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Crowley is jostled awake at some unreasonable hour to the low drone of the television playing to itself. He's in a warm, comfortable sprawl on his own sofa, an empty wine glass still unexpectedly dangling from one hand. He's not sure what had woken him for a few confused seconds.
He'd had an expensive and very stylish black leather sofa originally. But Aziraphale had tutted at it and said 'no no, this won't do at all.' So he'd been forced into some sort of compromise. His new sofa was pale grey, the fabric soft and inviting under the sweep of a hand, cushions flung about its length like a variety of superfluous marshmallows. One of them, he suspects, is tartan, but Aziraphale keeps playing musical cushions with it every time he thinks about banishing it from existence.
Crowley can't complain too hard though. Not since they've fallen into the habit of spending the occasional long night sitting at either end of it, passing a wine bottle back and forth and complaining at length about the terrible movie choices of the other.
They occasionally - on a good night - migrate a few inches closer to each other, arms and legs sent testingly out towards the centre. There might even be a lean, to gather more wine, or to reach for a phone, that briefly nudges their shoulders together. It had all felt like it was leading somewhere, as if they might even, at some point in the future, spend a night pressed gently against each other, arms and thighs warm from shared body heat, watching something together. Crowley had been deeply invested in the whole thing, he'd planned out the next sixteen steps he was going to take, a subtle but definite forward momentum that Aziraphale seemed open to.
Step sixteen had not been anywhere close to 'fall asleep on the sofa in such a way as to encourage Aziraphale to fall asleep on top of him.'
That was not - that had not been in any of his plans.
Still, it had clearly happened.
Crowley is sunk deep into the cushions, the full length of him made into a curve by Aziraphale's warm, comforting weight. Their legs are tangled together, and Crowley can feel Aziraphale's fancy tartan socks against his bare feet, the wool rasping gently on the scatter of scales that he can never quite shift from his instep. Aziraphale's head is resting against Crowley's shoulder, his ridiculously angelic face tilted up far enough that Crowley can see his soft open mouth and the sweep of his eyelashes. The fluff of his hair smells like cocoa and spring, with an edge of faded cologne that makes him want to inhale and lean in, press his face into those candyfloss curls.
They've clearly been like this for a while, in this painfully intimate position that Crowley missed the start of - and of how exactly it had happened - due to being unconscious. Something he's not sure he's ever going to forgive his body for.
He probably could have remained asleep for the rest of the night in blissful - quite fucking literal - ignorance. Only there's a soft exhalation that stirs the hair flopped over his face, and Aziraphale gives a slow, rolling squirm that has Crowley staring into the darkness with eyes that can make out every hard curve and wavering temperature change. Because that slight shift of movement settles the obvious and heavy line of Aziraphale's erection into Crowley's pelvic crease.
Sweet unholy fuck.
Someone help him.
His brain refuses to form words for the space of three long breaths. The reality of it is too much. The immediate and instinctive catalogue of the shape, size, density, and warmth of it feels illicit, stolen without Aziraphale's knowledge or consent. The proximity - no, that's the wrong word, it implies something getting closer when they're already pressed, and folded, and twined together. When they're already touching more than they ever have, Aziraphale curved and shaped against him in a way that demands attention.
Crowley hadn't thought much about his own genital situation for some weeks, but his erection is now an obvious match for the angel's, nudging sweet and scandalous against the plush curve of Aziraphale's lower stomach. They're matching in desire - if not currently in states of consciousness. There's the rub - pun excused, he thinks, under the circumstances.
He should wake Aziraphale.
There's a sigh, and a slow roll of hips, a movement that's so heated and suggestive that every muscle in Crowley's body tenses under that promising grind of pressure. The angel is suddenly and completely connected to every part of him, the familiar strength of him heavy and real in a way that aches. How long have they been lying like this? How long has Aziraphale been this soft, content shape moulded to the angles and planes of his body.
"Aziraphale." Crowley's voice won't work, breath suddenly jammed hot and thick in his throat. It's a rasping wisp of air, nothing capable of waking an angel. Not one so comfortably nestled into Crowley's body like he belongs there, sleeping soundly, as if Crowley is the safest place in the world. How many times has he guiltily imagined an evening very similar to this - only to curse himself for a fiend?
The angel murmurs something that barely feels like a word, hips working down again in a series of slow and indulgent rocks that slot him into the sensitive inside of Crowley's thigh, the sharp valley between leg and pelvis suddenly the most important part of Crowley's body. The shape of Aziraphale's dick moving so close to his own that Crowley can feel his corporation's useless blood roaring in his ears. There's a faint smile on the angel's face, suggesting that he's dreaming of something that pleases him. A fact which has Crowley's insides twisting sharply in jealousy.
"Aziraphale," he tries again, and it's a strangled, broken thing, humiliating. But there's a difference between accidental frottage while Crowley is asleep, and this silent, guilty thing he's found himself the sole witness to. "Aziraphale, wake up," he bites out.
"Hmm." Aziraphale's eyes blink open. For a second the dreamy smile remains, the breath he exhales prickling at the bare skin exposed by the collar of Crowley's shirt. He feels every atom from chin to chest vibrating in unity. But eventually Aziraphale frowns, seems to realise that he's in something of an odd position, it takes him another few seconds to realise 'odd' does little justice to the fact that he's sprawled over Crowley, trying to fuse their limbs together in sleep. The stiffness of the angel's erection is unmissable where it's pressed hard into his corporation like a brand. "OH!"
Aziraphale's head lifts from Crowley's shirt, which may or may not be ever so slightly damp where the angel's mouth had been resting. A fact which leaves heat spreading outwards, leaves Crowley's nipples suddenly sensitive under the material.
"Crowley, I'm so sorry, I don't know how -"
"It's fine," Crowley manages, though it's something of a croak that might very well completely ruin any cool exterior he'd been valiantly trying to keep a hold on. The demanding throb of his own dick is still crushed under the angel's weight, and there's no way he hasn't noticed it. He doesn't know if they're pretending that isn't happening or -
Aziraphale sets his hands into the cushions either side of Crowley and pushes himself upright, only to freeze at the punched-out groan that Crowley can't quite hold on to. Humiliation slaps him in the face, and the fact that red washes itself into Aziraphale's cheeks as well doesn't help.
"M'sorry." Crowley cannot physically squirm away because the angel is effectively still pinning him to the sofa and it's mortifying and unbearable. Though he's never been so hard in his life. He can't take a breath without tasting him.
"Don't apologise." Aziraphale frowns. "Completely my fault, I have no idea how I managed to -" He swallows and tries to get his knees unwound from Crowley's. Which seem reluctant to let him go, his entire stupid body seems reluctant to let the angel up. "How incredibly, shockingly rude of me."
The idea that Crowley would care is ridiculous. As if there was anything Aziraphale could blunder his way through that Crowley wouldn't forgive him for. As if they haven't been the most interesting days of his long life. It takes him a second to realise that Aziraphale has stopped the awkward flow of his own apology, that he's now simply watching Crowley with a surprised sort of amusement, something that looks almost fond.
"What?" Crowley asks, a touch breathlessly.
"You were smiling."
"You fell asleep on me." He realises that's not really an explanation, and it sounds a bit too honest. "I fell asleep too," he adds, which he knows doesn't help. If anything it's yet more evidence that he's stupidly and ridiculously weak to the angel's whims.
"Most people usually object to -"
"What were you dreaming about?" Crowley asks in a fit of bravery.
Aziraphale's flush darkens, stretches to the lovely curve of his neck. Oh. The soft, guilty look that takes Aziraphale's face over makes something warm stretch hopefully in Crowley's chest.
Was it me?
"Aziraphale."
"Oh, I don't think I should say." Aziraphale doesn't move though, eyes tracking whatever shows on Crowley's face. His glasses are so far away, leaving him with nothing to hide behind, he doesn't even know if he's pulled the yellow in, left the sclera white and human. And Aziraphale is the only person who's ever learned to read him.
"Angel."
Aziraphale is very still for a moment, and then his hand lifts from the sofa cushions, slowly dares to creep upwards, to touch Crowley's jaw. The warmth of his fingertips drifting, and then spreading slowly, eyes wide and questioning. Is this allowed? He looks as if he wouldn't object if Crowley wanted to kiss him right now, and the thought is terrifying.
"Fuck." Crowley reaches up anyway, cups his face and draws it down - and Aziraphale lets him, he falls into him as if Crowley had pulled. The angel's halfway through a noise, some shaken, startled thing - but their mouths are already together, Crowley already has the softness of Aziraphale's lower lip under his own. The angel's response is warm and firm, and he doesn't pull away, doesn't even make protesting noises against his mouth. No, instead he sinks into Crowley's body on a hum of delight, mouth opening for the first careful push. Which feels so much like acceptance, or maybe surrender. It's everything Crowley has tried to shove out of his head, everything he'd told himself he could live without.
But it's so easy in the end, to kiss like this, to open to each other, in long wet presses that only break apart for sighs and surprised whispers of name. Which eventually lead to strong hands on Crowley's waist and solid hips between his open legs. They sink into each other, with purpose, and Crowley honestly isn't sure which one of them starts the gentle rocking motions, but they quickly become not just arousing but blatantly fucking stimulating.
Aziraphale knows as much too, the bastard, it's in the way he pushes up, slow and teasing, the way he wraps his hands round Crowley's waist, the flex of his fingers encouraging him into every movement. As if he can't resist this opportunity to see what sensations he can pull out of them both.
"Crowley."
He can hear a hundred questions, and the answer to all of them is yes, of course it's yes.
"Yes." He doesn't want to talk, he can't. "Kiss me, kiss me," Crowley demands, because if the angel is going to make him lose his mind it's the least he can do.
Aziraphale's mouth is half open, eyes an impossible shade of blue up this close, but he squirms higher, the pressure on Crowley's cock suddenly perfect and infuriating. They're both so stupidly, obviously hard and they're not even pretending any more, pushing against each other, the crush and grind of their erections nudging closer together - until Crowley can feel the solid, greedy, human thrust of Aziraphale's every time he rolls his hips up.
He can't quite believe this is happening. Six thousand years and he has an angel - his angel, damn it - panting into his mouth, breathing broken versions of his name, rocking into him in exactly the right rhythm to tug his confused, excited body closer and closer to release. Is that what they're doing. Satan's fucking tits, is this really what they're doing?
"Angel - fuck - do you want this?" His voice sounds gutted and breathless, and he's hiding nothing in it. "Because if we don't stop - if we don't stop I'm going to make a mess of my jeans." It's more of a deliciously filthy realisation than a warning. But Aziraphale gives a shuddering breath and groans enthusiastic agreement into his mouth, as if that's the most arousing thing anyone has ever said to him.
He doesn't stop, he keeps moving, more eager now, hips working in slow rolls. One strong, angelic thigh pushes Crowley's legs wider apart, a foot stretching to brace against the sofa's arm. It makes the angel's weight so much more intense, purposeful, the rising desire for them to find pleasure together obvious. The rough pushes are awkward and messy, occasionally too hard, but in a way that's sharp and arousing. Crowley feels his whole body ripple with the urge to spread scales, to take everything Aziraphale gives him. To be everything he needs, to split open and let Aziraphale dig all the way inside.
"Fuck, angel."
Aziraphale's hands slip under his shirt, a shocking spread of warmth, and Crowley realises that it's the only connection that isn't their mouths. There's no way that strip of skin should be so sensitive. No way it should make his spine want to twist in half.
"Aziraphale -"
Crowley wraps his hands around Aziraphale's hips, then throws caution to the wind and slides them down lower, to grasp his full buttocks. He digs his fingers into those curves he's guiltily eyed a thousand times, uses the grip to encourage the angel into a faster rhythm.
"Crowley," Aziraphale gasps into his mouth and Crowley feels a whine catch in his throat at how ruined the angel sounds. "Please don't stop, please."
Crowley grunts a reply, spreads his legs wider, feels the rigid shove of Aziraphale's erection against his crushed, sensitive balls and tightly pinned cock. It feels like coming apart at the seams.
They're barely kissing any more, just breathing into each other, lips sliding wetly together, forked tongue slipping into Aziraphale's mouth when the urge takes him. It's an accident at first, but it pulls delighted noises from the angel, as if no one has ever tried to take advantage of his mouth before. Certainly no one who was also occasionally a snake. Crowley could show him so many things, please him in so many ways. He wants to, Satan, he wants to, maybe the angel will let him - let Crowley undress him, touch him, tease out all the sensitive places on his body. Show him all the things his tongue could do.
Heat is spreading low in his stomach, balls tight, muscles twitching and squeezing and the throbbing, heavy push of orgasm is so close he can feel it.
"Aziraphale." The name shakes out of Crowley, longer and needier than it has any right to be. "You're going to make me come."
But it's Aziraphale who makes a harsh, punched sound, the desperate pace of his hips falling into a series of shaky, urgent rolls. His body is suddenly heavy between Crowley's thighs - mouth open in a long, surprised moan. Crowley can feel the clenching shudders, he can see the way Aziraphale eyes go wide and glassy in bliss.
He realises that the angel just came - the angel just came on top of him - and the thought is so fucking obscene and incredible that Crowley's shoved unceremoniously into his own release, the strangled, squeezing pleasure of it contained in the tight confines of his jeans. It's the messiest, clumsiest, most desperate orgasm he's ever had and it's so good that he's gasping air, whining helplessly against Aziraphale's beautiful panting mouth.
They're both a wreck of shoved up clothes, wild hair and stained trousers, left crushing their mouths together while they tremble their way through the last of it. Crowley can feel the tiny aftershocks of the angel's pleasure, the soft moans that drift over his face when Crowley rolls up into him for the last threads of his own moment of bliss. Then the angel sinks slowly into him, all rumpled clothes and sweat-damp hairline, looking human and touchable and completely undone, all for Crowley.
They lie slumped against each other for a while, a tangle of awkward limbs, faint twitches and harsh breathing. Aziraphale's face is pressed into his neck, his mouth wet on the skin and Crowley can't help tipping his head into it, keeping it there. It's such a soft, blissful moment, his whole body affection-warm and thrumming pleasantly. The feeling of come soaking through denim is less pleasant, but not disturbing enough to urge him to move. Still, he's a powerful occult being, he can fix that.
He snaps his fingers and their clothes return to their original state.
"I must be heavy," Aziraphale says after a moment. A cautious testing of the waters.
Crowley wraps a tentative arm around his waist, and the angel gives a soft little 'oh' and relaxes against him again. This may be the most certain of anything Crowley has ever been.
"We should perhaps talk about this though," Aziraphale says with a sigh.
"Hmm," Crowley agrees, they probably should, at some point. "Yeah."
The silence stretches a little longer and Aziraphale very slowly slides to one side, so they can settle more comfortably on the sofa together. Crowley turns his head without thinking, lays a kiss on the top of the angel's head. Aziraphale makes a soft noise of relief, and Crowley suspects he'd been worried, that he'd been waiting for things to be awkward between them.
"Shall we have another glass of wine?" Crowley asks quietly.
Aziraphale's surprised into a laugh, which he quickly smothers in Crowley's shoulder.