goodtobebad | open post;

Oh. Oooooh, he loves it when the angel gets like this. He’s putty in Aziraphale’s hands. It just can’t be helped!

“Mm-hm,” he affirms, giving his cock a squeeze. “You always do, angel.”

"You don't seem--ah--to be trying to thwart my wiles--" Aziraphale's head falls back. Between the twin sensations of Crowley's mouth and Crowley's hand, coherency is growing difficult. Clever mouth, clever fingers...

Crowley licks at Aziraphale's neck, humming. "Can't thwart you," he murmurs. "Not like this. Can't resist."

He turns, meeting the angel's gaze for a moment. It's almost a pleading sort of look. He wants to be tempted.

Aziraphale's smile is confident, even smug, but also deeply loving. Oh, he knows what his demon wants, what his demon desires..."How shall I take you, my dearest?" he murmurs, reaching down in turn and running a fingertip along Crowley's own cock, from base to tip and back, then fondling his balls oh-so-gently. "Like this, with each of us in hand? With both our hands holding both our cocks, so they slide against each other?" He teases at that point, shifting his hips so that whisper becomes truth for a moment. Just a moment. "Or--"

He lets go, grabs Crowley's hips in a bruising grip, turns his head so he can bite at Crowley's ear, his breath hot. "Or shall I let you penetrate me, have you call my name with every thrust? Or shall I do as I just foretold, and push you down and claim you as mine?" Another bite, a flick of tongue. "Tell me, love. Whatever you want--"

It's almost unfair, how good he is at this. Isn't he supposed to be an angel? And yet, here they are. Crowley is practically a mewling mess underneath him, squirming and clutching at him with every sly word that passes his lips.

They all sound perfect.

"Ngk," he mutters, unable to say anything else for a moment. "I love your dirty mind, angel... I want you to fuck me. Claim me."

It's all a language of love, is the thing. And Aziraphale is an expert when it comes to love, and particularly when it comes to loving Crowley. The fact that he's also a sensualist and has read more books than anyone else on Earth, including quite a lot of less than polite ones (really, any number of the classics are positively filthy)? Those are just bonuses.

Aziraphale chuckles and rolls them over, pins Crowley's wrists to the mattress. His kisses are edged with teeth, and he sucks hard at Crowley's neck, then kisses the spot lightly as though in apology afterwards. It's not an apology; it's a promise. "Say it again for me, dearest. What you want." Aziraphale's eyes glint with bit of a bastardness.

That bit of bastardy is exactly what Crowley loves about the angel. Well... one of the things. Right now, it’s forefront in his mind, though, as he wiggles and rolls his hips.

“Fuck me,” he says again, voice pleading. “Remind me who I belong to.”

"Mm..." Aziraphale hums approval, kisses that bruised place again, one of his hands trailing down, stroking over Crowley's thigh. He can hold both Crowley's wrists with one hand, especially since the demon isn't making any sort of effort to escape. Quite the contrary.

"And you'll be good for me, won't you?" Aziraphale murmurs, shifting so he can slide his hand between Crowley's legs, deliberately avoiding his cock but stroking the tender place behind, rubbing one finger in a circle over the opening that waits there. He moves off of Crowley entirely, giving the demon space to spread his legs, give his fingers more space to move. "Tell me how good you'll be."

Crowley squirms, already hard, already nearly whining at the touches, at what he’s not touching. He practically whimpers when Aziraphale’s weight leaves him, but he spreads his legs wide for the angel.

“Mm, I’ll be as good as you want me to,” he says eagerly. “Whatever you want.”

Aziraphale loves all those needy little noises. He'd gather them up like pearls if he could, collect them and pull them out to admire, each one priceless and perfect. He shifts to kiss Crowley, catching a few in his mouth, savoring the taste of each gasp and catch of breath. "I know you will," he breathes. "And I'll take such good care of you, my love, I promise..."

His finger slips in, careful, slow. He should have taken a moment to get actual lubricant instead of miracling some, but even a moment of waiting to do this seems too long just at present. And it's such a small thing. Barely counts as a miracle, really...one finger, then two, pressing so slowly as he stretches Crowley open.

Crowley tangles a hand in Aziraphale's curls, cupping the back of his head as they kiss. He doesn't even try to stop making sounds - he knows the angel likes it, and he likes it, too, letting him know how much he enjoys those fingers inside him without having to actually articulate it.

"Want me just like this?" he asks, breath a little short. He's in a mood - to be ordered about a bit, perhaps, and then be praised for it.

"For the moment." Aziraphale nuzzles his nose against Crowley's, an affectionate gesture a little at odds with what his fingers are doing. "Patience, my darling. And remember the rules: no touching yourself, and no coming until I say you may. Agreed?"

Crowley hums a little, and nods. "Agreed," he says, knowing that sooner or later he'll be begging for it, but that's half the fun. Aziraphale is incredible, knows just how to wring every bit of pleasure from him.

The begging is rather nice. There's something oddly freeing about these games, the way they make Aziraphale feel powerful, commanding. But for all his orders ultimately all the control belongs to Crowley, who can stop it with a word.

Trust. Not a thing much known in either Heaven or Hell, something he and Crowley made between them, given freely to each other. It still leaves him in awe.

"Good," he says softly, a small note of praise before he bends to take another kiss, even as his fingers work a little deeper, finding the bundle of nerves there and brushing across it.

Trust is what it is. There’s no one Crowley trusts like Aziraphale, and no one better at making him feel good - feel loved, which is something novel in Crowley’s existence. Crowley gives over a semblance of control to the angel, and allows himself to bask in the love that radiates from him, being taken care of like this.

Those clever fingers find that spot inside him and he whimpers, squirming his hips for more, his hands automatically seeking Aziraphale, running down his chest and belly without thinking.

"Ah!" Aziraphale says at once, stopping the movement of his fingers and catching Crowley's wrists with his free hand, in a grip that says without words that he was placed to guard the Eastern Gate for a reason. Soft he might be, but that doesn't mean he isn't strong. Even if these days it's from lifting books rather than a sword. "Naughty serpent," he murmurs, the words an affectionate rebuke. "We did agree no touching yourself, hmm? That means not at all."

As if to lend weight to the words he presses that soft bundle of nerves inside Crowley a little harder.

Crowley gasps at the stimulation, trembling a little but not struggling. Aziraphale is the stronger, for sure, but he’s not especially interested in testing that right now. He’d rather be good.

“Wasn’t,” he insists. “Didn’t say I couldn’t touch you.”

"Mm." He grants that point, but with a raised eyebrow. "Well, don't. Raise your hands above your head and keep them there."

He keeps moving his finger with a slow deliberation that he knows will frustrate more than it pleases at this point, as he waits.

Crowley whimpers and complies, raising his hands to grab at the headboard so he doesn’t give in to the temptation of touching the angel.

He watches Aziraphale, licking his lips and shifting his legs almost restlessly. “Angel,” he whines.

"Yes, darling?" Almost absently asked, as Aziraphale adds another finger, crooks them just so. He smirks faintly, watching Crowley's skin flush in reaction. "You're doing just fine. You know I'll take care of you, don't you? Tell me."

It’s more difficult to exercise self-restraint when he’s not actually tied up - but that’s part of the point, isn’t it? Yes, it is.

“Yes,” he says, his voice a little breathless despite not needing to breathe. “You take good care of me. Know what I need.”

Though right now he needs more. His body is alight with it, toes curling and thighs trembling.

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they might need a safe word

it's either "gabriel" or "hastur"

Aziraphale: "The HELL it is. Neither of those names are ever, ever to be spoken in our bed. Period."

Well it cant be food!

You grow plants! Pick a plant name!

:P

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