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“You’re doing so well, my darling dove,” Aziraphale keeps his voice as soft as his touch, hopes that the gentle reassurance will soothe his fidgety charge, “nearly done; you’re being so good for me.”
“Angel, you have got to stop saying that.”
Aziraphale’s eyes flick up to meet Crowley’s, his brow raising in time with his gaze, and he’s intrigued to see that his lover’s complexion has gone from worryingly ashen to sporting cheeks the color of the blushing pink roses that climb all over the old fence by the pond within the space of a few minutes.
“And whyever is that, my dear?” He thinks he knows exactly why, but still it’s a bit of a surprise given Crowley’s queasiness since he stepped into the cottage from the garden clutching one hand in the other with a face whiter than snowdrops.
He could guess what happened before Crowley even told him: he’d been shaping and pruning several rose bushes and other shrubs, and unfortunately the tip of his middle finger had been too close to the blades of his pruning shears when he’d confidently snapped them closed around a branch.
Something Aziraphale has learned over the years is that despite his belligerently impassioned protests, Crowley is not good with injuries or blood, and Aziraphale had heard a familiar sharp hiss followed by an especially colorful whirl of swearing before he saw the affected party. Aziraphale had hurried to retrieve the first aid kit, rolling up his sleeves as Crowley stumbled into the kitchen through the open door, kicked off his boots, weakly washed his hands as best as he could at Aziraphale’s gentle instruction and then slumped onto one of the chairs by the round table in the corner, sweat beading around his hairline and looking both miffed and miserable and very peaky indeed all at once.
As he’d tended to the cut, Aziraphale had been murmuring praise and encouragement between Crowley’s tiny noises of discomfort and complaints. He knew how disproportionately painful such a small wound could be on the tip of the finger (not to mention a disproportionate looking amount of blood, good Lord), having done it himself more than once in the kitchen and also with a needle. This was rather deep, but not enough to need a stitch or two, he didn’t think, and he silently thanked God that he wouldn’t have to deal with the excruciating and likely impossible task of persuading Crowley to seek medical attention above Aziraphale’s skill.
“Because it sounds too good,” Crowley grits out through clenched teeth as Aziraphale carries on with cleaning the cut, and he’s nearly done now that it’s stopped bleeding, just disinfecting it once more to be thorough before he’ll bandage it, “it— it feels too good.”
“Mmm,” Aziraphale hums as he dabs at the now very clean looking laceration a final time for good measure; something else he has come to know about Crowley is that yes, he responds strongly to praise. “Say more, please.”
“Why can’t you just let me be,” Crowley whines, but the breathiness of his petulant groan betrays him, “let me wallow in my…misery quietly for once, yeah?”
“Oh, quiet is something you very rarely are, I’d venture to say,” Aziraphale points out as he reaches for a plaster, and Crowley smirks.
“Don’t ever hear you complaining ‘bout that, angel,” he murmurs with a suggestive brow, and Aziraphale chuckles.
“And I don’t expect I ever shall; I’m so enamored with your dulcet tones, in fact, that I asked you to say more.” He looks expectantly at Crowley now, his own brow raising as he waits, and the answering, obedient whimper goes straight to Aziraphale’s hardening cock.
“You— well. You telling me I’m doing well and being good, it’s— fuck, it’s makin’ me wet, angel, even in this context. Pathetic, right?” his voice trembles at the end of his little speech, and Aziraphale’s cock twitches as Crowley looks at him through lowered lashes, his candlelight eyes glassy with spreading ebony pupils.
“I’m not so certain “pathetic” is the word I would use, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs under his breath as he very, very gently wraps the bandage around the injured fingertip, taking the utmost care not to press too hard but to be sure the adhesive is secure. “Though I must admit I am curious to see if that’s really true, or if you might be exaggerating a bit.”
“‘M not,” Crowley breathes as Aziraphale kisses the palm of his hand now that his task is complete, “promise I’m not, angel.”
“Then show me,” Aziraphale brushes his lips along the lines of Crowley’s palm as he holds his gaze firmly, not even blinking as he kisses all over his hand, “you can be a good boy and show me, can’t you?”
Crowley’s whine shakes as his legs gradually spread, and even though Aziraphale knows it likely wouldn’t take long at all for the evidence of Crowley’s supposed arousal to show through the thin denim of his jeans, it’s not what he meant.
“Show me properly,” he implores, dousing his inflection with heat, and he watches the apple of Crowley’s throat bob in a swallow before he nods and starts to stand, “but do take care with your finger, dearest.”
Aziraphale waits to see if those lovely long fingers can manage the button and zipper without Crowley using his bandaged finger, and he’s successful, if not a little shaky. He slips the button free and pulls down the zipper, waiting half a beat before he pushes the denim down over the scant curves of his hips to fall down his legs, stepping out of them and sitting back down again. His thighs, swaths of cream dusted with a sprinkling of nutmeg freckles, open once more, parting to obey Aziraphale’s directive of showing him what he wants to see. He is, as usual, not wearing anything under the denim, and Aziraphale’s heart skips a beat or two as it always does when he’s reminded of this fact (if he hasn’t already been daydreaming about it, which, if he’s good and honest, happens with perhaps a shocking frequency).
“Good boy; so beautiful,” Aziraphale’s hushed praise barely floats above a whisper and deeper than it has been yet today as he takes in the fact that no, Crowley was not at all exaggerating.
He is wet— not dripping, not yet at least, but close— and Aziraphale’s breath as it leaves him rumbles like a sort of purr, his cock pulses and fills further as he drinks in the lovely sight. He has to force himself not to reach out and touch, his fingers ache to slide through the wetness beginning to shine at the center of Crowley’s cunt, flushed and framed by neatly trimmed, dark auburn curls, they long to slip inside and feel the heat of him until he begs for Aziraphale to move. For now, though, he has something else in mind.
“Touch yourself,” it's a gravelly, greedy command, and Crowley hesitates; he usually uses his left hand for this, particularly his index and middle finger, the latter of which is out of commission, so Aziraphale lends a figurative hand.
“Use your other hand, precious, and do be quick about it if you can manage,” he smiles as quivery fingers hurry to slide down and settle over his swollen clit, tentatively stroking over with a touch that appears to be featherlight and yet his thighs twitch, sensitive, “there we are, that’s very good, dove.”
Crowley exhales shakily as he starts caressing with more intent, his eyes trained on Aziraphale’s whenever they aren’t tightly closed. He traps his lower lip between his teeth and rolls his hips forward, sliding down the chair a little further so that his long legs can spread even more, treating Aziraphale to the most exquisite view there is.
“Your fingers are quick studies, aren’t they?” Aziraphale observes, staring hungrily as Crowley’s hand works his cunt with more confidence. It pays the most attention to his clit, massaging in a circle as he presses down, but every now and then he pushes his palm down over his vulva and drags his fingers back up along the now gleaming slit of his cunt, splits his index and middle fingers into a V and strokes up and down while bracketing the opening that’s begun to drip.
Crowley just whines in response, and his movements are a little stilted and clumsy at times, clearly not used to using this hand for this occupation at all, but he’s doing beautifully, and Aziraphale could watch him all day. He’s growing wetter at an alarming rate, slick beginning to escape from him as he goes, spreading over the light tartan cushion that’s tied to the wooden chair and darkening the fabric. He’s so deeply pink and puffy, his cunt begging for more as a flush begins to climb over his inner thighs; again, Aziraphale is put in mind of the sprawling roses overtaking the fence.
“You're doing marvelously, little bird; showing off so beautifully for me, but then you’ve always been such a tart, haven’t you, Crowley?” Crowley shudders as the words leave Aziraphale’s mouth, his hand stuttering before resuming, his head falling back before it rights itself, “how lucky I am to have such a wanton, responsive lover who gets so very wet just from my praise. Did you always know you were a slut for it, sweeting? Have you always craved praise like you crave cock?”
It might be one of the most addicting things, watching Crowley grow more slippery and swollen as Aziraphale talks, seeing his cunt flutter before his eyes in conjunction with a thready moan from Crowley his aching cock answers with a throb.
Crowley’s breath catches as he shakes his head, panting, “Jesus— n-no, didn’t know, really, not till you,” and it’s not decent, how Aziraphale responds to this information, how it pleases him in this possessive sort of manner that pushes him to the point of needing to be inside of Crowley immediately— not to mention how it makes him impossibly harder to the point of dizziness.
“That, is utterly delightful,” Aziraphale slowly gets to his feet and begins walking toward the sink once he tears his eyes away from the beauty before him, and Crowley’s hand stops, wrist shaking as he looks at Aziraphale expectantly, eyes questioning and chest rising and falling shallowly.
“Did I tell you to stop, my dear?” Aziraphale stops in his tracks and crosses his arms, cocking his head sternly as Crowley rapidly shakes his and his shining fingers clumsily resume their circling round and over his clit, muttering “fuck, sorry, angel” under his breath.
“That’s quite alright, lamb; good boy,” his growl draws a whimper from Crowley as he spreads his legs wider and his hips buck, and Aziraphale washes his hands a second time with meticulous attention, making sure to take his time and draw out the torture as Crowley grumbles something under his breath about Aziraphale taking his bloody time about it.
“Mind your tongue, magpie, or I’ll be taking even more time,” Aziraphale’s threat is empty of course, but he dearly loves the way Crowley stops his complaining and continues, his hips now gently but rhythmically grinding to meet his fingers, his breathing more and more labored as his pleasure mounts.
Aziraphale dries his hands thoroughly before he walks back to his chair and sits, raking his eyes over Crowley one last time as he straightens the folded up cuffed of his sleeves— at how his feet, long and elegant, clad in tartan socks that look suspiciously like a pair of Aziraphale’s he’s not been able to locate for ages— flex and arch, how the muscles of his calves tighten and how his thighs quake and his knees jump, how he’s now good and truly drenched, the linen beneath him saturated with a widening circle of his nearly pouring slick.
“You’ve done wonderfully, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs, not meeting Crowley’s eyes just so he can watch how his cunt reacts to the words (tensing before relaxing, like it’s trying to grab onto the praise as it floats down from Aziraphale’s mouth), “but I should very much like to take over, if I may.”
He reaches and pulls Crowley closer by his chair, hooking his hand under the wooden seat and dragging its legs across the floor with a screech that mixes with a startled sort of sounding squeak or, more accurately, “ngk—!”
Aziraphale stretches and adjusts his legs so that his calves and ankles curl around Crowley’s own from the inside of his bare legs, effectively pinning them like that so he couldn’t close them if he tried. Aziraphale slides his left hand up around the back of Crowley’s neck, curling his palm there securely as it settles around the nape with enough pressure to inspire a sweet little moan, and he rests his right thumb over the slick silk of Crowley’s clit, lightly ghosting before sliding down through wetness before teasingly dipping the tip inside him.
“Bastard,” Crowley hisses as Aziraphale chuckles and trails the thumb back up, thrusting his narrow hips and clearly trying to entice Aziraphale to slide the digit fully inside, but he ignores the effort, instead serenely thumbing at Crowley’s clit and enjoying the way his entire body jolts when he flicks at it from a certain angle.
Aziraphale leans in to kiss Crowley’s neck right where he knows it’s most sensitive, licking at skin that’s slightly salty from the sweat of working in the warm sun, and Crowley is a squirming, writhing mess in no time, his legs fighting against Aziraphale’s whenever he bucks and rocks his hips, his body clearly nearing the edge and needing more as he chases what Aziraphale has been refusing to give him.
“Inside, inside,” Crowley eventually implores after a breathless slew of creative curses as he throws his head back with a frustrated groan, neck shining with sweat and splashes of wine left behind from Aziraphale’s mouth, his uninjured hand grabbing onto the edge of the chair’s seat for support and his other resting, palm up, on his left thigh, fingers flexing wildly every now and then, “please, angel, p-put them inside—”
His head snaps back up and his chin dips down, his hair now completely free of its rather messy bun that had been battling with the breeze all morning, his speckled cheeks as scarlet as the apples from the gnarled trees behind the cottage and so beautiful Aziraphale forgets to breathe for a moment.
“Greedy thing; look at me,” he orders once he remembers to inhale, and as soon as desperate, pleading gold eyes flicker up to meet his from where they were staring at Aziraphale’s thumb massaging Crowley’s clit, he changes the angle of his wrist and plunges two fingers deep into the soaking wetness of his cunt, pulling a strangled cry from Crowley as he starts fucking them in and out as deeply as they’ll go.
“Good boy, that’s it, look at me while I fuck this lovely cunt open—”
“A-angel,” Crowley grabs onto Aziraphale’s bicep with his good hand, pulling it towards him and trying to force Aziraphale deeper as he fights to “oh f-fuck, angel, jus’ like that, fuck that’s so good, ffffuck—”
“Going to gush for me, aren’t you,” Aziraphale whispers as Crowley tightly clenches around him, feels a growing, almost forceful pressure around and beyond his fingers within Crowley’s cunt, feels the overall tension in his body— especially the side and back of his neck under Aziraphale’s hand— skyrocket, and he adjusts the slant and depth of his thrusts just so, knowing he’s battering against that spot that makes Crowley unravel into these beautifully broken, tearfully needy sounds, “going to come all over my arm and legs and this spotless kitchen floor like a good boy, yes?”
“Th-think so,” Crowley’s whispers are spidery, tearful little things now, fractured and jagged between shivering yelps that bloom in time with every pass of Aziraphale’s fingers, but the grip of his right is the opposite of weak, grabbing onto Aziraphale so harshly he’s sure his arm will have bruises tomorrow, nails digging in despite the thin cotton barrier of his shirtsleeve, “p-please, Aziraphale, p-please c-can I come, f-fuck, angel, please, r-right th-there, I—”
“Yes, my precious darling,” Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley’s temple and over the ink of his tattoo as he nods, and Crowley buries his burning brow into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, his breathing ruptured and ragged and barely audible over the wet plunge of Aziraphale’s fingers growing wetter and wetter. “You’ve been so good, so so good for me— come, dove, be good and come for me, make my pretty little cunt come—”
Crowley’s legs shake with such intensity that the legs of his chair creak, and there’s a throaty, guttural quality to his muffled wails as his orgasm hits him, crying out against Aziraphale’s shoulder as his cunt constricts and flutters wildly around Aziraphale’s still driving fingers in slick pulses, and he doesn’t stop as Crowley comes, doesn’t change the intensity or rhythm of his arm as he fucks into him. Just as he thought, a gushing, drenching wetness follows as Crowley clings to him and clamps down on his fingers, his straining gasps between yelping bursts of breath dissolving into incoherent, heaving sobs that reverberate through Aziraphale’s chest.
Splashing, obscene and squelching, echoes around the kitchen as Aziraphale carries on; there’s been a resistance inside Crowley for the last few minutes or so, just before and as he continues to come hard, and the squeeze of his contracting cunt is so intense as he comes like this, almost like he’s trying to push Aziraphale out. His hand and wrist and forearm are flooded, dripping, and Aziraphale feels it sink into and below the fabric of his trousers all around and onto his cock. He’s so hard now it’s painful, the pressure between his legs and at the base of his spine have built to a ruthless level as he’s played with his lover, but his release is the last thing on his mind as Crowley comes undone around his hand.
This is all the pleasure he needs.
The sting of Crowley’s teeth sinking into his shoulder as his orgasm keeps fucking through him wrangles a groan from Aziraphale, and it’s only when his whines turn overwhelmed and fucked out and nearly hysterical that Aziraphale changes the relentless slamming of his fingers to a gentle, torturously slow drag that has Crowley twitching and gasping and shaking, a leaf caught in an early summer storm like the one that blew through the countryside yesterday.
Aziraphale gradually withdraws his fingers, pulling out inch by inch and bringing them up to his mouth to lick, eyes closing of their own volition as he tastes Crowley on his skin and sighing in contentment at the hazy bliss of the moment, at the weight of his satiated lover leaning into his arms like he was made to do so, fitting flush into every curve and corner, all tension finally gone from him, evaporated.
“My good boy,” Aziraphale whispers as Crowley sags against him, his chest heaving against his own and naked legs still quivering sporadically, the sweat slicked surface of his forehead slotting into the dip of Aziraphale’s neck, “my sweetest, darling boy. Feel better, my love?”
“Can’t even feel my fingers anymore, so yeah, I think so,” Crowley mumbles into Aziraphale’s collar, who chuckles into the waves of his windblown auburn hair, “can barely breathe, too, but the good sort, not the ’m-gonna-faint-from-seein’-blood type.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Aziraphale starts running his hands over the length of Crowley’s back in long, soothing passes, sliding over the now slightly damp cotton of the worn and stretched out tee he often wears when fussing about in the garden, feeling heated skin under his palms and enjoying the moment.
“Fuck me, what a day,” a yawn interrupts Crowley’s mutter as he nuzzles more deeply into Aziraphale, sounding entirely wrung out and drained.
Aziraphale turns his head ever so slightly to take a peek at the clock hanging on the wall, smiling as he murmurs, “it’s hardly half past eleven, dearest,” though he certainly would not say no to curling up and lounging the rest of the day away together in bed.
“Well, y’just fucked me into next week, so my sense of time’s a bit off,” Crowley sleepily replies, his arms snaking their way around Aziraphale’s waist, “and you’ve not been toiling away in the elements since the break of dawn, so.”
Aziraphale barely suppresses a snort at that, recalling that Crowley might’ve been outside by 9 at the absolute earliest, but he keeps this to himself.
Eventually they disentangle themselves from each other and make their way to their bed hand in hand, and while Crowley immediately stretches out against Aziraphale once he divests himself of his still damp trousers and slips into a nap with impressive immediacy, an arm slung over his middle and a bare leg draped over Aziraphale’s thighs as he dozes, Aziraphale stays awake, reaching and picking up his copy of The Secret Garden with care from his night table as to not jostle Crowley in the process.
He reads one handed as his other threads through Crowley’s hair, every now and then glancing out of their open bedroom window to smile at the roses that scent the air and fill their room with their sweet, delicately floral bouquet before he, too, drifts off into a sunbeam strewn nap with his love.