to squeeze Crowley's knee. "What is happening? How can I help?"
Crowley blinks once, lets his breath flare out in a woosh. He squeezes his eyes shut, and when he speaks, his voice is strained. "It's- s'a molt." He swallows hard, wrenches his eyes open. "First in three hundred years. ‘S come all brutal and I've been- I've been stomping it down, because I can't afford to let my guard down now. Not when Hell could use it to reach you. To harm you."
Aziraphale's throat feels raw, hot, his chest tight with words unsaid. He knows he couldn't love Crowley more even if he wanted. Every piece of his heart, every old bend and dark corner, every good and bad and insufficient part of his heart has always belonged to Crowley. Gentle, selfless Crowley who has never deserved anything but Aziraphale's entire adoration.
And this first voicing of Crowley's reasons feels like the first knocked piece of a line of dominos, that leaves Aziraphale gasping, breath shuddery, and hands eager to touch his demon.
"Crowley." Aziraphale's hand rises from Crowley's knee to the other side of his face. "A molt- you need to rest! To give your corporation a breather."
"S' fine. I can-"
"No, you most certainly can't handle this alone." He's already moving to sit next to Crowley, hands never leaving him. It feels necessary to explain, to spread his own heart on the table. " Darling . For all the years you've spent taking care of us, of me, let me take care of you this once."
Crowley's mouth falls open in a way that Aziraphale craves to feel against his own. " Aziraphale ."
"You often forget I'm a principality. That my first mission was to guard." He scoots closer to Crowley, folds fingers around one of Crowley's hands, brings it to his lips and kisses the hairy brush of the knuckles. Feels the quivery shake of Crowley's body. "And you, darling, you're mine to guard. To cherish, now."
"It’s asking too much of you, angel," Crowley answers, shaking his head.
"You aren't asking. I'm offering. Hoping you'll accept me."
"It’ll take days," Crowley insists, but there's a faint curl to his mouth. The beginning of a smile. "Maybe a week."
Stubborn, wonderful Crowley, warm in Aziraphale's hands, and soft in his heart.
"Crowley, I would give you aeons ."
To tip his head and push his mouth to Crowley's feels like being cut apart at his most honest and selfish and wanting. He's been dreaming about kissing Crowley for longer that he can admit. Has imagined the luscious heat of those lips, the thready noises Crowley would make, the wrestling tug of those hands on his waist, the wet nudge of his own tongue reaching to taste Crowley. To savour him and map out his shape. To know him in a way Aziraphale hasn't before.
Dreams don't hold a candle to their new reality.
" Angel ." Crowley puffs a hot swish of air, pink-cheeked and mouth glistening, pupils a spill of ink on gold.
"Come with me, my dear."
Aziraphale hasn't experienced a molt in more than two millennia. Angels didn't go through the bothersome process of molting as often as demons did, probably due to their nature. But he remembers that it really wore him out, made him feel sore and uncomfortable, as if a weight was attached to his primaries. Back then, hot baths had helped, and with that idea in mind Aziraphale snaps his fingers to give himself a tub wide enough for five people, then leads Crowley upstairs by the hand.
When they stop at the bathroom door, Crowley frowns, as if unsure. "What are we doing here?"
"Do you trust me?"
The little pinch in Crowley's brow eases, and he smiles. "You know I do."
"Then come inside, you picky thing, let me help you." Aziraphale pulls the door open, and guides Crowley into the spread of white tiles and gold accents. "I want to show you something."
Perhaps Aziraphale got a bit carried away. The whole bathroom has expanded to make room for the tub made of white marble, deep enough to cover a kneeling person to the waist with water. So much for home renovations. Crowley laughs, then, and Aziraphale thinks he'd destroy his whole house, a whole temple, and rebuild it anew in less than three days, in a breath, just to make it fit Crowley's needs.
"Aziraphale," Crowley turns to face him, his hand still very present in Aziraphale's, "that tub looks far too lavish and far too modern for someone who is not in the habit of indulging in a good soak."
"I brought it here just for you," Aziraphale says, seeing Crowley's face soften. "And, well. I was thinking perhaps a warm bath would help you, do you good. You could soak in, relax, take your time to- to look after your wings."
It's a perfectly kind offer and Aziraphale tries not to think about Crowley splayed in the tub, bare and beautiful, skin slick with the mist of vapour, hair shiny with water. He tries not to think on the fawn of his wings over the sides of the tub, feathers damp with humidity. Even though that's exactly why Aziraphale brought him here. And maybe, being quite honest with himself, he can admit he's hoping for it to happen, for Crowley to ease into Aziraphale's spaces as if they were his own. That he can allow himself to make Aziraphale's bookshop his home too.
Crowley visibly trembles, a shivery quaver, but he doesn't let go of Aziraphale's hand. Once he manages to speak, his voice is low and tight with yearning. "Will you stay with me while I bathe?"
Past the first rattling moment, it's so easy to ask, "Would you want me to?"
"Yeah, I do," Crowley answers, quietly.
"Then of course I will."
If watching Crowley undress had been magnetic, seeing him dip into the shallow pool of the tub is intoxicating. Aziraphale isn't sure where to fix his eyes, or if he should look at all. He'd never considered clothes much more than a statement of fashion - his own never changed much, given their corporations weren't really all that there was to them.
Crowley's nude body, though, holds an allure that Aziraphale hadn't been expecting to feel. So different from the admiring, if distant, regard he'd harbored for the human form at random. Crowley, though - the tempting smooth curve of his waist, the splay of his long neck, the soft skin of his long thighs: it's the vulnerability of a being made to be powerful, making himself pliant for Aziraphale's eyes. Aziraphale hadn't been expecting the hot, twisting clutch in his belly whilst he watched Crowley kneeling in the tub, easing his legs outwards. The desire that barges through him is entirely human, tinted by the Original Sin that Aziraphale supposes they've made theirs, embraced like a gift, through their whole time on Earth.
He stays sitting on the edge of the tub, swallowing through a dry throat, burning with anticipation.
The transparent sway of the water doesn't hide a thing. Aziraphale watches Crowley disturb the calmness of the liquid with a hand, the rippling curves breaking against the marble.
"You really warmed it up nicely," Crowley says, rough with pleasure. He leans forward, arms folded over the marble rim. The play of his back is a freckled, glistening slope Aziraphale finds devastating. Crowley tips his head to the side, staring at Aziraphale over his shoulder. "Are you staying out there? Won't you join me?"
Gorgeous thing, made to tempt even without meaning to.
But his cheeks are pink, and Aziraphale knows by the subtle stilted air beneath his words, that he's still a bit unsure. It's fair, Aziraphale supposes, while they're still testing the terrain of this new relationship around them, seeing it shift, feeling it hardening.
"Is that something you'd like me to do?" Aziraphale asks. He's never done anything remotely similar, has never wanted to.
"Aziraphale, what would you like to do?"
"I suppose…" he breathes a shiver, supposes being direct would be of value. "I suppose I’d like to share this with you. I'd like to dip into this tub and touch you if- if you'd let me, of course."
Crowley laughs high, almost fraying. "Fuck. Then c'mon in. There's never been a situation that wouldn’t have been greatly improved by your presence, angel. You should know that. And you should know there's no part of me I don't want you to touch. You can put your hands on me however you like, whenever you please."
The want in Crowley's voice leaves him breathless. He miracles his clothes back to his room, an afterthought, while Crowley whines softly.
"S' unfair I just get to see you like this while I'm all useless." His eyes, fully yellow, sclera gone, are fastened on Aziraphale. Blazing. "Angel."
Aziraphale slides down into the water, right behind Crowley. "Relax now, my darling. We have all the time in the world now." He draws his hands up and catches the warm angle of Crowley's waist, feels the muscles tensing under his palms. Aziraphale's breathing is heavier now, his arousal a pulsing distraction between his legs.
"Dirty trick to sit behind me when I'm all sore and can't turn to look at you properly," Crowley groans. "Once this whole thing goes away, I'm pinning you down to the bed to admire you as I should."
Aziraphale dares, this is theirs now, and kisses the bony curve of Crowley's shoulder. "Yes, but right now it's my turn."
There's so much of Crowley on display that Aziraphale thinks he should be the one indulging now: the gleam of his short red hair, and the moody plumpness of his bottom lip in profile. And more. He rubs hands up the divot in Crowley's spine, made more visible by the wicked arch of it, slipping them down to grope and squeeze the rise of his hips, the slope of his thighs, tracing the appealing inner curve of them where the skin is thin and tender, where the bite of his fingernails below his taint makes Crowley's legs and buttocks jolt. Aziraphale hears Crowley's thready, short noises of pleasure and he angles his hands up, allows himself to cup Crowley's arse, to grip the swell of it where his fingers dimple the skin.
This isn't sexual, hasn't been framed as a sexual thing, as much as Aziraphale wants it to be. Aziraphale ignores Crowley's heavy balls and the hard cock he bumps into when his hands finally trail down his stomach.
The water sloshes, warm and welcoming, and Aziraphale feels ravenous.
"Are you relaxing?"
"Something of the- the sort." Crowley sighs softly when Aziraphale digs thumbs beneath his shoulder blades, tests the sink of Crowley's back. "Feels good. You touching me like that."
It's wonderful to trail fingers over the newly-known flesh of someone he's loved for so long. A discovery, pages unturned in a familiar book.
"Why don't you show me your wings, darling?" Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley's back, aware of the stiff sway of his cock brushing the curve of Crowley's pert buttocks underwater.
Crowley gasps a yes. His back ripples and twists, and the air cracks with a heavy charge that Aziraphale feels like a rolling glide of electricity over his body.
The long, beautiful spread of Crowley's wings unfurls, falls resting limp over the water and the sides of the tub.
"Ah, Satan," Crowley moans. "That's good."
Aziraphale can't help threading his fingers down the feathers, splaying both his hands gently along the inky black of their span, following their downward arch. They feel blood-warm and alive, the translation of the metaphysics of their existence to reality. "I've always thought your wings were lovely, ever since the first time I saw you."
Crowley bites back a noise between clacking teeth. Aziraphale knows how difficult it is for him to accept praise. But he's determined to give him all.
"Just like the rest of you," Aziraphale follows, as he sinks and presses his mouth to the patch of Crowley's back that isn't entirely feather nor entirely skin. Crowley trembles, his wings shivering, but remains silent.
"Oh, I see now, here," Aziraphale says. Once he focuses on the wings, he can see the arch of the primaries where several feathers are missing, others of a grey, waxing colour instead of black. "Does it hurt?"
Crowley shakes his head. "Nah. Just- well. A little. Achey."
A scattering of feathers drops to the floor, dotting the white with charcoal.
"I just need time to let it do its thing," Crowley says. There's a tautness to his neck, just a pull of muscles. "You sure you don't mind? At some point, I won't be able to put them away. Will be forced to stay here."
Aziraphale threads fingers now through the warm dampness of Crowley's short hair, hears him hissing. "Darling, I told you. I intend to look after you. Bit difficult to do it if you went away, don't you think?"
Crowley hums something that sounds like okay, and his body sags into the water.
"You know?" Aziraphale can't lift his hands away, patting the flat splay of the scapulars. "Perhaps… perhaps a massage would help?"
Crowley chuckles, then bends a bit more, encouraging the hold Aziraphale has on him. "Angel, you don't have to make any excuses. Touch me if you want." He tucks his face into the fold of his elbow, says far more quietly, "Not that I've been wanting it since forever or anything."
Aziraphale laughs. It's all so easy with Crowley. As everything has been from the beginning. He miracles oil in a bottle, nothing extravagant, slicks his hands and sets it aside.
"Tell me if I hurt you," he says, feeling hot from his face down to his curling toes, "or if I pull where I shouldn't."
Crowley nods, and Aziraphale doesn't wait before sliding fingers down Crowley's very human back, relishing the long shape of it. This time, he kneads at the skin, traces thumbs back and forth following the random pattern of freckles that dots the crease of Crowley's spine.
Crowley gasps a moan. Having him soft and warm beneath him, Aziraphale tries very hard to ignore the thud of want in his pelvis, how he's swaying forward, thighs brushing on Crowley's. All of him fixed and settled in the open spread of Crowley's legs in a way that feels indecent.
"Ah, fuck . Aziraphale." It's a smoky rasp of sound. "Keep going, just like that. Please ."
Spreading sideways, Aziraphale bites his lip and shifts his fingers towards where Crowley's wings flutter and quiver with every squirming movement of his body. They're not much different from Aziraphale's own, except there's a sturdiness to them Aziraphale's don't have. And at the same time, digging into them feels like touching warm liquid, an electric current that buzzes alive. Full of raw power. Of Crowley's essence.
The thought leaves him shaking. That he can do this for his demon. That he finally has been allowed to see him at his most vulnerable.
"I never thought you'd let me see you like this," Aziraphale says. His voice is sand-rough and gasping. With a slow, gentle pull, he resettles Crowley's coverts where the molt hasn't started yet, then sinks fingers in between the spaces of the primaries.
The wings shudder, and tense, then they ease lax. Crowley whines. "How?"
It's impossible to pretend this isn't intimate. That this isn't the closest they've been in every way. That Aziraphale isn't wound tight with the desire to give Crowley absolutely everything he'd ever need.
"Needing me," he rasps.
Crowley's neck twists to the side, strands of hair falling on his forehead. When he speaks, his voice is gritty. "I didn't think you'd ever want to see me like this."
Aziraphale makes sure to push his body close against Crowley's own, where they collapse slick with oil and humidity. It's an overwhelming sensation. Warmth, pressure, a rush of joy that leaves him dizzy because it's new and entirely welcomed. His fingers sink into the thickness of the wings, inside the puffed curve of them, dragging a groan from Crowley. "Silly serpent. If that’s true, you're not as sharp as I thought."
Crowley's shoulders tilt, twitch, his hips rutting starkly on Aziraphale's cock that bumps and slides hot between his arsecheeks. "So… so harsh a judgment from an angel," he says, but his words are cracked airy and he doesn't stop moving, breath ragged.
Aziraphale bites out a moan, trying to focus on Crowley, on what's important.
He pulls back by a handbreadth, shaking, draws hands to hold Crowley's waist like a lifeline. "So sweet a sentiment from a demon."
"’M not sweet, you take that back," Crowley says, but it's lazy. He's trying to encourage Aziraphale to slide his fingertips on him once more, and Aziraphale complies. Trails hot palms down Crowley's sides, catches his hips, and Aziraphale can't help it, tucks himself in closer, rubs his own tingling mouth over the side of Crowley's neck.
Beneath the line of the water, Crowley's thighs spread wider, letting Aziraphale fit the width of his hips between them, knees sliding wet to each other.
His own carefully conceived plans to be sensible, to be selfless, are ripped wide open with each one of Crowley's shaking moans, with the way he lays himself soft, skin full of longing for anything Aziraphale wants to give him.
"Alright, not sweet then," Aziraphale says. "How about mine? Are you?"
He can feel his own borders shimmering, shivering golden, unable to cut off the way his own essence answers to Crowley's. Because he's never touched anyone else this way, has never allowed anyone else to spread themselves for him, has never felt the imperfect slot of the edges of two beings molded with different casts, but made with the same materials.
Crowley whines, curls fingers over the edge of the tub, and unfurls his own wings as open as they can be. Arches his neck to offer the side for Aziraphale to kiss, grinds his buttocks to crush Aziraphale's heavy cock against the gentle curve of his hips. An offering. "Yes, always, angel, yes, yes. Since the beginning."
And, oh. The admission rips through him. Through the parts that still are very much angel, and principality, and are streaked with the core-deep need to guard and protect.
Aziraphale can't resist it, feels his own skin burning, spread tight over the celestial pulse of him that he forces to recede. He doesn't want to risk harming Crowley in any way. His hands, though, sink into Crowley's arse, grasp there squeezing, and he ruts and rubs his cock, panting, shaft slippery with his arousal.
"Aziraphale." Crowley swallows, clicks his teeth. "You're driving me out of my mind. Please, get- get in."
Aziraphale moans at the idea, full of adoration. His fingers slip between Crowley's firm arsecheeks where he can feel the change in texture from skin to the tight furl of Crowley's anus.
"Here?" he asks, wrecked, wretched.
Crowley nods, pushes against him. "Yes, yes, yes."
Aziraphale has never done anything remotely similar to this, but he has been on Earth for 6000 years, has trudged through with a lot of people. With a hazy thought he finds his clumsy fingers wet with oil again, a slickness that the water doesn't wash away, that allows him to push a finger into Crowley. To sink inside him, feel him from within.
Aziraphale's burning.
"Oh, oh god." Crowley tips his head to the side and rests his face on his folded arms. His hips roll, take Aziraphale further in, letting him savour his exquisite tightness and heat.
Once again, it's difficult to know where to look. From Crowley's mussed hair to his bitten lip, down to the much more striking sight of his rim sucking in his finger, now wholly inside him.
"Angel, fuck, yes, yes. Give me your lovely fingers, as many as you want." Crowley keeps swaying his hips, moving, while Aziraphale stretches him, watches him open for the girth of two fingers now.
Aziraphale can be patient, he's always been patient. But he's waited for aeons, and now he can't contain the writhing, coiling heat in his stomach that makes him grab a buttock with his free hand, pull it aside just to see Crowley's tight hole twitching pink around his fingers.
"Aziraphale." Crowley's sides rise and fall with furious breathing, and Aziraphale supposes he must be the same. Flushed, sweat-drenched, arduously working breaths through tight lungs. But he can't direct any attention to anything that isn't Crowley. How beautiful he looks fucking himself on his fingers, naked and wet, wings black as ink.
"You look gorgeous like this," Aziraphale says. It comes out entirely lewd, full of lust and fondness.
Crowley breathes a laugh that shifts into a groan when Aziraphale eases his fingers out just to push three inside. The spread of that fluttering band of muscle gives way, opens for the thick penetration, leaving Crowley biting curses, spine shifting, shivering, wings moving helplessly.
Aziraphale's fingers move, thrust into Crowley, curling and slipping deep, not that he needs to do much with how the demon fucks his arse back, crying out, squashing the give of his buttocks against the sides of Aziraphale's hand.
Aziraphale's own cock is angry red and throbbing, spasming against his stomach with each spill of precome that, by now, has the shaft entirely slick. Aziraphale doesn't think he can resist any more. He's hurtling towards his own climax, scratching at a wall he's never reached with company.
There's a violent jolt of thighs, a sudden, brutal squeeze of Crowley's rim and his wings bat magnificent, tilting up, shivery. The air cracks with a deep, moaning sob dug up directly from Crowley's chest, skidding up harder, mimicking the quivering squeezes of his hole around Aziraphale's wet fingers.
It's clear, obvious, what just happened, and the realisation leaves Aziraphale clutching at his own aching prick, fizzing with arousal through the water.
"Did you- did you just-" His fingers are still sunk in Crowley's arse, parting his buttocks obscenely. Aziraphale's desire is a thing that burns, that adds pressure to his breathing. He's hard enough that his balls are pulled tight, his whole body thrumming, wavering with want.
"Yeah," Crowley nods. "Please, I need you, angel. Please ."
Skin pink and fucked open on fingers, shuddery with the aftermath of an orgasm Aziraphale just gave him.
"Darling," Aziraphale says, hoarse, sliding out trembling fingers, "who could resist you?"
There are hot starbursts in his joints, his own wings shivering and pulsing where they're resting, eager to be tugged back into this world, to mantle over Crowley.
"Hope not you," Crowley hisses, but it's taut. "C'mon, please. Give it to me, angel."
Eager enough, Crowley cants his hips, and Aziraphale guides himself inside him, moaning at the first clutch of Crowley's rim around his cockhead, before he's sinking in, lodging deep, pushing into his demon.
"Fuck." A breath. " Aziraphale . I can feel you pulsing inside me."
He must. Aziraphale is throbbing fluid, tip aching, his whole length hot and desperate. The encompassing grasp of plush heat is near blinding, and he grasps a sharp hip, still caught in the unreality that it is to find themselves joined like this. Knotted up together and adjusting to the rippling shakes of breathing, of round chest on arched back, of them both close as the whole universe said they couldn't be.
Aziraphale groans, wraps both arms around Crowley's waist, and drapes himself across him, over the tickle of vibrating, damp feathers and hot skin. He can feel each twitching, spasming clench of Crowley's rim around him, achingly tight and slick. He never thought sexual pleasure could feel so liberating, so wonderfully celestial in the way it washes over him like light. But perhaps that's all Crowley, his bitey, hissing demon who has always been Aziraphale's only constant.
"Oh, Crowley ." Aziraphale rocks his hips, feels the heavy weight of his cock spearing Crowley open, while he pushes his face into Crowley's neck, crushes sounds on his skin, feels his rushing pulse, delicately human. The smell of him is incandescent, a bonfire of ashes and earth, and Aziraphale thinks he could get lost in him without help. The noises that mix in the air are filthy, wet moans and choked off whines, and Aziraphale’s only will is to move, to bury himself to the root inside Crowley, to snap his hips until he has Crowley pressed against the edge of the tub with his arms as barrier to not harm him, Crowley's narrow hands blanching in fists, mouth so temptingly red that Aziraphale can't help but kiss him, awkward and sloppy, angle all wrong.
"You've always been perfect… perfect for me," Aziraphale says. "I love you, I love you."
Only now, Aziraphale is aware of the splashing of water over the floor while he thrusts quick and deep into Crowley, the mess they're making of the bathroom. None of that is important. It's only the tight hold of Crowley's body, his sounds, the gorgeous vulnerable spread of his wings, how Aziraphale slides a hand down to finally find the bobbing, already hard length of Crowley's cock.
"Angel, I love you, fuck, god- If you- keep doing that, I'm going to… going to…" Crowley pushes his hips back, as if wanting to sit on every inch of Aziraphale, even though he's already full of cock, stretched wide and whimpering yeses, babbling string of syllables that are supposed to be Aziraphale's name.
Aziraphale is toeing the line of surrender, has been hard and wanting since the moment he set hands on Crowley, wanting him so much he's fumbling, weak with it. He can hardly do anything but rock and push in where Crowley holds him tightly. "Don't hold back, darling, let me see you, let me see you." It's a relentless, unceasing pull that locks in Aziraphale's groin, crashes up his spine, fans out all over his pelvis, while Crowley's a noisy, quivery mess under him. "I love you, Crowley. And I want to give you everything, hold you when you can't stand, and lift you up whenever your wings won't hold you."
Crowley makes a frayed sound of hurt, and in an instant, he's an entire helpless shudder of soaked skin and wings, his cock pulsing in Aziraphale's hold, rim a wet clutch of impossible tightness. Aziraphale's own orgasm hits like a burst that splashes wildly, threads between all the parts of him that are human and even then into the ethereal parts that are not. It's the answer to a call that lives within him, how much he loves the demon in his arms, and the ruffled white shine of his own wings warp the space, pull reality apart and uncurl, curving forward with his last deep thrust.
Human and lovely, Aziraphale spends in liquid, long pulses of come inside Crowley, shivering, wings brushing on wings, the two of them touching in every way possible.
When he finally comes back to his senses, he tries to pull back, to avoid crushing Crowley's naked, tender body with the weight of his own. To avoid putting any stress on his molting wings with the fluttering of his own.
But Crowley's hand flings back, catches his neck, rocks back into the stretch of Aziraphale's chest. "Stay. Stay with me."
"Am I not hurting you?"
Laughter bubbles out of Crowley. "Angel, I've wanted nothing else but to feel pinned by you since I learned what sex was. I've wanted nothing else but to feel you mine, just like this."
Stacked in a bundle of heat, Aziraphale kisses Crowley's tilted cheek, a freckled spot on his shoulder. "But your wings, darling. It can't be good for them."
"Nah. You just unwound any wayward muscle and feather I might have had." And true to Crowley's words, there are bunches of black feathers on the white tiles. Crowley smiles. "I think you found just the right treatment.
Aziraphale can't help but laugh. "Didn't I just? Then what do you propose, my lovely serpent? That we spend the week here in the tub while I have my way with you?"
"Yep. In between bouts of bed? That's uncharted territory." Crowley squirms underneath him and Aziraphale's cock finally slips free, sticky and now warm with the water that stills holds the right temperature Aziraphale had encouraged it to retain. "And I'm dying to return the favour, to have my hands all over your beautiful wings, muss them up."
"I think that can be arranged," Aziraphale says and kisses the wet arch of Crowley's throat, feeling the tiny waves of shivers that gallop along his back, his arms, his thighs.
And they can. Spending time coiled into one another is a reality now. Hours aren't scarce, don't hold boundaries, minutes and seconds spreading with possibilities.
They have all the time in the world.