![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
waxbean.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
go_exchangetitle: Infernal Wiles
gift for:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eldanis
from:meredydd
rating: NC 17
summary: Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb...
A/N Mucho thanks to a wondermous beta type for being so encouraging!
“...lip balm?” (1) Crowley blinked several times in rapid succession. “You're being punished over lip balm?”
Aziraphale nodded miserably. “Pineapple lip balm from Boot's.”
Crowley was certain that his eyebrows could not be raised any higher without either plastic surgery or a change of form. “Punished...”
“Censured. I'm... I'm off duty until Christmas,” he choked, stirring his now-cold tea miserably.
Crowley sighed and edged his chair closer. “Aziraphale, you know Raguel is a bit of a twit... he'll get over his snit soon enough and have Michael lift the punishment.”
“You don't understand!” wailed the angel. “I've never been in this much trouble! Raguel called it a pattern and is...is...”
“Is what?” Crowley prompted after a long moment of Aziraphale's hiccoughing attempts to finish the sentence.
Aziraphale sniffed quietly, dabbing at his nose with the corner of his napkin. “Raguel is calling for me to be relocated.”
Crowley hissed in growing fear for his opposite number and, yes, friend. “Not Milton Keynes!” At Aziraphale's almost pitying stare, realization struck Crowley like a truck going downhill with no breaks on an icy day. “No.”
“I'm afraid I have no say in the matter at this point.” Aziraphale was no longer crying but instead seemed to be overcome by his usual brisk efficiency. Standing, he gathered the tea things and headed for the sink. “I just have to continue on until they decide. It could be any time now.”
“Or centuries,” Crowley said softly, setting his sunglasses on the table with gentle care. He looked speculatively at his friend. “You would hate Below.”
Aziraphale stiffened visibly for a moment before nodding, his back to Crowley as he rinsed the mugs and spoons, setting them to dry on the drainboard.
“I won't let them transfer you,” he said in a sudden fit of altruism. “I'll speak with the Man himself. I'll... I don't know. We don't really put in a good word for someone Below but maybe the right bad ones will help?” He trailed off as Aziraphale turned to face him once more, the angel's face stricken with something ineffable and fearsome. “Aziraphale?”
“Raguel did not say but... I'm sure that they know.”
A moment of silence stretched, then stretched some more. It stretched until it had the consistency of a well-worn, slightly gummy rubber band before Crowley snapped it with a hissed oath in a language unused by man for nearly four thousand years.
“My thoughts exactly,” Aziraphale sighed. He carefully folded the dish towel into a neat rectangle and laid it on the counter. “We were careless.”
“No,” Crowley said flatly. “We were not careless. We were very careful, in fact...” He stood then, pushing himself roughly away from the table and closing the distance between them in just two steps. Aziraphale did not move away but he looked wary, his pale eyes glittering with something akin to warning, a warning Crowley had no intention of heeding. “Did you confess to them, then? Confess your dalliance with the Enemy?”
Aziraphale shook his head. He was not cowed by Crowley's sudden irritation. He knew it for what it was; whatever Above decided to do to him, Below's punishment for Crowley, should their liaison be discovered, would be far worse. “I am not so foolish, Crowley.” He closed his eyes for a moment, the warmth and spiced honey scent of the demon flooding his senses. “Could you step away, please?” He met the serpent-like gaze unflinchingly. “You're in my personal space.”
Crowley smiled thinly and took half a step back. “Is that better?” Aziraphale nodded, straightening slightly. “You affect me as well, you know.”
“...I have no idea what you're talking about, demon.” He turned and busied himself with a few clean dishes in the drainboard, trying his best to ignore Crowley's presence. It had been a mistake, he knew, to allow that night four months ago to happen. They had gone forth, acting as if nothing had occurred between them other than what passed for normal: meetings to feed the ducks, tea at the Savoy, saving the world from a Spice Girls reunion tour (and both sides felt that was a blessing). But Aziraphale had to be honest with himself: he was not feeling guilty, as he knew he should, for succumbing to lust and vanity, for continuing to do so late in the evenings and occasionally during the day, when no customers braved his shop. Angels were not supposed to feel such things, he knew, but he could not remember now if it was because they were unable or just were not allowed to feel them... He looked up sharply, realizing belatedly that Crowley had been speaking. “Pardon?”
“I said that you smell of temple incense... do you remember the temples, Aziraphale? Do you remember when they called to us, burned offerings to appease us?” He stepped in close again. This time, Aziraphale did not ask him to move. “You smell of the incense, of the flowers that grew in Nebuchadnezzar's garden...” He hissed a breath between his teeth and whispered on the outgoing breath, “I can taste you still on my lips, Aziraphale.” He touched him then, fingers barely skimming along the back of the angel's neck. He felt the shiver race through Aziraphale, felt it like a shock to his own form.
“Crowley,” he sighed, the name barely a whisper. “Please...”
“You said please to me that night, didn't you? It was you who tempted me.” His touch became more bold, more seeking, skimming beneath the angel's collar, demonic fingers tracing along the pale throat and downward, towards collarbone and chest. “I feared the retribution that would come but I could not stop myself, Aziraphale. Do you regret it?” He hissed again, this time angrily. “Of course you do... you will be sent Below because of it... Raguel and the damned lip balm...” He was silenced then, swiftly, as Aziraphale turned, proximity forcing them to press together.
“I don't,” he said shakily, eyes squeezed tightly closed. “I don't regret it. I wanted it and...and I didn't mean to tempt you. I...” He exhaled roughly. “Crowley, what are we going to do?”
Crowley shook his head slowly. “I don't know.” His fingers itched to touch Aziraphale again, to trace the silvery angelic markings that adorned his skin, discernible only to the eyes of creatures such as themselves. His lips twisted ruefully. “How thou art fallen from Heaven...oh son of morning...”(2)
Aziraphale glared. “That's not funny.”
“It's not meant to be.”
The angel blinked slowly, licking his suddenly too-dry lips as Crowley's gaze never left his face. “Raguel also said that buying you a plant on the anniversary of...well, you know... of the almost-Apocalypse was on my list of Things.”
Crowley could not help it: he laughed. “It was a sodding cactus!”
“It was lovely!” He frowned and poked the demon hard on the shoulder. “Is it still alive then? Or did you threaten it to death?”
“It's fine,” Crowley laughed, acutely aware of Aziraphale's closeness, of the tantalizing scent of him. “It's fine, I promise.”
“What's the promise of a demon worth, then?” Aziraphale murmured, unable to stop himself from swaying forward. He remembered, he wanted, he yearned for it, for the simple brush of lips, the touch of skin to skin. He could understand why the humans were so crazy for it, if this is how it always felt. He could start to understand why Azazel and the Grigori had joined with them, had argued so forcibly to be allowed pleasures of the flesh... and he had begun, to his horror, to understand why they had chosen to Fall.
“I promised you things that night, didn't I? Pleasure, ecstasy, knowledge...”
“Serpent,” Aziraphale breathed. “Tempting me...”
“Angel,” the demon replied softly, the ache of need low in his belly spreading through his form, changing him, allowing the body to acknowledge the need, to manifest it physically. He felt Aziraphale's form doing the same against him, thick arousal pressing against his belly, heat spreading between them both. “Do you think I can be saved, Aziraphale? Maybe you will win your way back into Raguel's good graces? Take me on a lead, present me to the Court?” He brushed a swift, light kiss against the angel's throat, relishing the slight gasp, the heady scent of flesh and angelic sanctity that assailed his senses.
“Crowley, I may Fall.”
“You will not Fall,” he promised urgently, his form begging to change, to shift into its true state. “You are an angel, no matter what those prigs in the Home Office say.” He reached for the buttons on Aziraphale's slightly worn Oxford shirt, slipping them from their tidy little buttonholes effortlessly, pushing back the fabric to reveal the snowy white undershirt which the angel insisted was proper. He smiled faintly and ran his nail down the length of the shirt, rending it. “Demons do not wear undershirts.”
Aziraphale laughed somewhat shakily, closing his eyes as Crowley pushed back the rent fabric, shoving it down his arms until shirt and undershirt both landed in a small heap on the floor near the counter. “I'm guilty of this sin, if no other.”
“Of what sin? Do you think that Himself would create these feelings, these acts, just to punish us for them?”
“You know that it is not that simple!” He did not pull away though, not even as Crowley bent his head to kiss the bared angelic throat, teeth nipping the tender flesh there, leaving a dark mark against the silvery, ancient script (3) that glowed just beneath the surface. Aziraphale let his head fall back, exposing more of his throat for Crowley to feast upon, his back arching into the embrace as warm, demonic arms went around him. He felt himself pulled, then falling for a second and knew that he had been transported. Lips, teeth, tongue and hands moved down his body, skimming over collarbone and chest before lingering at oddly sensitive nipples. Aziraphale's eyes flew open as Crowley's sharp teeth scraped over first one, then the other, sending jolts of pained pleasure through the angel's form. “Oh!”
“Oh?” Crowley breathed against his skin before closing his lips over one turgid, dark peak. “Oh as in 'that's wonderful, please do it again'?”
“Oh as in the cactus is still alive!”
Crowley paused, glancing up at Aziraphale and breaking contact with his flesh which, the demon noted with some dark pleasure, left his opposite number looking momentarily flustered. “You thought I would lie to you?”
“Demon.”
“...touche.” He worked his fingers beneath the waistband of Aziraphale's trousers, sending the button flying in rapid fashion, the zipper parting beneath his touch. He paused in momentary admiration of the angel's form, raising a brow as he regarded the tumescent proof of arousal.
“I'm still getting the hang of manifesting,” he muttered, his cheeks coloring hotly. “Um...”
“It,” Crowley interrupted roughly, “is fine. More than fine.” He closed his fingers around the angel's length, squeezing the warm, silken flesh before stroking slowly, running his thumb across the seeping tip. Crowley grinned briefly. “Nice touch.”
Aziraphale shivered. “You... you seemed to enjoy that part last time.”
“Mmm.” He stood, shedding his clothing in unhurried yet economical movements as Aziraphale waited, naked, before him. The silvery script of angelic markings glowed brightly on the angel's flesh, contrasting with the dark, sharp scrollwork which cut through Crowley's angelic brands like thorns, rewriting the story with a different ending. “You're off duty...”
“Till Christmas,” Aziraphale replied slowly, his eyes widening first at the sight of Crowley, then at his own realization. “Oh, my...”
Crowley smiled. “Mmmmhmmm.” He pushed the angel back onto the bed and was over him, on him, before either could let second, third, or fourth thoughts wiggle their way into the scenario. “You do affect me... I wasn't just saying that,” he muttered between nibbles of Aziraphale's throat and shoulder. “I can smell you on my pillows and sheets, smell you on my skin...”
Aziraphale swallowed hard, his body quivering for more. Crowley's voice had grown heavier, the accents more ancient, hissing through teeth and forked tongue, sending sharp pangs of forbidden lust through Aziraphale's form. He wanted more, needed more...
Crowley found himself his back after a surprisingly deft move from Aziraphale. “Problem?”
“No,” the angel replied in a thick-voiced whisper. “Not at all. I'm thinking, though, that since you claim I am the one leading you to this sin, maybe I should be the one...leading.”
The demon drew in a sharp breath as Aziraphale's mouth closed over his length, fingers cupping delicate flesh and tugging, squeezing ever so slightly as lips and tongue stroked, laving Crowley's length from base to tip. “Angel,” he breathed roughly, and even he was not sure if it was an imprecation or an endearment. His hips flexed involuntarily as Aziraphale's fingers sought, then found tender recesses of flesh, teasing nerves to wakefulness. Crowley parted for him, growling in the old tongue as his length was taken even more deeply into Aziraphale's waiting mouth. He remembered the first time they had done this, or something similar. It had been fevered, desperate, unexpected... They had barely spoken, barely acknowledged what was happening until it was over. For days, he had refused to let his body heal, preferring the sore muscles and dark purple bite marks on his skin to remind him of the hours spent in bed with the angel. Aziraphale had borne similar marks but, Crowley had noticed the next time they had met, he had covered them or made them vanish. Crowley wore his openly, making the angel blush but otherwise, neither had remarked on the evening. Now, though... now... He shuddered as Aziraphale pulled away, giving the jutting member a final, long lick. Crowley seized the moment, twisting and shifting until the angel was beneath him, pale eyes glittering in the dimly lit room. “You are not Fallen,” he murmured, bitting Aziraphale's lower lip sharply before laving it with just the tip of his tongue. He ran his hands down the angel's thighs, parted to cradle him, tracing the soft flesh where leg joined hip and curved, sloped downward and inward. Aziraphale shuddered and closed his eyes, fingers digging into the sheets beneath him. Crowley pressed close, his member pushing slowly, every so slowly, into Aziraphale. The angel gasped but did not arch or twist. Instead, he reached between them and seized his own length, stroking slowly and steadily as he could manage. Crowley groaned, feeling his balls tighten at the vision Aziraphale presented, the constraints of the angel's form bearing against his own, squeezing and grasping, making the demon gasp aloud once more as he thrust inward. The angel cried out though not in pain, his body quivering beneath Crowley. Demons were not known for their self control but exercise it he did, forcing himself to go slow, not to plunge into the body of his lover.
No, instead Crowley persisted, demonic in his patience it seemed to Aziraphale who whispered “now, now” and “please... oh, please” as Crowley slid deeper, the demon's body now pressing against his own. He could no longer stroke himself and the need was urgent, to say the least. He wanted to climax, to have that horrible, wonderful peak, the feeling of falling and spiraling coursing through his veins, but, more than that, he wanted it with Crowley. He wiggled his hand free, his other still clutching the sheets as if they were an anchor to the present, and reached behind the demon, tracing the curve of spine, the slightly protruding ridges where wings were hidden, tucked away in secret ways, and slid down, down, across the swell of firm, muscled buttocks and only pausing when he reached that spot, the one he had found earlier, fingers moving gently and curiously as Crowley paused, seemingly surprised for a moment, before continuing his own inexorable teasing. Aziraphale bit his own lip, hoping that what he was doing was pleasing, was what Crowley wanted, only to be rewarded with a deep, rumbling growl in his ear, Crowley arching back and thrusting into him at the same time as the angel's fingers found the spot they had sought, delicately caressing even as Crowley began moving in earnest. Aziraphale's legs went around the demon's, a faint glow rising from both of their bodies as the angelic and demonic scripts began to show more brightly on their skin. Half-whispered pleas and demands rolled over them both, sighs turning into soft moans, then louder moans, their bodies moved together.
Crowley did not care about time, just that he could feel Aziraphale quicken around him, the form of the angel's body responding to his attentions: tightening, pulsing silently demanding release even as Aziraphale's long, deft fingers moved within him, making him shiver as he tried to stave off the inevitable. He inhaled deeply, memorizing the smell of the angel, the sight of him, how his lips parted as he breathed, broken words tumbling forth from his lips; how he squeezed his eyes tight before they flew open, the impending climax writ large on his fine features. Crowley tasted the jasmine and honey on his tongue, whispered Aziraphale's oldest name, the one known only to the angels themselves, and thrust once more, spilling himself in the angel's body. He shuddered, his blood rushing in his ears, roaring like the sea even as Aziraphale cried out, jagged and raw voiced protestations of want and love, secrets that would never leave the bed. Crowley slumped against his angel—he thought of him thus, he admitted, as his own—and breathed deep. “You will not Fall.”
Aziraphale nodded once, still clinging to Crowley, legs wrapped around legs, fingers penetrating, breath mingling. “Raguel will know of this now... they can't not know...”
“We are the same sort of creature, Aziraphale... they know it as well as I do. There is no denying it... angels and demons feel the same needs and wants...”
“We're not supposed to succumb to the infernal wiles of lust, vanity, anger...” His voice trailed off, his eyes closing heavily.
Crowley sighed and, reluctantly, moved off of Aziraphale, stretching out by his side. “We do not sleep, either.”
“But we do rest,” the angel muttered. “And sometimes we need to...”
Crowley nodded, closing his own eyes then. “Off duty till Christmas... then what?”
“Then, I suppose, they tell me what I must do.”
“I see...” He felt uncommonly tired and heavy, as if he were sinking in wet sand. “Aziraphale?” No answer came. Crowley frowned and forced his eyes open, forced himself to sit up. He was alone. That rat bas... He paused, his frown growing more pronounced. “Shit.” Demons do not sleep, he reminded himself, but they do rest. Their minds do wander, often to dangerous territory. He fell back against the ridiculously expensive pillows and stretched an arm out to the empty side of the bed. If he had thought of the lip balm and plant, so had Above. He would talk to Aziraphale tomorrow, drop a word in his ear about vanity. Lust... he sighed, curling his fingers into the cool, smooth sheets. If only.
1. Some stricter adherents to the idea of vanity is a sin consider things like flavored lip balm to be vain because not only does it indicate pride in appearance, but the flavoring indicates that you're not using the balm just for necessity such as chapped lips.
2. Isaiah 14:12 leave it to the recovering Catholic to remember that one, lol
3. In some stories of demons and angels, they are marked with tattoo-like script or symbols that identify them by name, class, etc. Usually, in the stories, it's visible only to those with “the sight” or others of their ilk.
gift for:
eldanisfrom:
meredyddrating: NC 17
summary: Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb...
A/N Mucho thanks to a wondermous beta type for being so encouraging!
“...lip balm?” (1) Crowley blinked several times in rapid succession. “You're being punished over lip balm?”
Aziraphale nodded miserably. “Pineapple lip balm from Boot's.”
Crowley was certain that his eyebrows could not be raised any higher without either plastic surgery or a change of form. “Punished...”
“Censured. I'm... I'm off duty until Christmas,” he choked, stirring his now-cold tea miserably.
Crowley sighed and edged his chair closer. “Aziraphale, you know Raguel is a bit of a twit... he'll get over his snit soon enough and have Michael lift the punishment.”
“You don't understand!” wailed the angel. “I've never been in this much trouble! Raguel called it a pattern and is...is...”
“Is what?” Crowley prompted after a long moment of Aziraphale's hiccoughing attempts to finish the sentence.
Aziraphale sniffed quietly, dabbing at his nose with the corner of his napkin. “Raguel is calling for me to be relocated.”
Crowley hissed in growing fear for his opposite number and, yes, friend. “Not Milton Keynes!” At Aziraphale's almost pitying stare, realization struck Crowley like a truck going downhill with no breaks on an icy day. “No.”
“I'm afraid I have no say in the matter at this point.” Aziraphale was no longer crying but instead seemed to be overcome by his usual brisk efficiency. Standing, he gathered the tea things and headed for the sink. “I just have to continue on until they decide. It could be any time now.”
“Or centuries,” Crowley said softly, setting his sunglasses on the table with gentle care. He looked speculatively at his friend. “You would hate Below.”
Aziraphale stiffened visibly for a moment before nodding, his back to Crowley as he rinsed the mugs and spoons, setting them to dry on the drainboard.
“I won't let them transfer you,” he said in a sudden fit of altruism. “I'll speak with the Man himself. I'll... I don't know. We don't really put in a good word for someone Below but maybe the right bad ones will help?” He trailed off as Aziraphale turned to face him once more, the angel's face stricken with something ineffable and fearsome. “Aziraphale?”
“Raguel did not say but... I'm sure that they know.”
A moment of silence stretched, then stretched some more. It stretched until it had the consistency of a well-worn, slightly gummy rubber band before Crowley snapped it with a hissed oath in a language unused by man for nearly four thousand years.
“My thoughts exactly,” Aziraphale sighed. He carefully folded the dish towel into a neat rectangle and laid it on the counter. “We were careless.”
“No,” Crowley said flatly. “We were not careless. We were very careful, in fact...” He stood then, pushing himself roughly away from the table and closing the distance between them in just two steps. Aziraphale did not move away but he looked wary, his pale eyes glittering with something akin to warning, a warning Crowley had no intention of heeding. “Did you confess to them, then? Confess your dalliance with the Enemy?”
Aziraphale shook his head. He was not cowed by Crowley's sudden irritation. He knew it for what it was; whatever Above decided to do to him, Below's punishment for Crowley, should their liaison be discovered, would be far worse. “I am not so foolish, Crowley.” He closed his eyes for a moment, the warmth and spiced honey scent of the demon flooding his senses. “Could you step away, please?” He met the serpent-like gaze unflinchingly. “You're in my personal space.”
Crowley smiled thinly and took half a step back. “Is that better?” Aziraphale nodded, straightening slightly. “You affect me as well, you know.”
“...I have no idea what you're talking about, demon.” He turned and busied himself with a few clean dishes in the drainboard, trying his best to ignore Crowley's presence. It had been a mistake, he knew, to allow that night four months ago to happen. They had gone forth, acting as if nothing had occurred between them other than what passed for normal: meetings to feed the ducks, tea at the Savoy, saving the world from a Spice Girls reunion tour (and both sides felt that was a blessing). But Aziraphale had to be honest with himself: he was not feeling guilty, as he knew he should, for succumbing to lust and vanity, for continuing to do so late in the evenings and occasionally during the day, when no customers braved his shop. Angels were not supposed to feel such things, he knew, but he could not remember now if it was because they were unable or just were not allowed to feel them... He looked up sharply, realizing belatedly that Crowley had been speaking. “Pardon?”
“I said that you smell of temple incense... do you remember the temples, Aziraphale? Do you remember when they called to us, burned offerings to appease us?” He stepped in close again. This time, Aziraphale did not ask him to move. “You smell of the incense, of the flowers that grew in Nebuchadnezzar's garden...” He hissed a breath between his teeth and whispered on the outgoing breath, “I can taste you still on my lips, Aziraphale.” He touched him then, fingers barely skimming along the back of the angel's neck. He felt the shiver race through Aziraphale, felt it like a shock to his own form.
“Crowley,” he sighed, the name barely a whisper. “Please...”
“You said please to me that night, didn't you? It was you who tempted me.” His touch became more bold, more seeking, skimming beneath the angel's collar, demonic fingers tracing along the pale throat and downward, towards collarbone and chest. “I feared the retribution that would come but I could not stop myself, Aziraphale. Do you regret it?” He hissed again, this time angrily. “Of course you do... you will be sent Below because of it... Raguel and the damned lip balm...” He was silenced then, swiftly, as Aziraphale turned, proximity forcing them to press together.
“I don't,” he said shakily, eyes squeezed tightly closed. “I don't regret it. I wanted it and...and I didn't mean to tempt you. I...” He exhaled roughly. “Crowley, what are we going to do?”
Crowley shook his head slowly. “I don't know.” His fingers itched to touch Aziraphale again, to trace the silvery angelic markings that adorned his skin, discernible only to the eyes of creatures such as themselves. His lips twisted ruefully. “How thou art fallen from Heaven...oh son of morning...”(2)
Aziraphale glared. “That's not funny.”
“It's not meant to be.”
The angel blinked slowly, licking his suddenly too-dry lips as Crowley's gaze never left his face. “Raguel also said that buying you a plant on the anniversary of...well, you know... of the almost-Apocalypse was on my list of Things.”
Crowley could not help it: he laughed. “It was a sodding cactus!”
“It was lovely!” He frowned and poked the demon hard on the shoulder. “Is it still alive then? Or did you threaten it to death?”
“It's fine,” Crowley laughed, acutely aware of Aziraphale's closeness, of the tantalizing scent of him. “It's fine, I promise.”
“What's the promise of a demon worth, then?” Aziraphale murmured, unable to stop himself from swaying forward. He remembered, he wanted, he yearned for it, for the simple brush of lips, the touch of skin to skin. He could understand why the humans were so crazy for it, if this is how it always felt. He could start to understand why Azazel and the Grigori had joined with them, had argued so forcibly to be allowed pleasures of the flesh... and he had begun, to his horror, to understand why they had chosen to Fall.
“I promised you things that night, didn't I? Pleasure, ecstasy, knowledge...”
“Serpent,” Aziraphale breathed. “Tempting me...”
“Angel,” the demon replied softly, the ache of need low in his belly spreading through his form, changing him, allowing the body to acknowledge the need, to manifest it physically. He felt Aziraphale's form doing the same against him, thick arousal pressing against his belly, heat spreading between them both. “Do you think I can be saved, Aziraphale? Maybe you will win your way back into Raguel's good graces? Take me on a lead, present me to the Court?” He brushed a swift, light kiss against the angel's throat, relishing the slight gasp, the heady scent of flesh and angelic sanctity that assailed his senses.
“Crowley, I may Fall.”
“You will not Fall,” he promised urgently, his form begging to change, to shift into its true state. “You are an angel, no matter what those prigs in the Home Office say.” He reached for the buttons on Aziraphale's slightly worn Oxford shirt, slipping them from their tidy little buttonholes effortlessly, pushing back the fabric to reveal the snowy white undershirt which the angel insisted was proper. He smiled faintly and ran his nail down the length of the shirt, rending it. “Demons do not wear undershirts.”
Aziraphale laughed somewhat shakily, closing his eyes as Crowley pushed back the rent fabric, shoving it down his arms until shirt and undershirt both landed in a small heap on the floor near the counter. “I'm guilty of this sin, if no other.”
“Of what sin? Do you think that Himself would create these feelings, these acts, just to punish us for them?”
“You know that it is not that simple!” He did not pull away though, not even as Crowley bent his head to kiss the bared angelic throat, teeth nipping the tender flesh there, leaving a dark mark against the silvery, ancient script (3) that glowed just beneath the surface. Aziraphale let his head fall back, exposing more of his throat for Crowley to feast upon, his back arching into the embrace as warm, demonic arms went around him. He felt himself pulled, then falling for a second and knew that he had been transported. Lips, teeth, tongue and hands moved down his body, skimming over collarbone and chest before lingering at oddly sensitive nipples. Aziraphale's eyes flew open as Crowley's sharp teeth scraped over first one, then the other, sending jolts of pained pleasure through the angel's form. “Oh!”
“Oh?” Crowley breathed against his skin before closing his lips over one turgid, dark peak. “Oh as in 'that's wonderful, please do it again'?”
“Oh as in the cactus is still alive!”
Crowley paused, glancing up at Aziraphale and breaking contact with his flesh which, the demon noted with some dark pleasure, left his opposite number looking momentarily flustered. “You thought I would lie to you?”
“Demon.”
“...touche.” He worked his fingers beneath the waistband of Aziraphale's trousers, sending the button flying in rapid fashion, the zipper parting beneath his touch. He paused in momentary admiration of the angel's form, raising a brow as he regarded the tumescent proof of arousal.
“I'm still getting the hang of manifesting,” he muttered, his cheeks coloring hotly. “Um...”
“It,” Crowley interrupted roughly, “is fine. More than fine.” He closed his fingers around the angel's length, squeezing the warm, silken flesh before stroking slowly, running his thumb across the seeping tip. Crowley grinned briefly. “Nice touch.”
Aziraphale shivered. “You... you seemed to enjoy that part last time.”
“Mmm.” He stood, shedding his clothing in unhurried yet economical movements as Aziraphale waited, naked, before him. The silvery script of angelic markings glowed brightly on the angel's flesh, contrasting with the dark, sharp scrollwork which cut through Crowley's angelic brands like thorns, rewriting the story with a different ending. “You're off duty...”
“Till Christmas,” Aziraphale replied slowly, his eyes widening first at the sight of Crowley, then at his own realization. “Oh, my...”
Crowley smiled. “Mmmmhmmm.” He pushed the angel back onto the bed and was over him, on him, before either could let second, third, or fourth thoughts wiggle their way into the scenario. “You do affect me... I wasn't just saying that,” he muttered between nibbles of Aziraphale's throat and shoulder. “I can smell you on my pillows and sheets, smell you on my skin...”
Aziraphale swallowed hard, his body quivering for more. Crowley's voice had grown heavier, the accents more ancient, hissing through teeth and forked tongue, sending sharp pangs of forbidden lust through Aziraphale's form. He wanted more, needed more...
Crowley found himself his back after a surprisingly deft move from Aziraphale. “Problem?”
“No,” the angel replied in a thick-voiced whisper. “Not at all. I'm thinking, though, that since you claim I am the one leading you to this sin, maybe I should be the one...leading.”
The demon drew in a sharp breath as Aziraphale's mouth closed over his length, fingers cupping delicate flesh and tugging, squeezing ever so slightly as lips and tongue stroked, laving Crowley's length from base to tip. “Angel,” he breathed roughly, and even he was not sure if it was an imprecation or an endearment. His hips flexed involuntarily as Aziraphale's fingers sought, then found tender recesses of flesh, teasing nerves to wakefulness. Crowley parted for him, growling in the old tongue as his length was taken even more deeply into Aziraphale's waiting mouth. He remembered the first time they had done this, or something similar. It had been fevered, desperate, unexpected... They had barely spoken, barely acknowledged what was happening until it was over. For days, he had refused to let his body heal, preferring the sore muscles and dark purple bite marks on his skin to remind him of the hours spent in bed with the angel. Aziraphale had borne similar marks but, Crowley had noticed the next time they had met, he had covered them or made them vanish. Crowley wore his openly, making the angel blush but otherwise, neither had remarked on the evening. Now, though... now... He shuddered as Aziraphale pulled away, giving the jutting member a final, long lick. Crowley seized the moment, twisting and shifting until the angel was beneath him, pale eyes glittering in the dimly lit room. “You are not Fallen,” he murmured, bitting Aziraphale's lower lip sharply before laving it with just the tip of his tongue. He ran his hands down the angel's thighs, parted to cradle him, tracing the soft flesh where leg joined hip and curved, sloped downward and inward. Aziraphale shuddered and closed his eyes, fingers digging into the sheets beneath him. Crowley pressed close, his member pushing slowly, every so slowly, into Aziraphale. The angel gasped but did not arch or twist. Instead, he reached between them and seized his own length, stroking slowly and steadily as he could manage. Crowley groaned, feeling his balls tighten at the vision Aziraphale presented, the constraints of the angel's form bearing against his own, squeezing and grasping, making the demon gasp aloud once more as he thrust inward. The angel cried out though not in pain, his body quivering beneath Crowley. Demons were not known for their self control but exercise it he did, forcing himself to go slow, not to plunge into the body of his lover.
No, instead Crowley persisted, demonic in his patience it seemed to Aziraphale who whispered “now, now” and “please... oh, please” as Crowley slid deeper, the demon's body now pressing against his own. He could no longer stroke himself and the need was urgent, to say the least. He wanted to climax, to have that horrible, wonderful peak, the feeling of falling and spiraling coursing through his veins, but, more than that, he wanted it with Crowley. He wiggled his hand free, his other still clutching the sheets as if they were an anchor to the present, and reached behind the demon, tracing the curve of spine, the slightly protruding ridges where wings were hidden, tucked away in secret ways, and slid down, down, across the swell of firm, muscled buttocks and only pausing when he reached that spot, the one he had found earlier, fingers moving gently and curiously as Crowley paused, seemingly surprised for a moment, before continuing his own inexorable teasing. Aziraphale bit his own lip, hoping that what he was doing was pleasing, was what Crowley wanted, only to be rewarded with a deep, rumbling growl in his ear, Crowley arching back and thrusting into him at the same time as the angel's fingers found the spot they had sought, delicately caressing even as Crowley began moving in earnest. Aziraphale's legs went around the demon's, a faint glow rising from both of their bodies as the angelic and demonic scripts began to show more brightly on their skin. Half-whispered pleas and demands rolled over them both, sighs turning into soft moans, then louder moans, their bodies moved together.
Crowley did not care about time, just that he could feel Aziraphale quicken around him, the form of the angel's body responding to his attentions: tightening, pulsing silently demanding release even as Aziraphale's long, deft fingers moved within him, making him shiver as he tried to stave off the inevitable. He inhaled deeply, memorizing the smell of the angel, the sight of him, how his lips parted as he breathed, broken words tumbling forth from his lips; how he squeezed his eyes tight before they flew open, the impending climax writ large on his fine features. Crowley tasted the jasmine and honey on his tongue, whispered Aziraphale's oldest name, the one known only to the angels themselves, and thrust once more, spilling himself in the angel's body. He shuddered, his blood rushing in his ears, roaring like the sea even as Aziraphale cried out, jagged and raw voiced protestations of want and love, secrets that would never leave the bed. Crowley slumped against his angel—he thought of him thus, he admitted, as his own—and breathed deep. “You will not Fall.”
Aziraphale nodded once, still clinging to Crowley, legs wrapped around legs, fingers penetrating, breath mingling. “Raguel will know of this now... they can't not know...”
“We are the same sort of creature, Aziraphale... they know it as well as I do. There is no denying it... angels and demons feel the same needs and wants...”
“We're not supposed to succumb to the infernal wiles of lust, vanity, anger...” His voice trailed off, his eyes closing heavily.
Crowley sighed and, reluctantly, moved off of Aziraphale, stretching out by his side. “We do not sleep, either.”
“But we do rest,” the angel muttered. “And sometimes we need to...”
Crowley nodded, closing his own eyes then. “Off duty till Christmas... then what?”
“Then, I suppose, they tell me what I must do.”
“I see...” He felt uncommonly tired and heavy, as if he were sinking in wet sand. “Aziraphale?” No answer came. Crowley frowned and forced his eyes open, forced himself to sit up. He was alone. That rat bas... He paused, his frown growing more pronounced. “Shit.” Demons do not sleep, he reminded himself, but they do rest. Their minds do wander, often to dangerous territory. He fell back against the ridiculously expensive pillows and stretched an arm out to the empty side of the bed. If he had thought of the lip balm and plant, so had Above. He would talk to Aziraphale tomorrow, drop a word in his ear about vanity. Lust... he sighed, curling his fingers into the cool, smooth sheets. If only.
1. Some stricter adherents to the idea of vanity is a sin consider things like flavored lip balm to be vain because not only does it indicate pride in appearance, but the flavoring indicates that you're not using the balm just for necessity such as chapped lips.
2. Isaiah 14:12 leave it to the recovering Catholic to remember that one, lol
3. In some stories of demons and angels, they are marked with tattoo-like script or symbols that identify them by name, class, etc. Usually, in the stories, it's visible only to those with “the sight” or others of their ilk.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-30 07:30 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-30 07:39 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-30 07:43 pm (UTC)nicccccce work!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-30 08:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-30 09:56 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-30 10:50 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-30 10:02 pm (UTC)Oh, goodness, thankyou so very much!! I enjoyed this immensely. Perhaps a little *too* immensely. ^^;; Crowley and Azirapale are simply made for each other, equals and opposites. I absolutely loved the mental images this conjured, of the tattoo-like markings on their skin, and the little hint at wings, and the other marks they exchange. Also I LOVE LOVE LOVE the sense of desperation mixed in with the intimacy. Even though I am not the originally intended recipient, I couldn't adore this more, and I hope the original requester gets to read it too, because it's just wonderful. I am an artist and thus very visually oriented, and as I said before, the images in this are simply beautiful.
Also, this has very little to do with the utterly hot goodness of the pr0n, but I also loved the part where Crowley says Aziraphale smells of temple incense -- my own name, in real life (Kaysha, from the Hebrew Khedzia), is from the word for the plant that was used to make the incense in the Temple in Jerusalem, so that really touched me a lot.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-30 10:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-30 10:05 pm (UTC)I think I'm going to sniffle a bit.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-30 10:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-31 04:48 am (UTC)I love that simile.
Can't believe I never thought about it before, but Aziraphale is totally an undershirt person.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-31 05:56 am (UTC)