neutral_omens | (no subject)

Date: May 14, 2000
Setting: Front desk
Status: Private - Crowley, Aziraphale
Summary: Aziraphale is getting restless.

The thing was, Aziraphale was tired. He was exhausted of pushing paper and writing notes, performing only the barest miracles and human interaction at a minimum. He missed his old life (not that this one didn't have his perks) where he got to go out and have delicious food prepared by internationally famous chefs with expensive wines and Crowley's drunken company. He thought of their philosophical conversations that let him lay worries and fears out in a roundabout way, holes in his belief, and replenish that faith, and the angel realized, suddenly, how much he did miss them.

The Manor was becoming too familiar, and Aziraphale itched to leave, go out and have fun. He was finished in four minutes, exactly, and it would be easy to go and ask Crowley about the possibility of reenacting their old habits and finding new haunts. Aziraphale didn't even know the names of the pubs in Tadfield, after all. It was a tragedy.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Crowley hadn't really been expecting the powerful convulsions tightening around his length and he groaned, watching Aziraphale lose himself in pleasure, his head thrown back and spine arching. The word beautiful didn't often come to mind when one thought of the angel - despite his current body, Crowley still saw the old one whenever he looked at him - but he was beautiful now in the throws of this deeply human act, sweat and mussed hair and all the other imperfections making it all the more perfect. His skin was flushed and glowing, silvery grey in the moonlight, but there was no sign of a halo. At times like this, Crowley could almost forget.

What he couldn't forget was his own need. Aziraphale's thrashing, moaning, tensing, and name-calling had gotten him quite close, but it took another minute or so of love making under the stars for Crowley to reach his own climax, encouraged by clever hands and a breathless mouth, after which all he could do was collapse bonelessly atop his partner, mouthing endearments and affections that he couldn't yet say. The whole experience had been so fleeting yet so eternal, that before he could even catch his breath, he caught Aziraphale's lips for another tender kiss before wrapping his arms around him and holding him close.

The angel smoothed a hand down the demon's skin, feeling the heat seeping into his fingers, and sighed into the kiss, feeling the slow relaxation of breath and muscle. The cold of the outside had yet to touch them both, or at least Aziraphale, who was still pinned by Crowley's lax weight.

There was meaning in Crowley's kisses, here, there always was, and it was feeling that the angel reciprocated, even if he wasn't capable of interpreting it just now. He understood, though; Aziraphale always had understood him.

And there was one more idea nudging on the edge of his consciousness. Something about cold air and being so free and open, or at the very least naked on a blanket, in a field just outside of Tadfield. The entire experience was almost dreamlike because of that, although the fallen stick poking into his back was nearly dissipating that feeling.

The demon was cold as the sweat evaporated from his exposed back, and it made him unusually drowsy. The only sensation he was aware of was where his skin touched Aziraphale's and he curled closer to him, already missing the warmth of their conjoined bodies. Fuzzily, he conjured another blanket to lay under. In his exhaustion and absent-mindedly sated state, it was tartan.

There was suddenly something actively tickling his nose, warm and fuzzy, and no doubt the fault of the - there was no doubt about it, Crowley was cuddling - distinctly male-shaped being lying against him. Aziraphale opened his eyes to look at it and saw the red multi-pattern of...

"Tartan," he whispered, pulling Crowley closer with a second deep sigh, and brushed his lips against his forehead. One hand rubbed slow, deep circles along the demon's thigh, the connection as comforting as the stubborn entanglement of limbs.