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"I need a favour."
Crowley raises an eyebrow at Aziraphale just blurting that out. Normally he'd hedge and suggest and imply his way around something he wants Crowley to do for him. He rarely chooses to dive straight in with a request. Which tells him this is either something he's been conflicted about for a while, and has just decided to plunge ahead, or it's important to him and he wants to be forthright.
They'd said that after Armageddon they'd always be available for each other if needed. Crowley had assumed that meant the small stuff as well as any possible world-altering disaster that came up on the radar - though he's definitely hoping nothing like that will happen for at least a few centuries. One was quite enough for him.
He resists the urge to be suspicious, or to tease Aziraphale over having a problem he couldn't solve on his own.
"Of course," he says instead, shifting himself into a slightly more attentive position on the angel's sofa. "Name it."
Aziraphale looks surprised, as if he'd expected to have to work to convince him. But they don't have an arrangement anymore, they don't have to pass assignments back and forth, depending on who was in the area, or who didn't want to go somewhere because the rain was unbearable. Or perhaps a blessing clashed with the opening night of a play Aziraphale didn't want to miss.
They could do things for each other just because they were friends, they don't have to pretend, they don't need to make up convincing reasons and excuses anymore.
"I - well, it's not really a favour exactly." Aziraphale is obviously struggling to regroup, dismissing the speech he'd no doubt prepared to coax Crowley into assisting him. "I just -"
"Come on, spit it out." Crowley softens the words with a smile, because the angel doesn't need to explain everything either. Wanting something was enough.
"It's just, my wings have been in a terrible state since I was discorporated and it's becoming very bothersome." He gives a brief unhappy wiggle, as if saying it out loud has summoned the discomfort.
"Not used to squirming around to reach the back, are you?" Crowley guesses, giving a lazy gesture to the spot where his own wings would slide free.
"Not all of us can be as flexible as you." Aziraphale makes it sound as if he does it on purpose. "I honestly don't know how you manage to draw yours all the way around."
"Eh, my spine and shoulders are more theoretical than yours are. So what, you want me to take a look and tell you where the problem is? Hold a mirror? Suggest some brushes that might help? Humanity has invented some grooming marvels, I tell you."
Aziraphale opens and closes his mouth for a moment. "I was actually hoping that you might...lend a hand," he says at last.
Crowley's feet, which had been jiggling over the arm of the sofa, come to a stop. Asking another angel to groom your wings wasn't a big deal. Not something you'd ask just anyone to do, but nothing special. It was more of a communal thing for them, so he'd heard, like putting someone's jacket to rights so they're not an embarrassment to company. As far as Crowley remembers it's a quick, efficient and useful way to bond, or to get a feel for each other.
Not so much for demons.
Demons learned very quickly not to leave themselves vulnerable, and having your wings out and open was about as vulnerable as you could get. No one has touched Crowley's wings for millennia. The fact that Aziraphale trusted Crowley enough to even ask him to put his grubby fingers back there, to adjust any feathers out of alignment, smooth primaries, straighten coverts, settle the fluffy down at the base.
Or maybe he doesn't want all of that? Maybe he has something more simple and efficient in mind? Crowley doesn't know. It's been so long since he'd groomed anyone but himself, and most of those memories are old enough that he doesn't like to dwell on them.
He's been staring stupidly at Aziraphale for too long, because he watches his expression slowly pinch into something apologetic.
"Oh, don't worry at all if you don't have time, or don't feel comfortable, it's perfectly fine, I shouldn't have assumed -"
"No." Crowley almost slides off the sofa entirely trying to push himself upright. "No, I was surprised is all, didn't expect it, s'been a while." That was an understatement. "I've only done my own, since - well, you know, but if you need me to help, course I will, any time."
"Are you sure? I realise it was rather rude of me to just expect. Of course you can say no, I would understand completely." Aziraphale now looks worried, like he thinks he might have pressured Crowley into something he didn't want to do. Silly of him really, Aziraphale has so rarely wanted something enough to ask for it, and Crowley has dropped everything to make it happen, every time. This time it's just a bit more...unexpectedly intimate. Though it would really help if he didn't think about it like that.
"Happy to help, angel. You want me to conjure up a stool or -"
Aziraphale lifts a hand, leaning in to stop the movement of Crowley's own as it rises from his side.
"There's no terrible rush, it's waited this long after all. I thought perhaps somewhere with more space. There's so many books around and I'm sure I'd worry about destabilising a few piles." He pouts, something playful in the shape of it, a silent plea for Crowley to pick up his hints and suggestions so he doesn't have to voice his request out loud.
Maybe not everything has changed after the end of the world.
Crowley finds himself reassured by that.
"Can't have that now, can we? The way this place is, you destabilise one pile you're in danger of destabilising them all." He tips his head back, to give the impression that he's considering the problem, rather than already perfectly aware of where Aziraphale wants him to suggest. It also makes him wait just a bit longer. "How about we do it somewhere you can have a proper stretch, my flat maybe?" The angel has clearly been angling for an invitation, and Crowley had long since cleaned up any melted demons.
Aziraphale smiles, as if he never doubted him. "That sounds perfect. How about if I drop by sometime tomorrow, after lunch?"
Perfect, that's more than enough time For Crowley to work on a bit of a welcome. "Sounds good, I'll be ready for you."
-
Crowley spends the morning clearing a space in his main office, and convincing the windows to let in a bit more light. He snaps up a padded stool comfortable enough for an angel bottom to rest on for an hour or so. He's tempted to test it, but he has faith in his judgement of angel bottom comfort levels.
To start with he's just going to assume that Aziraphale will be happy with a more gentle version of the treatment that Crowley gives his own wings. He can take it slow so there's time to adjust if that turns out not to be the case. There's no need to rush, after all, he might only get one chance at this and the least he can do is prove himself competent. A bit of straightening, a bit of slipping any loose feathers free, tweaking all the rest into alignment. Give the angel a pair of wings that he could be proud of.
Not too proud though.
Cheeky sin that one.
He still does his best to look relaxed when Aziraphale appears at his door, waving him in as if he visits all the time. He doesn't think it's too much to hope that he might now.
"Angel, you're just in time. Fancy a drink before we get started?"
Aziraphale considers it for a moment, hands fidgeting at his waist. Crowley isn't sure which he'll choose, this is new territory for them both. He might decide on the familiar back and forth they fall into to relax first, or plump for getting it over with.
"Oh, I'm happy to get right into it, if you are," he says at last.
He looks more nervous than he did when he suggested it. As if the extra day to think about it had shaken his certainty somewhat. Though he's not sure whether it's because Aziraphale's reconsidering whether he wants to ask Crowley to do it at all, or if he's still deciding if he's entirely comfortable lending their relationship a more intimate dimension - there's really no other word for it, no matter how reluctant he is to use it. Their regard for each other has been many things, over many centuries. But it's never been physical and Crowley understands the hesitation.
"Not at all." He sets down the bottle he'd picked up from the desk to gesture with. "I made a perch for you, I hope it's comfortable."
Aziraphale smiles at the sight of the stool, in deep cherry wood, the cushioned seat a soft pale brown.
"It looks perfect." He lifts his hands to take off his coat, before starting on the buttons of his waistcoat. "I thought I'd go bare-chested so you could more easily reach everything."
"Sounds good. Are there any specific tools you use? Combs or brushes, oils and suchlike?"
Aziraphale wriggles himself into position once he'd lost his shirt.
"Oh, I have occasionally used a soft brush for expediency. But I have to admit, it's always been a bit of a hurried and perfunctory affair for me. A quick straighten when I have the time, a ruffle to knock any loose feathers out, that sort of thing."
Crowley pulls a face, because honestly that barely counts as grooming. "How can you be so indulgent with yourself and so slapdash with your own wings?"
Aziraphale sighs, the shape of both his shoulders lifting as his wings slip into the real world, expanding from the core of him and then stretching outwards. The feathers are a glacial white, trailing cold from their journey through liminal space. He stretches them with obvious relief, before gently folding one so Crowley can slide around behind him.
"To be honest I so rarely bring them out." Aziraphale reaches back to grasp the feathered edge, smoothing it gently. "It's rather easy to let half a century go by without thinking that they might need a touch up here and there."
Crowley, who tries to pull his into shape at least once a year, can't help frowning at the admission.
Granted, the angel's wings aren't an absolute disaster, but they do have that 'packed in a suitcase and left in the attic' look about them. As if they were groomed and then folded away and not thought about for far too long.
"Bit more than a touch up," Crowley points out gently. He's close enough to reach out and touch, and he can see exactly what needs to be done. Where he needs to slide his fingers and adjust the lay of feathers, the trails of ethereal grace that are slightly out of alignment and will no doubt leave his fingers prickling with static. The large flight feathers with their dented vanes all but begging to be smoothed.
All he has to do is reach out and touch them.
Just settle his hands into Aziraphale's wings and get started.
"Are they very awful to look at?" Aziraphale asks, taking his silence for a bad sign.
"Nuh, they're not dreadful, bit crumpled is all, no wonder they've been bothering you." Crowley forces himself to reach a hand out, to touch the edge of Aziraphale's wing, feeling the vanes slowly tick against his fingertips as he shifts them to match the other side.
Aziraphale's wings are cool, the silk of them unexpected. Crowley's feathers tend to run warmer, the edges stiffer. But the angel's feathers fall into place like liquid and Crowley can't help but marvel, just a little. He's fairly sure his wings - even before - were never so happy to be tamed.
"I don't want to put you to too much trouble," Aziraphale says gently.
Crowley finds himself staring at the soft valley of the angel's spine, the muscle of his shoulder blades, the soft curves at his side where chest becomes stomach. The rarely seen spaces that he tries not to feel too guilty about letting his eyes linger on.
"No trouble," Crowley tells him, and his fingers finally get to work. The motion is familiar once he starts, working from the top left edge inwards and then outwards again. Crowley doesn't know if anyone else does it this way, he's never asked - never had anyone he could ask. But he reminds himself to be careful, to be gentle, demonic wings are supposed to be heavier and less sensitive. He hates the idea that accidentally tugging in the wrong place might mean the angel never asks him to do this again.
He wants to be trusted.
Aziraphale is making quiet, sighing noises of relief, and of pleasure, feathers slowly stretching under Crowley's ministrations.
"So how long has it been?" he asks.
Aziraphale offers what Crowley knows is a guilty noise. "Oh, it's been a rather busy few decades."
"That long, eh?" Crowley will admit to wondering for the first few thousand years if Aziraphale had been having his wings done upstairs, by some angel he could bear to be in a room with for longer than an hour. But he hadn't seemed to enjoy their company, or to have any friends. Which turned out to be true. Maybe the idea of having this done by someone else was as strange for Aziraphale as it was for Crowley.
"It always seems to slip my mind, I won't pretend it's not something of a relief to have them out, to tweak them a little after a hard day. But I find that I get distracted by other things and time just gets away from me. The state of them has occasionally been commented upon, during performance reviews." Aziraphale is facing the window but Crowley can hear the expression on his face perfectly well.
"Hmm." He has his own thoughts about the angel's performance reviews. Which he never seemed to come out of happy, no matter how closely he followed the rules, or how well he did what they asked. There had always been something that wasn't good enough.
Crowley bites back a hiss and keeps working, letting perfect white feathers tick over his knuckles. He watches his fingers slip between them, falling slowly into a rhythm; straighten, smooth, settle, straighten, smooth, settle. He pauses occasionally to ease a loose feather free from its neighbours, smoothing the new feather into alignment. But mostly the process is familiar enough that he can work through it, trying not to let himself be overcome by the fact that he was doing it not to his own sleek black wings, but to Aziraphale's.
"More time to yourself now though, eh? No one checking in. And you can always yell if you need a hand." Presumptuous, since he hasn't finished grooming one wing yet, to any standard. But he needs a distraction, because if Crowley thinks too deeply about how new it is to have Aziraphale's wings under his fingers he's not sure he's going to manage to do the best job he can. Which is what he's going for here. Crowley is excellent at putting his own wings in order, especially on days when he's feeling spiteful and he needs a task to occupy his hands so he doesn't break something he shouldn't.
Aziraphale deserves the best Crowley can give him, he deserves -
The wing he's loosely holding gives a shivering twitch, the feathers at the top shifting upwards to drag beneath his chin in a prickle of ethereal power, briefly filling his mouth and nose with the scent of angel.
"Oh, terribly sorry, you must have hit a sensitive spot." Aziraphale hurries to settle his wing back where it had been before, while Crowley forces himself to breathe normally again.
"It's fine." He would have liked to have bashed more of the roughness out of his voice, but luckily Aziraphale didn't seem to notice.
Right, angel wings were far more sensitive, and maybe his touch is a little too delicate, registering as more of a tickle than functional tidying? He tries something a bit firmer, fingertips sliding between feathers in a more obvious way.
That seems to do it, the wing remaining perfectly still as he moves.
He moves down, the smaller feathers going faster than the top, he can smooth them with his thumbs without really thinking about it too much. He's not used to having them accessible from this angle, but other than that the familiarity is still helping with the pace. His fingers can almost pretend that they're his own.
He's fallen into the same rhythm, listening to the softness of Aziraphale's voice telling him about the newest scandal in the book-collecting world (there always seemed to be one) while he finishes the left wing, tweaking the last long flight feathers into alignment.
The wing twitches out of his hand again, a collection of white feathers fluttering briefly against his mouth. Which is such an unexpectedly, viscerally suggestive sensation that Crowley flinches backwards, swaying briefly as he watches Aziraphale's wing settle.
"Sorry, sorry, my fault entirely, I'm really not used to having someone else touch them. I'll try and be still. I promise."
"It's fine," Crowley tells him again - though 'fine' might be something of an understatement when his face is half-numb, nostrils full of the scent of Aziraphale. He can still feel the press and flick of vanes against his throat and chin. The fading sting of flight feathers twitching almost aggressively across his mouth. As much a slap as a kiss, he thinks unbidden, only to pack the thought firmly away.
There's a good chance that his hands might have forgotten how to groom a wing entirely. He's been batted in the face with his own a few times over the years, when he'd lost his grip, but it's never felt like that before.
It might have something to do with the fact that they barely touched for millennia, and then, within a couple of months, they've gone from inhabiting each other's corporations to wing grooming. They're still trying to work out how to orbit each other without colliding. Or maybe they're learning how to collide, he's not sure.
"Am I - ah - being too gentle?"
Aziraphale remains quiet for a moment, which Crowley doesn't know what to do with. It hadn't seemed like a tough question, unless the angel was struggling with the answer. It almost feels like he doesn't want to offend Crowley by being too honest.
It leads Crowley to do something he tends not to do if he can help it. He tries to remember what it was like before. How he groomed his wings before, how he touched wings that weren't his own. He has a vague memory - too old to be painful, but old enough to be indistinct - of settling someone's wings with his own energy. That won't work now though, his energy is not the same, and it's certainly not designed to be soothing. He's pretty sure it would crackle sharply across Aziraphale's feathers in a way that the angel would not enjoy.
"No." Aziraphale knocks him out of a memory that's more frustrating than anything else. "It feels wonderful. I'm just being a terrible fidget, please forgive me."
"Ah, nothing to forgive, I just didn't know how firm to be, haven't actually done anyone else's for a few millenia, mine are a bit less sensitive, I think."
Aziraphale's wing slowly sags in Crowley's grip, as if in disappointment.
"I didn't know that. I thought perhaps some of them would be the same...silly of me really."
"Some of what would be the same?" Crowley wonders, easing the left wing aside and debating whether to start on the other or let Aziraphale finish first.
"Oh, you know, wing habits and so forth, communication, mood - I suppose not. Yours are beautiful though, you do an excellent job on them."
Crowley's not sure anyone's ever described anything about him as beautiful - and he instinctively wants to make a face and tell Aziraphale to shut up. He restrains the urge and mumbles something which isn't really words at all. But it distracts him enough that it takes him a second to process the first part of that sentence.
"I mean, yes, when I have them out they do tend to react to my mood, never thought about it much, since I'm not bringing them out for all and sundry to see anymore. Never did really."
"You were wearing your wings when we met," Aziraphale reminds him. "We both were."
"S'different," Crowley insists, starting on the right wing, fingers pulling through the large feathers at the top. "Didn't know any better, body was new and everything and I hadn't worked out how to tuck them away properly yet."
Aziraphale makes a soft noise, his head tipping forward to expose the back of his neck, pale curls of hair looking so delicate against the skin. Crowley wants to reach up and touch them but he doesn't dare.
"You were the one who seemed to know how it all worked straight away," he counters, more roughly than he means to. "I saw you around the garden."
"In my defence, I spent more time actually interacting with Adam and Eve rather than simply watching them. Not that they had any wings to worry about."
Crowley wants to protest that that wasn't the point, but it kind of is, isn't it?
He slips his fingers into the vulnerable webbing to catch a loose feather, carefully drawing it free -
- only to get smacked in the face a third time. This time two feathers go half up his nose, sending the prickling tingle of ethereal energy through his skull in a way that feels so much like an invitation that he reaches out and catches hold of both wings, almost by instinct. He draws them both down, causing Aziraphale to sway sharply on the stool, before his thighs squeeze the top, steadying himself.
But the noise he makes, something satisfied, and relieved, brings a lot of things into unexpected clarity. Crowley finds his fingers tightening on white feathers, hard enough to crumple an entire row.
"Have you been doing that on purpose?" he asks quietly.
The angel says nothing, which feels like an answer. The wings strain briefly in his grip, as if to free themselves, only to give a muffled shiver when they realise they can't. The faint catch of breath that comes after leaves Crowley even more reluctant to release them. Which doesn't go unnoticed. Though Aziraphale makes not a single word of protest.
Crowley tightens his grip and gives a slow, steady pull, watches the joints at Aziraphale's shoulder blades shift and angle backwards.
"Aziraphale, have you been shoving your wing in my face on purpose?" he asks again. Because this is something he would like to be very sure about.
The angel offers nothing but another quiet indistinct noise, and Crowley angles himself so he can see the side of his face, the colour on his cheek, the way his eyes are almost completely closed.
"Did you plan this whole thing just so you could make secret advances at me?" It sounds ridiculous but the way the angel fights briefly with words confirms it.
Aziraphale sighs. "It might have been my original intent. But once I realised you didn't understand I was going to simply enjoy having someone else see to my wings. I may have gotten a little carried away and..." he stops and mumbles something Crowley isn't supposed to catch. It's probably not 'started flirting like a tart just for the fun of it.' But Crowley finds himself drawing both wings back further, as if he'd said it anyway.
Because now irritation is warring with something hot and slithering inside him. A strange and hopeful sort of delight that would also quite like to give one angel a well-deserved spanking.
"I was being so fucking good," Crowley hisses. "Asking me to put my hands in your wings, do you have any idea what that sounds like to a demon? I didn't spend a second thinking about how much I wanted to just bury my fingers and breathe you in. Through some effort I might add." He ignores Aziraphale's gasp to continue. "How am I supposed to ignore the amount of trust it takes to let someone else dig in under your feathers, find that spark of grace underneath?" He shifts his thumb until he can stroke it over the fine webbing beneath two long feathers and Aziraphale's wings try desperately to stretch for him. He doesn't let them. "All this time and you were fluttering at me like a bloody bird of paradise!"
"Crowley?"
"What?" he demands.
"Are you going to let my wings go?"
"I'm thinking about it," Crowley says honestly.
The shivery little 'oh' that gets him pretty much makes his decision for him.
He steps in closer, tightens his grip and bends low enough to tuck his face into Aziraphale's neck, where the skin is soft and warm and the scent of angel is overpowering. He risks leaving a kiss against the fluttering pulse, dragging his nose over the softness of his jaw. He'd never dared. Thought about it but never imagined for one second -
"I accept, if it wasn't fucking obvious."
Aziraphale's head tips to the side, giving him as much space as he wants. Crowley has never been this close to him, never assumed he had permission, finds it almost too easy to kiss up his throat and over his cheek. Which is both blissfully new and not close to enough. He makes a ragged noise, releasing one wing to reach around and grasp the angel's chin, turning it sideways so he can kiss him properly.
His mouth is perfect and Crowley sinks in immediately. Aziraphale presses up into him with a desperate sound, a hand reaching out to push into Crowley's hair. Neither of them pull away through two kisses and then three. It feels like an impossible indulgence. Crowley's scalp stings, mouth swallowing every soft noise Aziraphale makes, and there are so many.
"If you wanted kisses all you had to do was ask," Crowley tells him, when they finally part.
"I've never asked," Aziraphale points out, the stool creaking as he twists, fingers tangling in Crowley's hair to try and draw him down again. "You always know."
"I work myself into knots to know sometimes. While you pout and smile at me like you expect nothing else."
Aziraphale raises his mouth up to be kissed again, his hands gentling to stroke through Crowley's hair. It feels something like an apology, but Crowley has never needed one, never asked for one. Aziraphale had given him as much as he could, and only asked him to reach out slightly further in return.
Crowley catches both wings again and tightens his grip, leaning in and making no attempt to hide his delight when Aziraphale's head tips back, accepting whatever Crowley means to give him.
"If you want me to kiss you senseless I'm more than happy, angel. But if you want something else then get up off this stool and take everything off. Show me how lovely you look in just your wings."
"Is that all you're going to do, is look?" The question shivers out - and Crowley can't resist kissing him again. He releases Aziraphale's left wing to curl an arm around him, fingers spread where he's warm and bare. Where the skin is soft.
"I'll finish making your feathers look beautiful, I promise, and then we'll discuss what else you need from me, how's that?"
Aziraphale swings himself around on the stool, slipping through Crowley's loosened grip. Then he makes a gesture and the rest of his clothes slowly unlace, un-catch and unbutton, before sliding free. He looks so lovely, the sunlight coming through the windows carving out pieces of his soft, furred chest and heavy thighs, the balls and cock that rests at the apex of them drawing Crowley's eyes for a moment. Before he finds the angel's face again.
"Six thousand years I kept my hands off you," he says with some amusement. "Not quite sure how."
Aziraphale draws his own wings forward and looks for a moment as if he might cover himself demurely with them. Only to pull his fingers through them and spread them for approval. Crowley's stomach clenches with bright hot arousal and he decides that he would like genitalia to enjoy this.
Aziraphale miracles up a soft covering for the floor, before sinking down onto it and stretching his wings backwards in invitation, feathers catching the sun, the light turning them into crystal.
It's such a suggestive offer that Crowley lets himself be pulled, sinks down behind him, kissing a shoulder, before drawing his head round and finding the warmth of his mouth again. He's wondering how he lived without it, wondering if Aziraphale will let Crowley kiss him at will now. He's not sure he'll survive it.
"Are we really doing this?" Crowley whispers. A last search for permission.
"Yes, I think so," Aziraphale says with a smile.
Crowley makes himself comfortable behind him, enjoying the cling of tight denim while he alternates sliding adjustments to Aziraphale's wings with strokes and squeezes of his strong thighs, stomach and slowly hardening cock. He's having trouble giving any one his full attention, because there's also Aziraphale's tilted neck on display, tipped at the perfect angle to kiss, or to sink his teeth into.
"You could have just asked for this to start with," Crowley suggests. "Would have given it to you."
"You've given me a lot of things."
"Nothing I didn't want as well, promise." It's important to him that Aziraphale knows that, that he isn't just doing this because Aziraphale wants it. He would have said yes a thousand years ago, two thousand, four thousand. Hell, maybe six thousand.
Aziraphale is far more of a tease now he doesn't have to hide. With slow tilts of his wing that leave Crowley holding nothing but air, and twitches that bash him on the chin, or a slow dragging flutter of feathers across his nose. It's maddening, and amazing and everything Crowley never knew he wanted. He barely manages to finish the last few rows before he's snapping his own clothes free and wrestling the angel down to the floor, all fluffy curls of hair and laughing mouth - which Crowley takes and takes again. His hands move from Aziraphale's face to his waist, and then back to his wings, pinning him to the floor with them while he mouths his way across the warmth of his breastbone, his small pink nipples, the curve of his stomach.
By the time Crowley lets the snake-shape of his tongue flutter and curl around the head of Aziraphale's cock, it's stiff and jutting up from a nest of white curls. The angel's hands dive into his hair and push, and he keens so beautifully when Crowley sinks all the way down.
"Please, can you - I want -" Aziraphale's legs draw up, spreading around Crowley's narrow chest as his wings flutter helplessly against the floor. What he wants is obvious - and the thought of it nearly does him in. The image of the angel spread open on the pale blankets, Crowley sunk deep into him, thrusting hard enough to have his full and luscious body jolting and shaking in pleasure.
Crowley leaves the wet length of his cock to fall free, rising on his knees and catching hold of the angel's beautiful thighs, muscled and dusted with white hair and the perfect fit around his waist.
He looks stunning like this, with his wings spread about him, so perfect in the sunlight they almost glow.
"Anything you want, angel, anything." He pushes up a thigh, gives in to the urge to cup a handful of buttock, feeling the softly curving texture of it, before he stretches a thumb out to rub gently over the tight shape of Aziraphale's anus, enjoying the way it squeezes when he puts the faintest pressure there. He wants there to be oil, he wants to see that place slick and warm and ready for him - though he can't resist easing his fingers in first, feeling the angel from the inside, the way he clenches on Crowley's fingers the same way he'll clench on his cock.
Which is too much, imagination turning to need as he fists himself and sets the head to the now slippery entrance. Aziraphale reaches for his hip, fingers pressing and then pulling, urging Crowley to have him. A steady pressure opens the tight stretch of his body, leaving Crowley slowly sinking into him.
Aziraphale moans as he's filled, head tipped back, eyelids fluttering, lips forming the shape of Crowley's name, over and over.
The first thrust is almost a fall, hiking the angel's thighs higher so he can lean down and kiss him. The second thrust is because he draws back and then can't imagine being anywhere but inside Aziraphale. The third is a joy, and then it's just rhythm and sensation and Aziraphale gripping at his shoulders and arms, urging him on.
Crowley's hands fall into his wings again, crumpling the feathers he'd so carefully smoothed and straightened. They flex and flutter in his grip, Aziraphale's back arching against the floor, and it's too tempting not to lean in and bite at his so perfectly presented chest.
The harder his wings try to flap, the tighter Crowley holds them, and Aziraphale's thighs spread open to urge Crowley deeper as he keens through the dual sensations.
He feels the excited crackles of ethereal energy around his fingers, the cold delicious sting of something holy, even as Aziraphale claws at him to pull him in tighter against him, every ragged thrust of his hips leaving him squeezed blissfully tight by the angel's body.
Crowley feels so painfully wound and so raked open by new sensation that he's panting air he can't remember how to not need. He can't do anything but move, tongue a coiled shape in his mouth, eyes blown yellow, hissing every other word. He tries to tell the angel that he's everything, that he's enough, that he's good and right, praise falling awkwardly from his mouth. He tries to make the words mean something, but he's so filled to the brim with need and hunger and awe.
He'd meant their first time to be gentle, he'd meant it to be sweet. Instead he has his hands fisted in Aziraphale's feathers, pinning him to the floor while he fucks roughly between his legs, spearing him open on every hard thrust. It feels like he's going mad.
"Aziraphale -"
The angel drags him down and kisses him, the air punching out of him in noises that are going to have Crowley finishing before he means to. The realisation that he will be finishing eventually, inside Aziraphale's clenching body, the slick, wet spill of a demon - is not helping at all.
One of his hands, slippery because he wants it to be, circles Aziraphale's bouncing red cock, smearing oil along its length as he strokes and tugs and rubs around the head.
"Oh, yes, yes, please." Aziraphale's toes curl, his whole body straining to be filled, or emptied, or both.
His orgasm takes the breath out of him, straining against Crowley's weight on his left wing as every slide of Crowley's long fingers urges spills and spurts and spatters of come onto the angel's own stomach, while he gasps and moans and clenches so sweetly. A few more deep pushes and Crowley is unravelling as well, shuddering to a stop and feeling every inch of his orgasm as it flows into the angel.
They lay panting for a moment, Crowley's hand still loose around his cock. Aziraphale seems reluctant to separate, but Crowley does eventually slide free of him, his hole now pink and wet in a way Crowley has to touch with his fingers. Before reluctantly snapping them both clean.
Aziraphale's now free wings flutter and then settle, crooked and crumpled, dislodged feathers everywhere. But he looks happy and so beautifully sex-rumpled.
"I'm going to have to do these again," Crowley says, fingering the boundaries gently. Soothing any hurts his enthusiasm, or lust, might have caused.
But Aziraphale curves into him, draping a wing around his back and kissing him with his warm, reddened mouth.
"I would like that very much."